Chapter 7 - BOX 814
The bank would not open the safe-deposit box immediately.
There were procedures.
Signatures.
Legal review.
Identity verification.
Ironically, my actual identity had become the biggest obstacle to accessing things people had fraudulently placed in my name.
By late afternoon, the bank agreed to schedule supervised access the following morning.
Leonard wanted to be there.
Daniel wanted him there too.
I didn’t trust Leonard.
But at least his anger appeared to be aimed at the same person as mine.
Simon.
That evening, Daniel called with another discovery.
The commercial loans were real.
The balances were real.
But I was not personally liable for all of them.
Some documents listed me as an equity partner.
Others listed me as a guarantor.
One signature looked almost perfect.
“Could someone have traced it?”
I asked.
“Possibly.”
“Or copied a digital signature?”
“Yes.”
“How many documents?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I sat on the hotel bed.
Milo rested his head on my knee.
“Can this destroy my credit?”
“It already affected it.”
I swallowed.
“Can it destroy my career?”
“That depends on what your employer learns and how quickly we establish fraud.”
I closed my eyes.
I had spent twelve years building my career in medical device compliance.
I had never missed a tax filing.
Never defaulted on a payment.
Never even carried a large credit card balance.
Simon had always teased me for being boring with money.
Now my boring, responsible financial history was exactly what he had exploited.
The next morning, we met at the bank.
Leonard arrived first.
Emily did not come.
She said she couldn’t.
I understood.
The manager escorted us into a private vault room.
Box 814 was longer than I expected.
The manager inserted the bank key.
Leonard inserted his.
The lock turned.
Inside were four folders.
A flash drive.
A sealed envelope.
And a small black notebook.
Leonard immediately reached for the folders.
Daniel stopped him.
“Everything gets photographed before anything moves.”
Leonard glared.
“This is my company.”
“And my client’s identity.”
The bank manager sided with Daniel.
We documented everything.
The first folder contained investor contracts.
The second contained bank documents.
The third contained property deeds.
The fourth had my name on it.
RACHEL CARTER.
I stared at the label.
My hands began to shake.
Daniel opened it.
Inside were copies of my driver’s license.
Old pay stubs.
Tax returns.
Medical records.
Credit reports.
Employment verification.
Utility bills.
My college transcript.
Even a photocopy of my passport.
“How did he get my passport?”
Then I remembered.
Our trip to Mexico.
Simon had held both passports while checking into the hotel.
I sat down.
There were also photographs.
Me entering work.
Me leaving a grocery store.
Me walking Milo.
Not professional surveillance photographs.
Phone photos.
Some taken by Simon.
Others from farther away.
Leonard stared at them.
“What the hell?”
Daniel’s expression hardened.
“Did your company require any of this?”
“No.”
“None?”
“No.”
My skin crawled.
Then Daniel found a typed document.
PERSONAL PROFILE - RACHEL CARTER.
It listed habits.
Schedule.
Income.
Credit score.
Family contacts.
Common passwords.
Security questions.
Mother’s maiden name.
First car.
Childhood street.
My stomach turned.
I whispered.
“He was building an identity kit.”
Daniel looked at me.
“Yes.”
For once, he didn’t soften it.
That was exactly what it was.
The black notebook was worse.
It contained handwritten dates.
Transactions.
Initials.
Dollar amounts.
Sometimes my initials appeared.
RC.
Sometimes EV.
LV.
PH.
Emily Dawson was ED.
Patricia Hart was obviously PH.
But who was EV?
Leonard turned pages.
“I’ve never seen this.”
Daniel pointed to a series of amounts.
$42,000.
$75,000.
$110,000.
$63,500.
Each was followed by RC APPROVED.
I had approved nothing.
Then we reached a page dated eight months earlier.
TRANSFER 900K.
DESTINATION: MARLOWE.
AUTH: RC/LV.
Leonard exploded.
“I never authorized that.”
Daniel looked at him.
“Your initials are here.”
“Not mine.”
I almost laughed.
We were both being forged.
“What is Marlowe?”
Leonard shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
The flash drive required a password.
The sealed envelope did not.
Daniel opened it.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
The first line was addressed to Simon.
If you are reading this, then Rachel has discovered more than she was supposed to.
I stopped breathing.
Daniel continued reading silently.
“What does it say?”
He didn’t answer.
“Daniel.”
He handed me the letter.
The handwriting belonged to Patricia.
I knew it immediately.
I had seen it on nine years of birthday cards.
Simon,
If you are reading this, then Rachel has discovered more than she was supposed to.
You need to remember that panic will only make this worse.
Do not contact her from your regular phone.
Do not discuss the Marlowe transfer with Leonard.
Do not mention Evelyn.
Above all, do not let Rachel learn why her name was chosen in the first place.
She believes you used her because of her credit.
Let her believe that.
It is safer for everyone.
Mom
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Leonard stared at me.
“Who is Evelyn?”
“I don’t know.”
Daniel took the letter.
“Whoever she is, Patricia thinks she matters.”
The bank manager knocked.
“There’s a gentleman asking to speak with Mr. Voss.”
Leonard frowned.
“Who?”
She handed him a business card.
His face changed.
Daniel read it.
Federal Bureau of Investigation.
My stomach dropped.
Five minutes later, Special Agent Marcus Bell entered the room with another agent.
He introduced himself.
Then he looked at the open box.
“Good.”
Leonard stood.
“You’ve been investigating my company?”
Agent Bell ignored the question.
His attention settled on me.
“Rachel Carter?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been trying to determine whether you were a participant or a victim.”
My throat tightened.
“In what?”
He looked at the notebook.
“An interstate financial fraud investigation.”
Leonard cursed.
I stared at Agent Bell.
“How long?”
“Eleven months.”
“Why didn’t anyone contact me?”
“Because until yesterday, we weren’t certain Rachel Carter actually existed as described in the corporate records.”
I laughed weakly.
“I definitely exist.”
His expression did not change.
“Yes.”
Then he placed a photograph on the table.
It showed Simon entering a restaurant.
Across from him sat a woman in her late fifties.
Elegant.
Blond-gray hair.
Pearl earrings.
Agent Bell tapped the photograph.
“This is Evelyn Marlowe.”
The initials.
EV.
“Who is she?”
Agent Bell looked at me.
“According to our investigation, she is the person Simon Hart has been sending money to for almost four years.”
“Why?”
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
“I’ve never seen her.”
Agent Bell slid another photograph toward me.
This one had been taken twenty-seven years earlier.
Evelyn was younger.
Beside her stood Patricia Hart.
And between them was a little girl.
Maybe six years old.
I stared at the child.
Something about her face felt familiar.
Then I saw the handwriting on the back.
Rachel - Summer 1999.
My blood ran cold.
May you like
I looked at Agent Bell.
“That’s me.”
