The email arrived at 2:47 AM, and I almost deleted it. *Subject: You have 72 hours.* My finger hovered over the trash icon, assuming it was another scam, another promise of easy money or a desperate plea from a Nigerian prince. But something about the timestamp made me pause. Who sends emails at 2:47 in the morning with that kind of subject line? I was still awake anyway, nursing my third glass of wine and scrolling through job postings for "musicians wanted"—which really meant "cover band needs someone desperate enough to play 'Wonderwall' five nights a week." My music career wasn't failing. It had already failed. Past tense. Done. I opened the email. *Dear Sienna Clarke,* *This is not a joke. Someone has been systematically stealing your identity. They have access to your social security number, your bank accounts, and your personal documents. In 72 hours, they will complete the process, and you will cease to exist on paper. If you want to stop this, you need to secure your documents immediately. Check your father's papers. Check everything.* *A friend* My hands started shaking. This had to be a scam. But how did they know my father had just died? How did they know about the papers? Dad had passed away six months ago, leaving me his jazz club in Brooklyn—The Blue Echo. It was a dump, honestly. Peeling paint, ancient wiring, and a loyal customer base of exactly twelve regulars who still thought vinyl was making a comeback. I'd been meaning to deal with the paperwork, to officially transfer the deed into my name, but I'd been... distracted. Depressed. Drowning. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. *The clock is ticking, Sienna.* I threw on jeans and a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and ran. My apartment was in Queens, a fourth-floor walk-up I shared with my roommate, Chelsea. We'd been friends since college, back when I still believed I'd be the next Norah Jones. She was a graphic designer who worked from home, and she'd been weirdly supportive lately about my "career transition"—her euphemism for my spectacular crash and burn. I burst through the door at 3:30 AM, breathing hard from the stairs. The lights were on. Chelsea was sitting at our kitchen table. And across from her, looking entirely too comfortable in my apartment, was my brother. Marcus. I hadn't spoken to Marcus in two years, not since Dad's funeral when he'd made a scene about the will. Dad had left him nothing—not because he was cruel, but because Marcus had stolen from him before. Twice. Dad had given him chance after chance, and Marcus had blown through every dollar on poker and get-rich-quick schemes. "Sienna," Chelsea said, her voice too bright. "You're home early." "What the hell is going on?" I looked between them. "Marcus, what are you doing here?" My brother smiled, and it was the same smile he'd used when we were kids and he was about to tell Mom that I'd been the one who broke her favorite vase. "We need to talk," he said. On the table between them was a manila folder. My father's folder. The one I'd kept in my closet, locked in a box that only I had the key to. "How did you—" I started. "Sit down, Sienna." Chelsea's voice had changed. Harder now. Unfamiliar. I didn't sit. I lunged for the folder. Marcus was faster. He pulled it away, opened it, and spread the contents across the table like a dealer showing his cards. Deed transfers. Notarized documents. My signature on every single page. Except I'd never signed anything. "What did you do?" I whispered.