Brittany’s scream cut through the kitchen. “Tell her, Dad! Tell her the bank is coming on Friday!” Everyone turned. Dad’s face drained of color, and Mom’s phone slipped from her fingers onto the tile. The deputy glanced at me, then at his folder, but I already sensed something was wrong. “What bank?” I asked quietly. Nobody answered. Brittany’s husband pulled the children closer, his eyes fixed on the floor.

Then Mom bent down, picked up her phone, and held it out with both hands. On the screen was an email from a lender, addressed to my father, with my villa’s street address printed in the subject line. Beneath it sat a loan amount of four hundred thousand dollars and a signature that looked exactly like mine. My coffee turned cold in my hand.