Suddenly, my phone began to vibrate on the desk.

The screen lit up, reflecting against the dark wood of my desk.

It was not Linda, and it was not Hannah.

The caller ID showed my father’s name.

My father had been divorced from Linda for fifteen years, living quietly in upstate New York.

He rarely called unless it was an emergency.

I swiped the screen and put the phone to my ear.

“Dad?” I said.

“Mark,” his voice was a low, urgent whisper, as if he were hiding in a closet.

“Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“Listen to me carefully,” he said, his breathing shallow.

“I just got off the phone with your sister’s husband, Luke.”

“He let something slip before they left for the airport.”

“What did he say?” I asked, my grip tightening on the phone.

“Linda has your old banking documents,” my father whispered.

“They didn’t just want you to watch the kids, Mark.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They used a power of attorney,” my father said.

“They used a power of attorney,” my father said.