“No.”
Margaret turned toward the deputy.
“Then we have another problem.”
She explained that four nights earlier, someone had logged into the former owner account.
They had downloaded a PDF containing the villa’s old insurance certificate.
Tax records.
And my electronic signature from an old renovation approval.
My skin went cold.
Brittany stared at the pavement.
Dad stared at Brittany.
Mom stared at Dad.
Suddenly, I understood why none of them had seemed surprised by the fake signature.
“Who logged in?” I asked.
Margaret turned to another page.
“The system recorded the IP address.”
The deputy looked down at the printout.
Then directly at my father.
“Sir, is 1847 Willow Creek Drive your home address?”
Dad didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
That was the house my parents had lived in for years.
The deputy repeated the question.
Dad finally swallowed.
“Yes.”
Brittany spun around.
“You said they couldn’t trace it!”
