Chapter 11 - The Email Waiting in Portugal
I had been in Lisbon for exactly thirty-seven hours when my old life found me.
Until then, the trip had felt almost suspiciously perfect.
I had eaten custard pastries standing beside a tiled wall older than the United States. I had walked until my feet hurt. I had taken photographs without immediately sending them to anyone for approval.
Most importantly, nobody had asked me for money.
On my second morning, I carried coffee onto the tiny balcony of my hotel room and watched yellow trams crawl uphill beneath a bright blue sky.
My phone buzzed.
I nearly ignored it.
Then I saw the subject line.
URGENT: GUARANTOR VERIFICATION REQUIRED.
The email came from Great Lakes Commercial Lending.
I had never heard of them.
At first, I assumed it was spam.
Then I read the first paragraph.
Dear Ms. Claire Mercer,
We are conducting final verification regarding your personal guaranty associated with the Westbridge Property Holdings refinancing application in the amount of $480,000.
My coffee cup stopped halfway to my mouth.
Westbridge.
Derek’s company.
The company that had received the fake rent payments.
I read the email again.
Then a third time.
According to the lender, I had agreed to personally guarantee part of a commercial refinance secured by the Rogers Park building.
Attached was a signature page.
My name appeared at the bottom.
Claire Mercer.
The signature looked like mine.
Almost.
That was the frightening part.
Someone had not scribbled my name and hoped for the best.
They had copied it.
My chest tightened.
I called Priya before remembering the time difference.
She answered anyway.
“Claire?”
“I’m sorry.”
“What happened?”
“I think Derek forged my signature.”
There was a brief silence.
Then her voice changed.
Not panicked.
Professional.
“Send me everything.”
I forwarded the email and attachment.
“Do not contact Derek,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Do not contact the lender beyond acknowledging that you dispute the guaranty until we understand the documents.”
My hands were suddenly cold despite the warm Portuguese morning.
“I’m supposed to be on vacation.”
“I know.”
I stared at the rooftops.
The old Claire would have opened her laptop immediately.
She would have spent fourteen hours solving the problem, canceled dinner, skipped sleep, and called the trip ruined.
Instead, I asked Priya one question.
“Is there anything I personally need to do in the next two hours?”
“No.”
“Then I’m going to breakfast.”
Priya laughed softly.
“That might be the healthiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I did not feel healthy.
I felt terrified.
But I went downstairs anyway.
Halfway through breakfast, another email arrived.
This one came from the lender’s senior underwriting manager.
He apologized for the confusion and asked whether I could confirm that I had attended a video conference three weeks earlier approving the guaranty.
I had been in Chicago three weeks earlier.
But I had attended no conference.
I checked the attached meeting record.
The participant had used an email address containing my name.
Not my real address.
A fake one.
My stomach dropped.
Someone had built a version of me.
My name.
My signature.
My financial reputation.
Enough pieces of my identity to walk into a loan meeting wearing my face.
I sent the new documents to Priya.
Then I called the three major credit bureaus and froze my credit.
By lunchtime, Priya had spoken with the lender’s attorney.
The loan had not funded.
The verification step had stopped it.
That should have made me feel better.
Instead, one question kept circling my mind.
Where had Derek gotten enough information to make the fraud believable?
I knew he had seen my phone number.
My address.
Probably my employer.
But the application reportedly included income figures, an old tax return, and the exact spelling of my middle name.
Information I had never given him.
At four that afternoon, Vanessa called.
I watched her name light the screen.
For one second, fear made me suspicious of everyone again.
Then I answered.
“Claire?”
Her voice was shaking.
“What happened?”
“I need to ask you something.”
She inhaled sharply.
“Okay.”
“Did Derek ever have copies of my financial documents?”
Silence.
Too long.
“Vanessa.”
“I didn’t give him your tax returns.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I know.”
I stood and walked to the window.
“What did you give him?”
Her answer came out barely above a whisper.
“Years ago, when you helped me apply for that apartment on Sheridan, you emailed Mom a proof-of-income packet because she was supposed to cosign.”
I remembered.
The apartment Vanessa never took.
My mother had told me the application failed.
“I sent it to Mom.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“Derek had access to her old laptop.”
The Lisbon street below me blurred.
“Why?”
“Because Mom gave it to him.”
I closed my eyes.
“When?”
“Last summer.”
Before the fake rent requests.
Before the birthday dinner.
Before the bracelet.
Vanessa started crying.
“He said he was going to clean it up and transfer her photos.”
I pressed my fingertips against the glass.
For the first time since arriving in Portugal, the ocean felt very far away.
“Claire,” Vanessa whispered, “I think this started before any of us knew how bad he was.”
I looked at the forged signature on my screen.
“No,” I said quietly.
May you like
“Somebody knew.”
And this time, I intended to find out exactly who.
