The blue and red lights continued to flash, casting long, rhythmic shadows across the ruined party.

The front door of the house creaked open from the inside.

A third officer, a detective in a grey suit, stepped out onto the patio.

He held a manila folder in his left hand and a ringing cell phone in his right.

“Arthur Vance?” the detective asked, walking toward us with slow, deliberate steps.

Father did not answer.

The detective stopped in front of Father and showed him the screen of the phone.

“This is your bank,” the detective said.

“They just flagged an unauthorized transfer attempt from the trust account five minutes ago.”

Father’s face went from pale to completely grey.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his own phone, but the detective stepped in.

“Hand over the phone, sir,” the detective said.

The tension on the patio tightened like a piano wire ready to snap.

My father’s hand froze.

His fingers hovered over the screen of his sleek black phone.

The detective, whose brass name tag read Miller, did not wait.