He answered on the second ring, his voice tired from his shift at the steel warehouse. “Clara? Everything okay?”

“Dad, you need to come over to my apartment,” I said.

“I just got off work, Clara. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“No,” I said. “It can’t wait. Bring Mom’s tablet. The one with her bank login saved.”

He paused, his heavy breathing filling the line. “What’s happened?”

“Just come, Dad,” I said, and hung up.

Thirty minutes later, the buzzer to my apartment rang.

I let him in.

He walked up the stairs slowly, his work boots thudding against the carpeted steps.

He was wearing his yellow high-visibility jacket, damp from the rain.

His face was lined with soot and exhaustion.

“What is this about, Clara?” he asked, stepping into my small living room.

He set the tablet on the wooden coffee table.

I didn’t speak.

I picked up my phone and opened the email from Lauren.

I handed the phone to him.

“Look at the photos, Dad,” I said.

He took the phone, his thick, calloused fingers clumsy on the screen.