My phone screen glowed in the dark, showing a new text notification from an unknown number.

I tapped the glowing screen with a thumb that still carried a trace of gray mortar dust from my last job.

The message was from an unsaved local number, but the name at the bottom made my chest tighten.

“Clara, it’s Lauren, Megan’s old roommate from Columbus. We need to talk about your sister. I saw her walking downtown yesterday, perfectly fine.”

I stared at the words, the cold air of the van cabin settling into my jacket.

My sister had been supposedly bedridden for three years, her medical bills draining my parents’ savings and my own hard-earned quiet fund.

I typed back a quick response: “Where are you?”

She replied instantly with the address of a diner three blocks from my apartment.

I turned the key, the van’s engine rumbling to life, and pulled out onto the slush-covered Cleveland street.

The wipers swept a thin layer of freezing rain from the windshield.

Ten years of working twelve-hour shifts, pulling copper wire through damp basements, and breathing in plaster dust had finally bought me my own place.