Footsteps on the porch. Heavy. Slow.

The front door opens.

Dad's home from work. He smells like cigarettes and stale beer.

"Anna." He barely glances at me. Heads straight for the kitchen.

I follow. Heart pounding. "Dad. We need to talk."

"About what?" He opens the new fridge. Pulls out a beer. Pops the cap.

"About this." I gesture at the appliances. The stocked shelves. "About the money. From Alexander."

He takes a long drink. Wipes his mouth. "What ...