Chapter 3 - The Transfer
I called my bank before I called anyone else.
Micah sat across from me at our dining table.
My wedding flowers were still on the counter.
Half of them had begun to wilt.
It felt appropriate.
The bank representative asked security questions.
Then more security questions.
Then transferred me to fraud.
The $18,500 transfer was real.
That was the first shock.
The second was worse.
It had been initiated using credentials associated with my account.
“What device?”
I asked.
The fraud specialist hesitated.
“We’ll need to investigate before providing specific information.”
“Was it my phone?”
“I can tell you it was not initiated from your usual mobile device.”
My fingers went numb.
“Was it a computer?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I can’t provide that yet.”
Micah leaned forward.
“Ask if the authentication method changed.”
I repeated the question.
More keyboard clicks.
“Yes.”
The specialist’s tone changed.
“A backup authentication method was added two days before the transfer.”
“What method?”
“A secondary email.”
I knew before she said it.
The fake email.
Consultlng.
One letter.
One tiny difference.
Enough to steal eighteen thousand dollars.
Enough to forge a lease.
Enough to build an entire financial identity beside mine.
I ended the call with a fraud case number.
Then I called Dalia.
She answered immediately.
“So now you want to talk?”
“Where did the eighteen thousand five hundred dollars come from?”
Silence.
Then—
“You sent it.”
“No.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, Dalia.”
My voice remained calm.
“You received money from my business account that I did not authorize.”
“You’re lying.”
“I just spoke to the bank.”
She inhaled sharply.
There.
Fear.
Real fear.
I had never heard it from her before.
“Who told you about the fake email?”
“What fake email?”
“The one used to sign your lease.”
Silence again.
Then her voice hardened.
“You’re trying to scare me.”
“Who created it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did Mom?”
“Go to hell.”
She hung up.
Micah stared at me.
“That answered something.”
“Yes.”
“But not everything.”
“No.”
Because there was another question.
What had the money been for?
I opened old family messages.
Searched Dalia’s name.
Then searched 18,500.
Nothing.
Micah searched my calendar around the transfer date.
I had been in Boston that week.
Three days of meetings.
Long hours.
Hotel Wi-Fi.
My laptop had stayed in my room twice while housekeeping came through.
But Dalia had not been in Boston.
Neither had Mom.
Then Micah asked a question.
“Who had access to your home office six months ago?”
I looked at him.
Six months earlier, before we moved into our current apartment, I had been living in my old condo.
My parents had keys.
Dalia had occasionally stayed there.
And one weekend—
I remembered.
Mom had house-sat while I traveled.
She had watered plants.
Picked up packages.
And called me complaining that my printer was out of ink.
My printer.
Inside my office.
Beside the notebook where I used to keep backup account recovery codes.
My stomach turned.
I went completely still.
Micah noticed.
“What?”
“I kept backup codes in my desk.”
He closed his eyes.
“Vera.”
“I know.”
“Did your mother know?”
“I don’t know.”
Then my phone buzzed.
Dad.
I answered.
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“I found something.”
“What?”
“A storage box in your mother’s closet.”
I stood.
“What was in it?”
“Copies.”
“Copies of what?”
“Your tax returns.”
My mouth went dry.
“Bank statements.”
He stopped.
“Your old passport.”
I couldn’t speak.
Then Dad said the sentence that changed everything.
“And a notebook.”
“What notebook?”
“It has passwords in it.”
The room seemed to tilt.
May you like
Dad swallowed.
“Vera, I think your mother has been keeping records on you for years.”
