Felony identity theft.
Mortgage fraud.
Forgery.
My name echoed off the walls like a wound reopened.
When the judge asked how Cass pled, she looked at me like I was supposed to save her again, like my existence was still a safety net.
“Guilty,” she said, then rushed the rest out like it would make it better. “But I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny. Because it was so perfectly Cass—confession wrapped in self-pity, responsibility diluted by intention.
The prosecutor laid out the paper trail: emails, applications, digital signatures, the lender’s verification logs. Surveillance footage from the notary’s office. Cass leaning over a counter, signing my name with steady hands.
Steady.
She hadn’t been shaking when she stole my life.
Cass started to cry. Real tears or rehearsed tears, I couldn’t tell. In my family, emotions were often tools.
The judge paused. “Ms. Carter,” he said, looking at me. “Do you wish to make a victim impact statement?”
My chest tightened.
Raymond had prepared me for this. He told me to keep it factual, clear, calm. The court cared about harm, not poetry.
I stood anyway, not for revenge, but for record.