After my brother bragged at dinner that he had sold my little house for $300,000 and my family cheered him for finally making smart decisions, I stayed quiet, smiled, and waited until the buyers’ lawyer called screaming, “Why are FBI agents at our office?”

Jake lifted his beer higher. “Somebody had to.”

A few people chuckled. My father cleared his throat and said, “You know, sweetheart, homeownership is a lot. Jake stepped in before things got worse.”

“What things?” I asked.

The room thinned out around the question.

Jake’s smile barely moved. “The payments. The notices. The foreclosure clock. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

At 7:18 p.m., the phone in my coat pocket buzzed for the fourth time.

Secure message.

Missed call.

Another secure message.

I did not look down. I looked at the folder on Jake’s lap instead.