The printer hummed in the dark apartment while page after page landed in the tray.
Then I acted.
I removed every unknown device.
I changed my Apple ID password and the password to the email connected to it.
I enabled stronger verification, froze the card stored in Apple Pay, and submitted a fraud notice to my bank.
I canceled the subscriptions and requested records for every disputed charge.
Each time I closed a door, another notification appeared.
Device access revoked.
Payment method unavailable.
Verification required.
Somewhere across Nashville, Kendra was watching the same doors slam shut.
My damaged phone began vibrating against the table.
Her name appeared through the cracked glass.
I let it ring.
She called again.
Then Mom called.
Then Kendra sent a message through another platform.
What did you do?
Not Are you okay?
Not I’m sorry about your phone.
What did you do?
I took another screenshot.
Jordan gave a low whistle.
“She noticed fast.”
That mattered.
Someone who did not know she had access would not discover its removal within minutes.
I answered Kendra’s next call and put it on speaker.
She did not greet me.
“You locked me out.”
Her words came fast and sharp.
“Out of what?” I asked.
Silence.
It lasted only two seconds, but it was the first honest answer she had given me all day.
Then she recovered.
“Family Sharing.
Mom said something stopped working.”
“Your iPad was connected to my account.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It approved forty-seven purchases.”
Her breathing changed.
Behind her, I heard Mom ask what was happening.
Kendra lowered her voice.
“You’re seriously going to accuse me of stealing over a few apps?”
I looked at the total on my screen.
“It wasn’t a few apps.”
“You have money, Mallory.”
There it was again.
Not I didn’t do it.
Not I’ll pay you back.
You have money.
As if possessing something made my consent unnecessary.
“Tomorrow,” I said.
“Ten o’clock.
My apartment.
Bring Mom.”
“For what?”
