Below, the rain streaked the window in grey lines, distorting the streetlights.

In the driveway of the building opposite mine, a black sedan sat with its hazard lights blinking.

“Who is this?” I asked.

The line went dead, leaving only the soft hiss of empty static.

I stared at the screen, then back down at the street.

The sedan pulled away into the storm, its red taillights dissolving in the wet dark.

I spent the rest of the night sitting at the kitchen table, studying the ledger.

My father’s handwriting was neat, precise, and utterly devastating.

Every dollar Linda had transferred from my accounts over the last ten years was recorded.

Every forged signature on the joint accounts was noted with dates, times, and bank branch numbers.

He had kept the receipts, stapling them to the back pages of the leather-bound book.

He had even noted the excuses Linda used when she asked him to cover for her.

The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving the Miami air heavy, hot, and thick with humidity.

I wore my dark gray suit, the one I usually kept for formal company events.