Rachel called the title company the same afternoon.
She did not accuse anyone.
She asked preservation questions.
Did they still retain access logs from the year my duplex sold?
Who had viewed my closing file?
Had outside requests been documented?
Could records be altered?
The answers came slowly.
Two days later, the title company’s compliance officer asked to speak with me directly.
Her name was Denise Morgan.
She sounded nervous.
That concerned me immediately.
“We’re conducting an internal review,” she said.
“What triggered it?”
“Your counsel’s inquiry.”
“Did someone access my file?”
A pause.
“We have evidence that the archived digital file was opened after closing.”
“How long after?”
“Approximately nine months.”
“By whom?”
“We are still verifying credentials.”
That wording again.
Credentials.
Not person.
“Was the access authorized?”
“We have not established a legitimate business purpose.”
I wrote the sentence down.
“Was anything downloaded?”
“Yes.”
My pen stopped.
“What?”
“The closing package.”
“All of it?”
“It appears so.”
My stomach tightened.
The package included the settlement statement.
Mortgage payoff.
Sale proceeds.
Escrow information.
Possibly the wire confirmation.
Enough to calculate my gain far more accurately than public records allowed.
“Who downloaded it?”
“We are determining whether the login was used by the assigned employee or by someone with access to those credentials.”
“Who was the employee?”
Denise hesitated.
“I’m not comfortable naming anyone until the review is complete.”
“Rachel will request it.”
“I understand.”
“What was the business purpose listed?”
Another pause.
“There wasn’t one.”
That was worse.
I thanked her.
Then called Rachel.
She had already spoken with Denise.
“I’m sending a formal preservation notice.”
“Do we involve police?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because unauthorized access can range from policy violations to something criminal depending on how it occurred and what was done with the information.”
“Dad asked Mercer to get the file.”
“Yes.”
“Mercer apparently said he could.”
“Yes.”
“And now we know someone downloaded it.”
“Yes.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Why does every answer create another question?”
“That’s litigation.”
“This isn’t litigation yet.”
Rachel gave a humorless laugh.
“It’s behaving like it.”
By then my work had begun to suffer.
Not catastrophically.
Enough that I noticed.
I caught errors before they left my desk, but they were errors I normally would not make.
A wrong parcel number.
A missed calendar entry.
A contractor call I forgot to return.
Ben noticed too.
He came into my office holding two sandwiches.
“You’re eating.”
“I have food.”
“You have almonds.”
“They’re technically food.”
“They’re technically punishment.”
He put one sandwich in front of me.
I opened it.
Turkey.
Mustard.
No mayonnaise.
He remembered.
That small kindness nearly undid me.
I unwrapped the sandwich.
“The title company confirmed someone downloaded my closing packet.”
Ben stopped chewing.
“What?”
I explained.
His expression darkened.
“You think your dad got it?”
“Maybe.”
“How?”
“Possibly Mercer.”
Ben knew Evan Mercer by reputation too.
He leaned back.
“That guy.”
“Yes.”
“Can we say terrible things about him now, or is your lawyer going to materialize behind me?”
“Keep it factual.”
“Fact: I dislike his face.”
“Ben.”
“Fine.”
He took another bite.
Then frowned.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Your renovation numbers.”
I looked at him.
“What about them?”
“Your dad’s estimate. You said he had numbers close to our costs.”
“Yes.”
“The closing packet wouldn’t have those.”
“I know.”
“Then someone else gave him something.”
I put the sandwich down.
“I know.”
“Who had the full budget?”
“You.”
“Obviously not me.”
“I know.”
“Priya?”
“Financing documents had projections.”
“Your employer?”
“Some invoices went through the company because they helped me negotiate contractors.”
“Accountant?”
“Yes.”
“Martin?”
“Not exact.”
Ben tapped the table.
“There was also the appraisal.”
I looked up.
“What appraisal?”
“The refinance appraisal you ordered before selling.”
I had forgotten.
Before accepting the unsolicited offer, I had considered refinancing and holding the duplex.
The appraisal package included estimated improvements.
Not exact costs.
But enough.
“Who had it?”
“The lender.”
“And me.”
“Anyone else?”
“Appraiser.”
Ben frowned.
“Who introduced you to that lender?”
The question seemed harmless.
Then memory answered.
Martin.
Not Priya.
Priya had advised me broadly, but my first property loan came through a regional lender Martin recommended.
I sat back.
Ben saw my expression.
“What?”
“Martin.”
“You think he gave it to your dad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hasn’t he already admitted giving public information?”
“Yes.”
“And your dad loaned him money.”
“Yes.”
Ben’s face tightened.
“I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I.”
I called Rachel.
She wanted the lender name.
Then the appraiser.
Then every person who had received the report.
By evening, she had sent more preservation letters.
That night, Lily came to my house.
Not through the gate uninvited.
She texted from the road.
Can I come in?
I stared at the message for several minutes.
Then I opened the gate.
She drove slowly up the driveway.
When she stepped out, she looked tired enough to be older than me.
No cream coat.
No sunglasses.
Jeans, sweater, hair tied back.
She held a grocery-store pie.
I looked at it.
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t know what you bring when your family is imploding.”
“Apparently pie.”
“That was my best guess.”
Against my will, I smiled.
“Come in.”
She stopped just inside the entry.
The first time she had crossed the gate.
She looked around, but differently than before.
Not calculating.
Careful.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not going to ask what it cost.”
“Growth.”
“Personal growth.”
I took the pie.
We sat in the kitchen.
For a while neither of us knew how to begin.
Finally Lily said, “Mom moved into Aunt Carol’s guest room.”
I looked up.
“She left Dad?”
“Temporarily.”
“How is he?”
“Angry.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“He says everyone turned against him.”
“Also familiar.”
Lily twisted her fingers together.
“He blames me for telling you about the files.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged.
“I’m not.”
That surprised me.
She looked toward the windows.
“I spent years thinking you left because you couldn’t stand that they helped me.”
“I know.”
“I told people that.”
My expression changed.
“What people?”
“Friends. Family. Anyone who asked.”
I leaned back.
“So part of the story about me being jealous came from you.”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
The admission hurt more than I expected.
Not because I had believed Lily defended me.
I hadn’t.
Because saying it aloud made the years of distortion suddenly concrete.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what Mom and Dad said.”
“You were there.”
“I was twenty-one.”
“You were old enough to hear.”
“I know.”
She wiped one eye quickly.
“It was easier to think you were jealous than to think I had gotten something unfairly.”
There it was.
A clean sentence.
No defense.
No cleverness.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I looked down at the pie box.
Cherry.
Grandpa used to love cherry pie.
That felt either meaningful or cruel.
“I believe you.”
She looked at me.
“That doesn’t mean it fixes it.”
“I know.”
We sat with that.
Then Lily pulled her phone from her pocket.
“I found something else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Before Mom moved out, she gave me one of Dad’s old external drives.”
“Why?”
“She thought he might destroy things.”
I sat straighter.
“Did you bring it?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Lily blinked.
“Good?”
“Give it to your lawyer or Rachel properly. Don’t plug it into anything.”
“You sound like Rachel.”
“That means I’m learning.”
She nodded.
“But I did see one thing before Mom gave it to me.”
“What?”
“The drive was already connected to Dad’s computer.”
I waited.
“There was a folder with your name.”
My skin prickled.
“What was in it?”
“I didn’t open everything.”
“What did you open?”
“Spreadsheets.”
“What kind?”
“Your properties.”
I stared at her.
“Which properties?”
“A lot.”
“How recent?”
“Some from this year.”
I stood.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he list addresses?”
“Yes.”
“Purchase prices?”
“Yes.”
“Debt?”
“Some.”
“Partners?”
“Some.”
I looked toward my office.
Some of that information was public.
Some was not.
“What else?”
“Photos.”
“Of what?”
“Your projects.”
“From websites?”
“Some.”
Her hesitation made my stomach drop.
“And the others?”
“One looked like your first duplex while it was under renovation.”
Ben and I had taken dozens of pictures.
But I had never posted most of them.
“Was I in it?”
“No.”
“Ben?”
“No.”
“What did it show?”
“The kitchen.”
I thought of the gutted floor.
Exposed plumbing.
Old cabinets removed.
“Could be from the listing.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there was a person reflected in the window.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
She opened her phone.
“I took a picture of Dad’s screen.”
I almost told her not to show me.
Then she turned it around.
The image was grainy.
A photograph displayed on Dad’s monitor.
My first duplex kitchen during renovation.
I knew the stage immediately.
Week six.
New subfloor down.
Cabinets not installed.
Temporary work lights overhead.
In the dark window above the sink was a faint reflection.
A man holding a phone.
Not Ben.
Too tall.
Not me.
The face was indistinct.
But the jacket looked familiar.
Brown canvas.
Dark collar.
My old employer had owned one exactly like it.
I felt the room tilt.
“No.”
Lily lowered the phone.
“You recognize him?”
“I don’t know.”
But memory was already moving.
My first employer, Greg Halston, had supported my purchase.
Or I thought he had.
He had advised me on contractors.
Let me adjust work hours.
Helped negotiate materials.
He had also known Dad knew where I worked during that first year after I moved out.
I remembered Dad showing up once at the office parking lot.
I had refused to speak to him.
Greg had come inside afterward and said, “Parents worry.”
At the time it had sounded harmless.
I took Lily’s phone.
“Send this to Rachel.”
“Okay.”
“Now.”
She did.
Then I called Rachel.
She answered on the second ring.
I explained the drive.
The spreadsheet.
The photo.
The reflection.
Rachel interrupted.
“Stop. Where is the drive physically?”
“With Mom’s attorney.”
Good.
“Has anyone copied it?”
“Not that I know.”
“Tell Lily not to access anything else.”
“She’s here.”
Rachel asked me to put her on speaker.
She gave Lily precise instructions.
No more photographs.
No more searching.
No direct confrontation.
Let counsel preserve and review the device.
Lily agreed.
Before hanging up, Rachel said, “Hannah, I need the name of your former employer.”
I gave it.
“Greg Halston.”
Silence.
“What?” I asked.
“I’ve heard that name today.”
My chest tightened.
“Where?”
“The title company.”
I stood completely still.
“What about him?”
“The compliance officer called back.”
Rachel paused.
“The employee whose credentials accessed your closing file had received an email request the previous day.”
“From Mercer?”
“No.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Who?”
“Greg Halston.”
For several seconds no one in my kitchen spoke.
Lily stared at me.
Rachel continued.
“The request asked for your old closing packet under the pretext of evaluating comparable redevelopment transactions.”
I could barely hear her now.
“Why would Greg want it?”
“I don’t know.”
“He wasn’t involved in the sale.”
“I know.”
“He wasn’t even my employer by then.”
“I know.”
I looked at Lily’s photograph again.
The brown jacket.
The reflection in my first duplex.
A man I had trusted standing inside my property while it was under renovation, apparently taking pictures I had never received.
My first success had always felt like the clean beginning of my independent life.
The proof that I had built something without family help.
Now people connected to Dad appeared around it from every direction.
Martin.
Mercer.
Greg.
The title records.
The photographs.
The numbers.
For the first time since discovering Grandpa’s missing money, a worse question replaced the financial one.
Not whether Dad had stolen part of my education.
Not whether he had invented a claim against my company.
Something more fundamental.
How much of my early career had he been quietly watching?
And how many people I trusted had been watching with him?
