He was holding a thick manila folder under his arm.

“Dad?” Megan said, her voice dropping an octave. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m saving my daughter’s business from your malice,” my father said, his voice flat and cold.

He walked past Megan and my mother without looking at them and handed the folder to Detective Miller.

“I’m Arthur Vance,” my father said. “I’m a licensed contractor, and I help Clara with her inventory and tax filings.”

Detective Miller opened the folder and flipped through the pages.

“These are certified receipts from the wholesale distributor on Carnegie Avenue,” my father explained. “Every serial number on those boxes is listed right there.”

He pointed to the carbon copies of the purchase orders.

“And here are the bank withdrawal slips showing the payments made from Clara’s business account,” my father added.

The basement went completely silent, except for the hum of the water heater in the corner.

Detective Miller compared the numbers on the invoice to the label on the nearest box of breakers.

He sighed, closed the folder, and handed it back to my father.