I led the detective down the narrow concrete steps into the damp basement.

Megan and my mother followed close behind, whispering to each other.

The air downstairs smelled of old dust and wet coal.

I unlocked the padlock on my wire-mesh storage cage and swung the gate open.

Inside, stacked neatly on wooden pallets, were several large wooden spools of heavy-gauge wire and boxes of commercial circuit breakers.

“There,” Megan gasped, pointing at the stacks. “Those are from the Euclid Avenue commercial site. She stole them last month.”

Detective Miller walked inside the cage and knelt down, examining the labels on the boxes.

“These are commercial-grade, alright,” the detective said, pulling out a notepad. “Do you have invoices for these, Ms. Vance?”

“I do,” I said. “But they aren’t in this building.”

“Of course she doesn’t have them,” Megan scoffed, crossing her arms. “She brought them here in the middle of the night.”

“She’s telling the truth, Officer,” a deep voice boomed from the stairs.

We all turned to see my father walking down the steps, his work boots heavy on the concrete.