Chapter 3 - I drove home with the radio off.Every few seconds I glanced at the rearview mirror.
No one followed me.
At least, no one I could see.
When I reached my driveway, the porch light was already on.
I had left it off.
I stood in the foyer for several seconds.
The house suddenly felt different.
Not unsafe.
Observed.
I locked the door.
Then I checked every window.
Finally, I walked into my study.
Three days earlier, I had opened a letter from a law firm I didn't recognize.
It had been addressed to me.
The letter said someone had attempted to verify my identity in connection with a property transaction.
At first, I thought it was spam.
Then I saw the attachment.
My signature.
A signature I had never written.
That was when I called a private investigator.
His name was Daniel Mercer.
Former financial crimes investigator.
He had spent twenty years tracing fraud, embezzlement, and identity theft.
His first question had been simple.
“Do you have a reason to suspect your family?”
I had said no.
I had been lying to myself.
He had promised to call me that evening.
At 10:17 p.m., my phone rang.
“Mrs. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“I've got something.”
I sat down.
“What?”
“There are three separate financial trails connected to your son's company.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone has been moving company money into shell accounts.”
“How much?”
“Eight hundred and fourteen thousand dollars.”
I closed my eyes.
“Exactly the debt Wesley mentioned.”
“No.”
Daniel's tone changed.
“What?”
“The debt is real.”
He paused.
“But Wesley didn't create it.”
My eyes opened.
“What are you saying?”
“The person who stole the money created a second set of records.”
“Why?”
“To make it appear your son's company lost the money through bad business decisions.”
I stood.
“Who?”
“We're still tracing that.”
Then he said something else.
“There's a more serious problem.”
“What?”
“Your identity has been used in transactions connected to those shell accounts.”
I stared at the wall.
“How?”
“Someone had access to your tax records, bank information, and property records.”
Only a few people had ever had all three.
My attorney.
My accountant.
My son.
“Daniel.”
“Yes?”
“Check Wesley.”
A long pause followed.
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
“Because I already did.”
My stomach dropped.
“And?”
“He isn't the only one.”
I gripped the phone.
“Who else?”
“Your daughter.”
Emily.
“No.”
“She signed documents related to one of the shell companies.”
My knees weakened.
“What documents?”
“A business agreement.”
“Was Wesley there?”
“Yes.”
“Cora?”
“Her name appears too.”
I sat down.
All three.
The dinner table wasn't a coincidence.
They were connected.
Daniel continued.
“But there's another name.”
“Whose?”
“I'll send you the file.”
My computer pinged.
A folder appeared.
I opened it.
The first document showed a company I had never heard of.
Carter Family Holdings LLC.
My name appeared as the controlling member.
I had never created it.
The second document showed a bank transfer.
The third was a scanned identity record.
I stared at it.
Then I froze.
The photo was not mine.
But the driver's license number was.
Someone had created a fake identity using my information.
“Daniel.”
“Yes?”
“This person doesn't just have my information.”
“What do you mean?”
“They have a photograph.”
He went silent.
“Someone must have photographed my driver's license.”
“Do you keep it somewhere accessible?”
I thought about Wesley's visit six months earlier.
He had helped me organize documents.
Then Emily had come two days later.
My blood went cold.
“I know when they copied it.”
“Tell me.”
I didn't answer.
Because another memory had surfaced.
Six months ago, Wesley had asked me to leave my study door unlocked.
He said he needed to print something.
I had trusted him.
I had given him the key.
Daniel's voice pulled me back.
“Mrs. Carter?”
“I need you to investigate something else.”
“What?”
“Find out whether my husband left behind any trusts or accounts.”
“Your husband has been dead for eight years.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because Wesley once told me there was nothing left.”
Daniel paused.
“And you don't believe him.”
“No.”
I opened an old drawer.
Inside was my husband's handwriting.
A note I hadn't read in years.
It contained only one sentence.
If they ever come for the house, look beneath the floorboards in the study.
My heart began pounding.
I had completely forgotten about that note.
Or perhaps I had never understood it.
I walked toward the study.
Daniel asked,
“What did you find?”
I stared at the floor.
“A message from my husband.”
Then I heard something.
A soft sound.
A click.
May you like
From downstairs.
Someone had entered my house.
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