I walked inside, ignoring the stunned looks behind me. In my bedroom closet, I grabbed the folder I’d hidden beneath old yearbooks: bank statements, screenshots, text messages where Dad swore he’d “handle it next month.” I sat on the edge of my bed and started changing passwords. I removed my cards from every account tied to his business. I canceled the auto-pay on the utilities. I shut down access to everything that had my name on it.
By dawn, my phone was buzzing nonstop. Declined charges. Overdraft alerts. Failed transactions.
At 7:03 a.m., there was pounding on my bedroom door.
“Open it!” Dad yelled.
When I stepped into the kitchen, two police officers were standing there. Dad was red-faced and furious.
“She hacked my accounts,” he told them. “She’s sabotaging my business.”
I swallowed and set my folder on the kitchen table. Calmly, I explained that the credit cards were in my name. The charges were for his materials. The payments had been mine.
One of the officers flipped through the statements. “Sir,” he said carefully, “if the accounts are in her name, she has the right to change passwords and remove access. That’s not theft.”
Dad’s jaw clenched. “She owes me. She lives here.”