Chapter 7 - A Woman With My Name

The new account had been opened online using an outdated address and a photograph of my driver's license. Its first deposit was twenty dollars. Its next five deposits were loan proceeds from three different lenders.

"How much?" I asked.

Nora looked at the printed summary. "Twenty-eight thousand, four hundred dollars."

My stomach seemed to fall through the chair. "I didn't borrow any of that."

"We believe you," Nora said. "But you need to file identity-theft reports, contact the lenders and credit bureaus, and preserve every communication."

Ethan wrote down each step. I stared at the signature. It was closer to mine than the one on the college withdrawal request.

"How did you find this?" I asked.

"A linked transfer triggered our fraud review. Some details overlap with the attempted withdrawal. We cannot tell you who did it yet."

We drove home in silence. At a stoplight Ethan asked, "Did Brooke ever ask for a picture of your license?"

"She borrowed my wallet to pick up a prescription."

"When?"

"April."

He exhaled and gripped the steering wheel.

Our front porch was covered in flower petals. A pink gift bag hung from the doorknob with a card that read, FOR THE BABY. Inside was the yellow blanket I'd knitted with Grandma before she died. It had disappeared from our linen closet last month.

As Nora described the unfamiliar accounts, I thought of every ordinary plan that depended on my name: the car loan, the house, the medical bills we'd budgeted for. Identity theft sounded abstract in the news. In a bank office with my own forged signature in front of me, it felt like someone had walked into my life wearing my face. Ethan slid the papers toward me and said, 'We handle one thing at a time.' I wrote the first phone number at the top of a notebook and began.

At first I felt relief. Then I unfolded the blanket and a sealed envelope fell out. Inside was a photocopy of an old bank statement belonging to Mom, with three transfers highlighted in neon green.

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All three went to a company called Grayline Consulting. The amounts matched the first three loans opened in my name.

Across the bottom, in Brooke's messy handwriting, were six words: ASK MOM WHO PAID THE RENT.