Chapter 10 - The Account in My Name
By morning, federal investigators had asked for interviews and original records.
They did not promise charges or dramatic arrests.
They asked patient, exacting questions about dates, signatures, and access.
I showed them my deployment records and the bank paperwork proving I had been abroad when the suspicious account was opened.
An investigator named Agent Harris told me not to contact Daniel Price.
"If he reaches you, preserve the communication and let us know," she said.
I returned to Rebecca's office expecting legal work.
Instead I found an envelope waiting with my name typed across the front.
Inside was a copy of a photograph taken during my hospitalization.
I was lying in a bed, heavily sedated, with my injured leg suspended after surgery.
At the bottom someone had written: YOU CAN'T REMEMBER EVERYTHING.
My hands went cold.
Whoever had sent it wanted me to think the fraud began at my hospital bedside.
Rebecca examined the image without touching its edges.
"We'll give it to Harris."
I nodded.
But the photograph pulled loose a memory I'd never questioned.
My mother had called once during my recovery.
She said she needed a signature on a medical insurance form.
A nurse brought the phone to my bed.
I barely remembered the conversation.
I did remember a package arriving days later and a distant relative saying it was family paperwork.
Had I signed something while medicated?
Rebecca reminded me that a signature alone would not establish informed authorization, and the bank would have verification records.
We requested them through the appropriate channels.
That evening I sat beside Lewis's flag, ashamed of how quickly fear had found its way past my training.
My injury had taken strength from my leg.
I would not let my father use it to take ownership of my past.
The next morning, Agent Harris called.
"We found the account-opening video."
I braced myself.
"Was I there?"
"No."
Her answer came so quickly I almost cried.
"The woman presenting your identification wasn't you."
The investigator would not identify her by telephone.
At her office I watched a grainy recording of a woman entering the bank.
She wore dark glasses and a tan coat.
She lifted her head toward the camera while the clerk checked a form.
And I recognized her immediately.
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It was my mother.
