Chapter 8 - One Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
The application had been stopped automatically.
New device.
Unusual location.
Failed verification.
For once, security did its job.
The lender gave me the IP region.
Same city.
Not enough.
But there was something better.
A recovery phone number.
It ended in 4418.
I knew that number.
Mom’s old cell.
She had stopped using it publicly three years earlier.
Apparently she had not stopped using it privately.
Micah stared at the screen.
“She just tried to take one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Or someone using her number did.”
“You still giving her the benefit of the doubt?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
It also felt good.
At 1:06 a.m., I froze every business account.
Changed passwords.
Revoked devices.
Locked credit.
Contacted an attorney.
By 3:00 a.m., I had filed formal fraud notices.
I slept forty minutes.
At 7:12 a.m., Dalia posted online.
She did not use my name.
She didn’t need to.
She wrote about “wealthy relatives” who used money to control family.
About promises being withdrawn as punishment.
About women who became “cold” after marriage.
Comments flooded in.
People called the unnamed relative abusive.
Financially controlling.
Narcissistic.
Cruel.
Dalia responded with heart emojis.
Micah handed me coffee.
“Don’t read them.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You’re gripping the phone hard enough to break it.”
I placed it down.
Then one comment caught my attention.
Rachel Kessler.
She wrote four words.
Tell them about my credit.
The post disappeared six minutes later.
Dalia called me.
I answered.
“You contacted Rachel?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“She contacted me.”
“You’re trying to destroy my life.”
“No.”
“You dragged her into this.”
“Dalia.”
I stood near the window.
“You committed identity theft.”
“She got paid.”
My entire body went still.
There it was.
Not denial.
Not confusion.
She got paid.
Micah heard it.
His expression changed.
I made my voice neutral.
“So you admit it.”
Silence.
Then—
“You’re twisting my words.”
“No.”
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Act superior.”
“You stole someone’s identity.”
“You don’t understand what happened.”
“Then explain it.”
“She had better credit.”
I actually closed my eyes.
That was her explanation.
Rachel had better credit.
As if that were permission.
Dalia continued.
“I needed a card for school expenses.”
“You opened two.”
“One was an accident.”
“You cannot accidentally open a credit card in someone else’s name.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“Then tell me everything.”
She breathed heavily.
Then her tone changed.
Cold.
“If you keep digging, you’re going to regret it.”
I heard Mom in that sentence.
“Why?”
Dalia didn’t answer.
“What else is there?”
Silence.
Then she laughed.
“You really think Mom only kept records on you?”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
Micah said it first.
“What does that mean?”
I returned to the black ledger.
Started flipping pages.
Near the back, I found three envelopes taped together.
Each labeled with a name.
Vera.
Dalia.
Robert.
Dad’s name.
Inside mine was a photocopy of my Social Security card.
Inside Dad’s were bank forms.
Inside Dalia’s—
Nothing.
The envelope was empty.
Then I noticed writing beneath it.
One sentence.
In Mom’s handwriting.
If Vera refuses, use Robert.
I called Dad.
He answered breathlessly.
“Vera?”
“Freeze your credit.”
Silence.
“Now.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think I was the backup plan.”
May you like
I looked at the empty Dalia envelope.
“You were.”
