Ethan looked at Patricia like a child searching for direction. Patricia’s lips tightened. “This is a misunderstanding,” she said, her voice softer now as she tried a different tone. “Natalie, honey, you’re upset. Let’s not do something you’ll regret.”
I almost laughed.
Honey.
She had called me “girl,” “freeloader,” “office worker,” anything but my name. And now suddenly I was honey.
Ms. Parker opened her folder and spread several copies across the coffee table. The first page displayed a credit card application with my name, my social security number, and a signature that looked like mine if you glanced quickly—but the pressure strokes were off. It was a carefully practiced imitation.
Ethan leaned forward and then jerked back as if the paper burned him. “That’s not—”
“The account was opened three months ago,” Ms. Parker said. “The spending pattern traces to vendors and withdrawals near your known locations. We also have a recorded call from a collection agency, in which Ms. Brooks stated she never opened this account, and a follow-up letter requesting an investigation.”