Chapter 2 - THE GIRL IN THE SECURITY FOOTAGEI did not sleep that night.
At 6:12 a.m., I drove to the bank.
The branch manager recognized my name before I finished introducing myself.
That frightened me more than anything else.
“You've been asking about the account?” she said.
“Yes.”
She lowered her voice.
“You should probably sit down.”
I did.
She pulled a file from a cabinet.
Paper.
Actual paper.
Three years of transactions.
“You were listed as a joint account holder,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Your father had full access.”
“I know.”
She hesitated.
“You also authorized several transfers.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“I didn't authorize anything after I left home.”
“I understand.”
“I don't think you do.”
She opened the file.
“This withdrawal was made in person.”
She pointed to the $18,500 transaction.
“By me?”
“According to the records.”
“But I wasn't here.”
She studied my face.
“Where were you?”
“Three states away.”
She slowly nodded.
Then she slid a photograph across the desk.
Security camera footage.
A woman standing at the teller counter.
Long brown hair.
Gray hoodie.
My height.
My build.
From behind, she could have been me.
I stared.
“When was this taken?”
“Three years ago.”
“The day I left?”
She nodded.
My mouth went dry.
“Can I see her face?”
The manager brought up another image.
The woman turned slightly.
My stomach dropped.
She looked enough like me to be terrifying.
But she wasn't me.
Her nose was different.
Her jaw was sharper.
And she had a tiny scar beside her eyebrow.
I had never seen her before.
“Who is she?”
“We don't know.”
“Then why did the bank accept the transaction?”
“She had your identification.”
“Fake identification?”
“We couldn't determine that at the time.”
The manager pulled another document from the file.
“This was submitted two days later.”
A notarized authorization form.
My name.
Dad's handwriting.
I recognized it immediately.
“That's my father's signature.”
The manager looked uncomfortable.
“Mr. Hayes claimed you had given him verbal authorization to handle the account.”
“I didn't.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why is this still active?”
“Because legally, at the time, it was valid.”
I leaned back.
My thoughts were colliding.
Twenty-eight thousand dollars.
A fake version of me.
My father's signature.
And years of transactions.
Someone had planned this.
Someone had known I was leaving.
Someone had known enough about me to make the lie believable.
I left the bank with copies of everything.
Then I called Dad.
He answered immediately.
“You went to the bank.”
“Yes.”
“I told you not to.”
“You knew.”
Silence.
“You knew someone was using my identity.”
“I suspected.”
“You lied to me.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
He didn't answer.
“Dad.”
“I need you home.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you don't understand what's happening.”
“Then explain it.”
His breathing grew heavier.
Finally, he whispered,
“Your mother didn't just find the bank statements.”
“What else did she find?”
“She found letters.”
“What letters?”
“Letters from you.”
My heart stopped.
“I never sent any letters.”
“She has six of them.”
“That’s impossible.”
“They were addressed to us.”
My hands tightened.
“When were they written?”
“Over the last three years.”
I felt dizzy.
“Someone has been writing letters pretending to be me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
I closed my eyes.
Then another thought hit me.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Did Mom read them?”
He didn't respond.
“Dad.”
“Yes.”
“All six?”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
His voice dropped.
“They said you wanted nothing to do with us.”
My chest tightened.
“What else?”
“That you were happy.”
I almost laughed.
Of course.
A perfect lie.
A version of me that left willingly, hated them, and wanted nothing to do with home.
A version of me that made it easier for them not to look for me.
I whispered,
“Who wrote them?”
Dad said,
“We don't know.”
Then he added,
“But there's one thing we do know.”
“What?”
“The last letter was dated six months ago.”
I frowned.
“I've been no-contact for three years.”
“I know.”
“That means whoever wrote it knows exactly where I am.”
Dad didn't answer.
May you like
Then I heard him whisper,
“Taylor… the letter included your current address.”
