The marble counters. The pool. The four-car garage where she staged photos leaning against her SUV like she was in a music video. The $12,000 fridge with the glass door that lit up blue when you tapped it. The down payment she bragged about making “with smart investments.”
All of it paid for with my identity.
Raymond’s mouth tightened as he scrolled through printed screenshots I’d brought. “She made this easy,” he said dryly.
That weekend, Cass called me from a blocked number.
I stared at the incoming call, my stomach clenching, then answered because I was tired of being hunted by my own blood.
Her voice came through thick with tears. “Elena, please,” she sobbed. “They’re going to take the house. Mom won’t help. Dad won’t help. Please just tell them I had your consent.”
I stayed quiet for a beat, letting her words hang.
Then I asked one question. “When you signed my name,” I said softly, “were you thinking about me?”
Cass’s crying stuttered. A pause. Then nothing.
No apology. No explanation. No moment of genuine recognition.
Just silence.
I knew that silence. It was the sound of someone realizing they don’t have a script for accountability.
I hung up.