Chapter 14 - The Parking Lot

The call stayed connected.

I heard my father's voice in the distance.

"Jason! Open the trunk."

"Dad, back off."

"That binder belongs to me."

My pulse spiked.

"Jason, leave," I said into the phone.

Dad heard me.

"Is that Claire? Give me the phone."

There was movement, a scrape, then Jason swore.

I stood.

"Jason?"

"I'm fine."

Dad's voice came closer. "Claire, tell your brother to stop this nonsense."

"I'm calling Ruiz."

"You call that detective and you will regret it."

That was enough.

I ended the call and dialed Ruiz.

She already knew where Jason was from the location he had shared during their earlier interview request.

Police reached the grocery-store parking lot before Dad got the binder.

Nobody was arrested there.

Not yet.

But the binder entered evidence.

By evening, Ruiz called me with a list that made my hands go numb.

Copies of my birth certificate.

My Social Security card.

Old checks.

A photocopy of my signature.

Printed credit reports.

A page labeled "Claire passwords."

And a spreadsheet.

"What kind of spreadsheet?" I asked.

Ruiz was quiet.

"A list of accounts opened in your name, dates, limits, balances, and what the money was used for."

"How many?"

"Eleven."

I sat down hard.

"Eleven?"

"Some are closed. Some appear to have been paid off before you noticed."

My mind jumped backward through years of strange moments.

Credit score dips I blamed on my divorce.

Mail that never arrived.

Dad insisting I keep him as my emergency financial contact.

Mom asking oddly specific questions about my income.

"How much total?" I asked.

"We're still calculating."

"Give me the number you have."

"Claire—"

"Please."

Ruiz exhaled.

"Just over two hundred and thirty thousand dollars in credit obtained or attempted using your identity."

I covered my mouth.

Across the room, Layla slept peacefully.

Ruiz continued.

"There is one entry we don't understand. It says L.B. trust - not touched."

My hand dropped.

"L.B.?"

"Does that mean anything to you?"

I looked at my daughter.

Layla Bennett.

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L.B.

And suddenly I was more afraid than I had been all week.