Chapter 7 - The Audit and the Stolen Trust
The doctor put seven stitches into my palm, wrapped my hand in thick sterile gauze, and sent us home with a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers. By the time we returned to the house, it was nearly 10:00 PM. The rain had slowed to a dreary, misty drizzle.
The kitchen looked like a crime scene. Ethan immediately took charge. He put on heavy rubber work gloves, swept up every single shard of ceramic from the floor and countertops, scrubbed the bloodstains with bleach, and sealed the rancid, gray rack of lamb into three separate garbage bags before hauling it out to the industrial trash bin at the curb.
While Ethan sanitized the counters, I sat at the dining room table with my tablet propped up on a stand. As the owner and majority stakeholder in our joint properties, I maintained an obsessive record of our bank accounts, mortgages, and investments. But something Ethan had said earlier had been nagging at the back of my mind.
“I saw your mail... collection notices from American Express.”
Three weeks ago, Patricia had asked Ethan to co-sign an application for a "high-yield savings certificate" she claimed would help manage the proceeds from her condo sale. Ethan had signed some preliminary identity verification forms, trusting his mother without reading the fine print.
My stomach dropped into a cold, bottomless pit.
With my good right hand, I logged into our credit monitoring dashboards and pulled Ethan’s comprehensive credit report.
What I saw made my breath catch in my throat.
"Ethan," I called out, my voice tight. "Come here. Right now."
Ethan dropped the sponge, washed his hands, and walked into the dining room, looking exhausted. "What’s wrong? Are you in pain?"
"Look at this," I whispered, turning the tablet screen toward him.
Over the past twenty-eight days, three separate credit applications had been initiated under Ethan’s social security number. A personal loan for fifty thousand dollars with an online lender had been approved just last Tuesday. A brand-new luxury credit card with a twenty-five-thousand-dollar limit had been opened, and nearly eighteen thousand dollars had already been charged to it at designer boutiques, upscale restaurants, and luxury baby furniture outlets.
The billing address on the newly opened accounts was not our house.
It was a P.O. Box registered in the neighboring town—under the names of Patricia Miller and Nicole Miller.
Ethan stared at the screen, his face draining of all warmth and color until he looked like a statue carved from gray granite. "She stole my identity."
"She used the signature documents you signed for that fake savings certificate," I said, pointing out the dates. "She forged the rest. She took out a fifty-thousand-dollar cash loan in your name, Ethan. The funds were disbursed into a checking account in her name forty-eight hours ago."
"My own mother," Ethan choked out, his voice cracking with absolute devastation. He sank heavily into the dining room chair, burying his face in his hands. "She didn't just insult you. She didn't just throw a bowl at you. She was actively destroying my financial life while living under our roof. She was stealing from us."
"She was preparing to bleed you completely dry," I said gently, reaching across the table to lay my good hand over his trembling arm. "She knew her casino debts were catching up with her. She wanted to drain your credit to save herself, and she was using Nicole’s baby as an emotional shield so you’d never question her."
Ethan lifted his head. The sorrow in his eyes had evaporated completely, replaced by an iron-hard, cold determination. He reached for his phone on the table.
May you like
"Where are you calling?" I asked.
"The police," Ethan replied, dialing the direct extension Officer Henderson had given us at the ER. "I’m reporting grand theft, identity fraud, and wire fraud. She wants to act like a criminal? She can answer to the district attorney."
