Chapter 1 - THE BANK STATEMENTS“Taylor… we need to talk about the money.”
My father's words hung in the silence between us.
I stared at the dark window across my apartment, my own reflection staring back.
Three years.
Three years without a call.
Three years without a birthday message.
Three years without a single question asking where I was, whether I was alive, whether I was okay.
And now he wanted to talk about money.
Of course he did.
“What money?” I asked.
Dad exhaled.
“Don't play games.”
“I’m not.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I almost laughed.
There were a lot of things I knew.
I knew I had been sixteen when he opened the joint account.
I knew every paycheck I earned after that had gone into it.
I knew I had been told the money was being “kept safe.”
I knew that when I turned eighteen and asked to close the account, Dad had said we would “sort it out later.”
And I knew later never came.
Until now.
“Where did you find the statements?” I asked.
“In your room.”
“My old room.”
“Yes.”
Something about his answer made my stomach tighten.
My old room.
That room had been emptied three years ago.
At least, I thought it had.
“What were you doing in there?”
“Noah—”
“My name is Taylor.”
He went quiet.
He still did that.
Used the wrong name whenever he was annoyed.
I had corrected him dozens of times as a child.
He had never cared.
“Your mother was cleaning,” he said.
“My mother hasn't cleaned that room in years.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It seems like the point.”
His voice sharpened.
“Just come home.”
“No.”
The silence that followed felt almost satisfying.
Three years ago, I would have apologized for saying no.
Now the word felt like armor.
“You don't understand,” he said. “This is serious.”
“Then tell me over the phone.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
Then Dad said,
“Because your mother thinks you stole from us.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“She found records showing money was transferred out.”
I sat down slowly.
“What records?”
“Transfers from the account.”
My mind began racing.
The joint account.
The one Dad controlled.
The one where my earnings disappeared.
“I haven't touched that account in three years.”
Dad's breathing changed.
“That’s what makes this a problem.”
“What did you find?”
“We’ll talk when you get home.”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Tell me.”
He hesitated.
Then he said quietly,
“Twenty-eight thousand dollars.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
I stared at the floor.
Twenty-eight thousand.
There had never been anywhere near twenty-eight thousand dollars in my childhood paychecks.
Not even close.
“That isn't my money,” I whispered.
“I know.”
Those two words stopped me.
“You know?”
“I know you didn't take it.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
“Because someone did.”
My pulse began pounding.
“Who?”
Dad didn't answer.
Instead, he said,
“Your mother found something else.”
“What?”
“She found a withdrawal made the day you left.”
I gripped the phone.
“I didn't withdraw anything.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like I did?”
“Because the withdrawal was made using your identification.”
My mouth went dry.
“What identification?”
“Your driver's license.”
I stood.
“No.”
Dad's voice became almost a whisper.
“Taylor, someone used your identity three years ago.”
I heard a floorboard creak.
Not in my apartment.
On his end.
Then my father said something that made my blood run cold.
“And the bank says the withdrawal was authorized by someone who looked exactly like you.”
The call ended.
I stood there for several seconds, staring at my phone.
Someone who looked exactly like me.
That was impossible.
Unless they hadn't been looking at me.
Unless they'd been looking at someone else.
Someone wearing my name.
My hands shook as I opened my laptop.
I searched the bank's old customer portal.
The account was still active.
I had never checked because I assumed Dad had eventually closed it.
I entered my old credentials.
The password worked.
The account balance appeared.
$41,782.16
I stared.
That money should not have existed.
Then I opened the transaction history.
There were dozens of withdrawals.
Some monthly.
Some weekly.
Almost all made after I had left.
And every single one had my name attached to it.
Then I saw the oldest transaction.
Three years ago.
Two days before I disappeared.
WITHDRAWAL: $18,500.00
And beneath it was a note.
AUTHORIZED IN PERSON. IDENTIFICATION VERIFIED.
I scrolled down.
There was an attached scanned document.
My driver's license.
My signature.
I looked at the image.
Then I froze.
May you like
The signature wasn't mine.
It was Dad's.
