Chapter 10 - THE NAME OF MY DEAD MOTHER
My mother's name was Elaine Whitaker.
She died seven years before the dinner at Brenda's house.
She had been the first person to tell me that owning something in my own name was not selfish.
It was security.
She helped me choose my first apartment and taught me to read a contract twice before signing it once.
When David repeated her name from Elise's message, the office seemed to lose its sound.
“Why would Oscar have a file about my mother?” I asked.
“We don't know yet.”
I remembered the envelope of estate records missing from my desk.
Inside had been an old insurance statement, a letter from my mother's attorney, and account records from a sale of inherited land.
They were not worth millions.
But they contained dates, signatures, and personal information that could be useful to someone impersonating me.
I opened my password manager and found a saved login I had not used in years.
It belonged to an archive maintained by the attorney who had settled my mother's estate.
The account showed two recent failed access attempts.
David asked me to preserve a screenshot and notify the firm.
At the bank meeting that afternoon, Vance introduced us to fraud investigator Priya Shah.
She was brisk and precise.
She didn't pretend to know who forged the signature.
She explained the hold, the documents they could share, and the records the bank needed to preserve.
I signed a statement confirming that I had not authorized the application or the notarial act.
Then Priya placed a scan in front of me.
It was the back of an identification document attached to the application.
The number resembled mine.
The photograph did not.
A woman with dark hair had been photographed against a plain gray wall.
Her face was partially obscured by glare.
“That isn't me,” I said.
Priya nodded without surprise.
“We've asked for the original file.”
I looked at the photograph longer.
The earrings were familiar.
Small gold circles with blue stones.
Chloe wore a pair just like them at Saturday's dinner.
I told Priya what I'd noticed and immediately regretted how much I wanted certainty.
“There may be more than one pair,” she said.
“I understand.”
David squeezed the edge of his notebook.
We were leaving when Vance received a call and excused himself.
He returned looking troubled.
An internal review had discovered that someone submitted a replacement contact authorization after the fraud hold was placed.
The new form carried my signature.
It was dated that morning.
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And its supporting photograph showed someone standing outside the very bank where we had just met.
