PART 5
The police arrived at my house just after nine that evening.
By then, the rain had stopped.
But I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was standing in the middle of a storm.
Officer Reynolds was the first to enter. She listened quietly while I explained everything from the beginning—the eight-month arrangement, the fall, Melissa refusing to help, the damaged bedroom lock, the missing documents, and finally the call from my bank.
She asked me one question.
“Do you have proof that your sister or her husband accessed the documents?”
I handed her the copy-shop receipt.
She studied it.
“This doesn’t prove who made the copies.”
“I know.”
“Did anyone else have access to your house?”
“No.”
“Did you give anyone permission to use your financial information?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“We’ll document the report. Your bank should also freeze the affected accounts and monitor for additional activity.”
I thanked her.
After she left, Marcus stayed.
I sat at the kitchen table with my injured leg elevated on another chair.
For the first time in my life, I was afraid inside my own house.
Not because someone was breaking in.
Because someone I loved had already been inside.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Melissa.
You need to stop punishing us. Nico is scared.
I stared at the message.
Then another arrived.
We’re family. You can’t treat us like criminals.
I put the phone face down.
Five minutes later, another message.
Please call me.
I didn’t.
The next morning, I went to the bank.
The fraud department had already placed additional restrictions on my accounts.
The loan application had been submitted online.
Someone had used my name, my address, my income information, and several details from my financial documents.
The application had also included a phone number I didn’t recognize.
The banker printed the application.
I read it slowly.
The applicant’s employment information was mine.
My salary.
My employer.
My home address.
My monthly mortgage payment.
Even the approximate amount in my savings account.
But the phone number belonged to someone else.
I wrote it down.
Then I noticed something else.
The emergency contact listed on the application was—
Melissa.
I felt my stomach tighten.
The banker looked at me.
“Do you know this person?”
“She is my sister.”
“Does she have access to your financial information?”
“She used to live with me.”
“Does she have a reason to know these details?”
I looked at the application again.
“Yes.”
The banker lowered her voice.
“Mr. Carter, you should assume that more than one account may have been compromised.”
I had been putting money into that account for years.
Five thousand dollars was missing.
