Chapter 5 - The Account I Never Opened
We spent that night at my friend Carla’s apartment.
She opened the door in sweatpants, took one look at Emma, and moved aside.
“Guest room’s ready.”
I hadn’t asked her to make it ready.
I nearly cried over that.
While Emma changed into borrowed pajamas, I showed Carla the notifications.
Carla read them without interrupting.
Then she handed me a glass of water.
“Drink. Then we make a list.”
At midnight, Daniel called.
He had stopped further company payments while his accountant gathered the records.
Rachel had access to vendor files because she had been helping manage the renovation project.
“She told everyone she was organizing contractors,” he said.
“She told me she was busy planning a wedding.”
“Apparently, she was doing three things.”
His voice sounded wrecked.
I almost comforted him.
Then I remembered the number.
A hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars.
“I need copies of everything with my name on it.”
“You’ll have them.”
The next morning, I called the bank through the number on its actual website.
I did not use a link from the strange emails.
The fraud representative asked questions, listened, and opened a report.
She couldn’t simply give me control of an account I disputed opening.
But she could flag it.
And she could tell me what documentation to bring.
By noon, I had a folder containing my identification, the police incident number, and screenshots of the notifications.
It felt absurd.
Yesterday, I had been worried about wearing the same dress to two school events.
Today, I needed to prove I hadn’t invented a business.
Carla drove.
Emma stayed with Carla’s husband, making pancakes shaped like animals.
At the bank, the representative showed me a copy of the identification submitted with the application.
Mine.
The photograph had been taken on my mother’s kitchen table.
I recognized the scratched yellow placemat beneath it.
My stomach turned.
The listed mailing address was Mom’s condo.
The contact number ended in four digits I knew by heart.
Rachel’s.
Then came the company documents.
Harbor Learning Services.
My name.
My birth date.
A signature copied from somewhere.
“I didn’t sign this,” I said.
The representative wrote it down.
She didn’t gasp.
She didn’t promise it would all disappear.
Somehow, that made her kindness more bearable.
Outside, Carla touched my elbow.
“You okay?”
“No.”
My phone rang.
Mom.
I answered.
May you like
She didn’t say hello.
“If you keep digging, Hannah, you’re going to find things you wish you hadn’t.”
