the ambulance.

An officer took names because there had been yelling.

Darren tried to act affronted, Melissa tried to look worried, and I said in a steady voice that I had been calling for help in the rain while the people living in my house watched through the window.

The officer’s expression changed after that.

At the hospital, X-rays showed a bad fracture and torn ligaments.

The doctor told me I would be off that foot for weeks, maybe longer.

I was sent home in a boot with crutches, pain medication, and a list of instructions that would have been overwhelming even in a quiet house.

My house was not quiet.

That night, lying awake in a hospital bed waiting for discharge, I texted Nina, a friend from college who worked in property management.

I told her enough to make her call immediately.

—First, freeze your credit, she said.

—Second, secure your documents.

Third, do not go back there alone.

I told her about the folder I had seen.

She was quiet for a second.

—Get an officer for a civil standby, she said.

—Now.

The next afternoon, I returned home with crutches, Nina, a locksmith I had called from the hospital, and the same officer from the night before.

He made it clear on the porch that he was there to keep the peace, not settle a housing dispute on the spot.

Darren looked relieved when he heard that.

He should not have been.

Melissa was in the kitchen pretending to make lunch.

Darren was on the couch.

Cody stood near the stairs, suddenly very interested in everything except our faces.

—I need my office, I said.

No one moved.

I went anyway.

The drawer was open exactly as I had seen it.

Inside was the manila folder.

My name was written across the tab in Darren’s blocky handwriting.

I opened it.

The first page was a typed month-to-month lease agreement, backdated by four months, claiming I had agreed to rent the upstairs rooms to Melissa and Darren for a token monthly amount.

At the bottom was my signature.

Except it was not mine.

It had been copied badly from somewhere else, the letters too careful, too dragged.

The next pages were worse.

Photocopies of my deed.

Utility bills.

Opened bank correspondence I had never seen.

A half-completed change-of-address form.

A list in Melissa’s handwriting that read: mailbox key, insurance papers, tax file, refinance timing.

At the bottom, underlined twice, were the words: if he pushes, prove residency first.

Then there was a printed application draft for a home equity line using my income information and property details.

It was incomplete, but my stomach still dropped when I saw it.

Melissa appeared in the doorway behind me.

She saw the pages in my hand and whispered, almost involuntarily:

—You weren’t supposed to find that.

The officer heard her.

So did Nina.

Darren came charging down the hall, then stopped when he saw what I was holding.

—That was just a backup plan, he said too fast.

—In case you started acting weird.

The officer took one look at the forged signature and his whole posture changed.

—Sir, that’s not a backup plan, he said.

—That’s potential fraud.

For the first time since I had met him, Darren looked uncertain.