At 7:45 in the morning, I told her I was going out to buy “travel-sized toiletries.”

I smiled, kissed her on the cheek, and left with my purse and a racing heart.

Crescent Federal looked the same as the day before: sunlight on the polished floors, a faint smell of coffee, cheerful signs about “financial well-being.” But when I asked for Maya Torres, the cashier’s expression changed, just slightly, and she picked up the phone without asking why.

Maya greeted me near a back office and didn’t offer her hand. She led me inside, closed the door, and sat down across from me with a folder already open.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I’m going to be direct.”

He slid a document toward me.

It was our loan application.

My name appeared. My social security number. My income.

And my signature… except it wasn’t mine.

The handwriting was similar enough to fool someone who wanted to believe it, but I knew my own signature like you know your own face. Mine had curves. That one had sharp angles, hurried strokes, as if someone had practiced to do it quickly.

My skin crawled. “That… isn’t my signature.”

“It didn’t seem that way to me,” Maya said quietly. “Our system detected inconsistencies. Also…” She turned the page.

There were pay stubs attached.

From my employer.

Except the salary was inflated by almost $30,000.

My breath caught in my throat. “That’s not real.”

Maya nodded. “We contacted their human resources department to verify the employment, and the numbers didn’t match. That’s when we stopped the disbursement.”

I stared at her. “They arrested…? But the money… Logan said it was already in the account.”

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