On the back of the tax form, someone had written a series of nine-digit numbers in dark black ink.

The handwriting wasn’t Dad’s.

The numbers slanted sharply to the right, written with a thick felt-tip pen.

I sat down in Dad’s swivel chair, holding my scanned tax return against my knee.

I smoothed my skirt down over my knee, pressing the dark blue cloth flat against my leg while my thumb traced the scanned edge of my signature.

I looked from the printed paper in my hand to the heavy steel door of Dad’s safe built into the lower wall.

I couldn’t understand why a copy of my tax return was lying behind Dad’s printer desk.