Chapter 12 - Moving Out of ICU
The next morning, Layla left intensive care.
The nurse wheeled her bed into a regular pediatric room while Layla clutched a stuffed rabbit Andrea had found in the donation closet.
"Bunny's name is Beep," Layla announced.
"Because of the monitor?" I asked.
She nodded seriously.
I laughed for the first time in days.
Andrea hugged me before we left the unit.
"You did good, Mom."
Those four words almost undid me.
In the new room, there were fewer machines and more sunlight.
For one hour, I let myself pretend life was becoming normal.
Then my boss called.
"Claire, HR received an employment verification request for a mortgage refinance," she said. "It looks old, but compliance flagged it because the salary information is wrong."
"How wrong?"
"It says you're a regional director."
I closed my eyes.
I was a senior project coordinator.
"Did anyone from my family call your office last year?"
"I don't know. We're pulling records."
Before we hung up, she said, "Take the time you need. Your job is safe. Focus on Layla."
I had to swallow before I could answer.
A person who owed me nothing had just offered more kindness than my own parents.
That afternoon, Detective Ruiz called.
"We found something in the metadata of several loan documents."
"What?"
"The PDFs were created on the same home computer."
"My parents'?"
"Likely. We are working on a warrant."
I sat beside Layla's bed while she colored a picture of a purple house.
"There's more," Ruiz said.
"Of course there is."
"One document references a folder called Claire Assets."
I stopped breathing.
"A folder?"
"That name appears in the source path. It suggests someone organized files connected to your financial identity."
A cold feeling spread across my back.
This wasn't a few impulsive decisions.
It was a system.
"How long?" I asked.
"We don't know yet."
My phone chimed with a new email.
It was from Jason.
Subject: YOU SHOULD SEE THIS BEFORE THE POLICE DO.
Attached was a photograph of a black binder on my mother's kitchen table.
May you like
On the cover, in my father's handwriting, were two words:
CLAIRE - ACCOUNTS.
