Page 7 of Robbin’ the Rich

From the kitchen he yelled back, “It looked official!”

“It literally says HOT_SINGLES_FINAL_FINAL.”

“I thought it was tax forms!”

I laughed under my breath and started cleaning out the malware. Honestly, it wasn’t even bad. Mildly embarrassing, but fixable.

While a scan ran, I clicked through his desktop folders looking for anything else suspicious.

Then one folder caught my eye.

ASCENSION FELLOWSHIP.zip.

I stilled. A hot pulse of irritation rolled through me immediately.

Mom had mentioned the fundraiser tonight, but seeing the church sitting there on his computer, organized neatly beside local nonprofits and small businesses, made something sharp twist in my chest.

I clicked the folder before I could think better of it.

Spreadsheets opened across the screen. Donation breakdowns. Operating budgets. Vendor payments. Large transfer summaries.

I frowned slightly.

Dad stepped into the doorway behind me holding a brownie plate. “Find the problem?”

“Yep.” Adjusting the screen of the laptop so he couldn’t see what I was looking at.

“Am I being hacked by Russians?”

“Worse. You’re being hacked by your own inability to identify obvious scams.”

He handed me a brownie. “Cruel.”

I took it absently, eyes still scanning the files. My gaze drifted lower through the documents. Revenue reports. Event costs. Donation inflow.

Big numbers. Bigger than I expected.

And suddenly a thought slipped into my brain so smoothly it honestly felt inevitable.

Lantern House was constantly struggling to stay afloat.

Ascension Fellowship spent more money on stage production than the shelter probably saw in a year.

My jaw tightened. That wasn’t right. Dad wandered back toward the kitchen while I sat there staring at the screen, my pulse ticking slightly faster now.

It would be too easy. The realization settled into me slow and electric.

I knew systems. I knew accounting. And unlike most people, I knew exactly how money disappeared when people weren’t paying attention.

My fingers rested on the keyboard for one long second.

I reached around his desk until I found a cord, then quietly plugged my phone in. I copied the Ascension files into an encrypted folder and sent them to myself while the malware scan finished running in the background.

My heartbeat thudded steadily the entire time.

A few minutes later, I closed everything neatly, deleted the transfer history, finished fixing Dad’s computer, and leaned back in the chair like absolutely nothing had happened.

By the time I got home, rain hammered steadily against my apartment windows. Most nights, I would’ve changed into pajamas, booted up a game, and spent three hours terrorizing strangers online while pretending I wasn’t avoiding folding laundry.