“She’ll apologize tomorrow.”
Daniel answered, “Just give her time.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my laptop.
I worked in financial risk for a regional bank. For eleven years, I had traced fraud patterns people believed were invisible.
The loan application was clumsy.
My Social Security number was correct.
My salary was almost accurate.
The applicant used an old phone number and listed “home renovation” as the purpose.
Then I found the more important clue.
Two weeks earlier, someone had attempted to reset my credit-monitoring password at 2:13 a.m.
The device was an Android phone connected to our router.
Trevor owned the only Android in the house.
I called the lender’s fraud department, froze my credit, filed an identity-theft report, and preserved every email and timestamp.
Then I checked the camera above the front entry.
Three days earlier, it had recorded Trevor carrying a folder from my locked office while Lorraine watched the hallway.
The folder held our tax returns.
At breakfast, I said nothing.
Lorraine drank coffee from my favorite mug. “You’ll replace the refrigerator lock.”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you should stay somewhere else until you learn respect.”
Trevor smirked. “Mom’s right. Daniel pays bills too.”
That was the mistake.
