Chapter 3 - The Voice on the Loan
I froze my credit from Karen's parking lot.
Equifax first.
Then Experian.
Then TransUnion.
Greg stood beside the hood of his car while I worked through passwords and security codes with fingers that kept missing the screen.
"Don't skip anything," he said. "Pull the reports before we leave."
The first report loaded.
My mortgage: none.
My car loan: paid off.
My two credit cards: current.
Then I saw an account I did not recognize.
Northstar Community Finance.
Opened eighteen months ago.
Original credit line: $75,000.
Current balance: $62,700.
Address: Cedar Lane.
I stopped breathing for a second.
"That's the lender in Karen's file."
Greg leaned closer.
"Any late payments?"
"Two."
"Enough to hit your score?"
I refreshed the summary.
My score was down forty-eight points from the last time I checked.
I had blamed a high business-travel balance I carried for one month.
I had been wrong.
The other reports showed the same account.
One also showed a hard inquiry from a company called Meridian Capital Partners dated three weeks earlier.
"That one's new," I said.
Greg wrote it down.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
Again.
I let it go to voicemail.
A notification appeared almost immediately.
New voicemail.
I pressed play.
A man's voice spoke fast and professionally.
"Mr. Brooks, this is Daniel Pierce with Northstar Community Finance. We've had repeated trouble confirming recent activity on your account. Please call the fraud review department at the number on our website. Do not return this call through any number provided by a third party."
Greg and I looked at each other.
"That wasn't Travis," I said.
"No."
The unknown caller from Christmas night had been the lender.
I searched Northstar's official website, called the published number, and spent twenty minutes moving through security questions.
Daniel finally came on the line.
"Mr. Brooks, I'm glad you called."
"Did you open a seventy-five-thousand-dollar line of credit in my name?"
He went quiet.
"Before we discuss account specifics, I need to confirm a few items."
We went through them.
Date of birth.
Last four digits of my Social Security number.
Previous address.
Employer.
Then Daniel asked a question that made my stomach turn.
"What was the name of your first elementary school?"
I had never used that question on any bank account.
"Why?"
"It was a security answer on the original application."
Only family would know.
"Pecan Grove Elementary," I said.
"Correct."
I sat in Greg's passenger seat with the door open and stared at the wet pavement.
Daniel continued.
The account had been opened online, but because the amount was large, Northstar required enhanced verification.
Uploaded driver's license.
Tax documents.
Employment confirmation.
A live video identity call.
"I never did any of that."
"Our record shows a video call."
Greg mouthed, Ask for preservation.
"Preserve it," I said. "All of it. The video, documents, IP logs, recordings. I'm reporting identity theft."
Daniel's tone changed.
No longer routine.
"Understood. I'm placing an immediate restriction on the line."
"Can you tell me where the money went?"
"Some transfers went to vendors. Some went to a deposit account. I'll need authorization from our fraud team before I can release details."
"What vendors?"
"Home repair, vehicle expense, and a business called M and R Home Interiors."
I knew the name.
Melanie had started a small interior decorating business three years earlier.
At least, that was what she called it.
From what I could tell, she mostly posted renovation photos online and complained about clients who refused to pay.
"M and R," I repeated.
"Yes."
My phone buzzed with another message.
Mom this time.
PLEASE COME HOME. WE CAN FIX THIS. YOUR FATHER IS BESIDE HIMSELF.
I almost answered.
Then Daniel said something that stopped me.
"Mr. Brooks, I can send your attorney a secure copy of the verification still while the formal fraud request is processed."
"A still?"
"A screenshot from the video call."
Greg gave him his email.
We waited.
Thirty seconds.
Nothing.
A minute.
Then Greg's phone chimed.
He opened the secure link.
The image took several seconds to load.
At first, all I saw was a grainy frame.
A man sitting close to a laptop camera.
Gray hair.
Reading glasses.
A dark collared shirt.
Behind him was a wall I recognized.
My parents' den.
My mouth went dry.
Greg zoomed in.
The man was not wearing a mask.
He was not hiding.
He was looking straight at the camera, holding my driver's license beside his face.
My father.
Robert Brooks.
I grabbed the phone.
"No."
There was no mistaking him.
Dad's left eyebrow had a small gap from a childhood accident. I had seen it every day growing up.
There it was.
Daniel was still speaking through my phone.
"Mr. Brooks?"
I barely heard him.
"Who did he say he was?"
A pause.
"The applicant identified himself as Aaron Brooks."
My grip tightened.
"That man is my father."
Daniel stopped talking.
Greg took my phone and told him we would follow up through counsel.
Then he ended the call.
I stood up.
"I'm going to the house."
"No."
"That's my father."
"Which is exactly why you don't storm into a room with four people who now know your credit is frozen."
"He pretended to be me."
"And if he was ordered to do it?"
I turned on him.
"He's sixty-eight years old, Greg. Nobody orders him to pick up my ID and lie into a camera."
"I'm not defending him. I'm telling you we still don't know the structure."
My phone rang.
Dad.
We both looked at the screen.
I answered.
"Where are you?" I asked.
He breathed into the phone.
"Not at the house."
"Good. Stay that way."
"Aaron, I need to explain something."
My teeth clenched.
"Did you pretend to be me on a video call with Northstar Community Finance?"
Nothing.
A car passed behind us, tires hissing on wet asphalt.
"Dad?"
His voice dropped.
"I didn't know what it was becoming."
The words hit harder than a denial.
I leaned against the car.
"Where are you?"
"Parking garage behind St. Luke's. Third level."
"Why there?"
"Because your mother doesn't know I'm calling you."
Greg was already writing the address.
I asked the only question that mattered.
"What else did you sign?"
Dad's breathing changed.
Then he whispered, "More than I should have."
Daniel later confirmed the live call lasted six minutes and fourteen seconds.
The man on screen answered questions about my employer, my first car, and the street where we lived when I was twelve.
Dad knew all of them.
So did Mom.
So did Melanie, if she had ever bothered to listen at dinner.
The lender had treated knowledge as identity.
My family had an unlimited supply.
Greg asked Daniel whether the applicant hesitated.
"Once," he said. "On annual income. Someone off camera corrected him."
"Male or female?"
"Female."
Dad had not been alone.
I replayed that detail for the rest of the drive to the garage.
May you like
Someone had stood beside him, feeding him my life one answer at a time.
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