It ran on a separate mobile data plan, hidden behind a stack of reference books on the top shelf.

My fingers trembled as I opened the proprietary security app on my phone.

I entered my passcode.

The screen buffered, a small circle spinning against the black background.

I prayed the battery on the hidden camera hadn’t died.

The stream connected.

The camera angle showed my home office from above.

The desk was cluttered with papers, and the drawer of my filing cabinet was slid completely open.

A figure stood in the center of the frame, illuminated by the pale light of the desk lamp.

It wasn’t my father.

My breath caught.

A woman was bending over my desk, her hand reaching into the rear sleeve of my secure document safe.

The screen flickered, adjusting to her movement.

She turned her face toward the shelf.

It was my sister, Victoria.

In her left hand, she held a brass key that looked exactly like the spare I kept hidden in the kitchen.

In her right hand, she held my military discharge papers and the deed to my house.