Chapter 13: What Noah Saw
I stared through the NICU glass.
“My name?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have another account.”
“I know.”
“Then how can nine hundred thousand dollars be in my name?”
“We’re trying to determine that.”
I started pacing.
Every time I thought Ryan had exhausted the ways he could use my identity, another door opened.
“Could that make me look guilty?”
“It could create questions.”
“Rebecca.”
“But we have strong evidence of repeated forgery.”
I pressed a hand against my forehead.
“Where is the account?”
“Ryan hasn’t disclosed that yet.”
“So he’s dangling it.”
“Yes.”
“What does he want?”
“A cooperation agreement before he reveals everything.”
“That’s between him and prosecutors.”
“Correct.”
I exhaled.
“Then I don’t care what he wants.”
But I did care about the money.
Not for myself.
For Thomas.
For the retired teacher.
For every person whose name I recognized.
Nine hundred thousand wouldn’t make everyone whole.
But it was something.
When I returned to Ava, I forced the investigation out of my head.
She needed me present.
Megan showed me how to bottle-feed her.
Ava took only a small amount before getting tired.
I panicked.
“She stopped.”
“That’s normal.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s learning.”
That became my favorite phrase.
She’s learning.
Ava didn’t need to be perfect.
She didn’t need to be strong every second.
She was allowed to learn.
Maybe I was too.
That afternoon, Diane arrived at the hospital.
She didn’t come into the NICU.
She waited in the hallway until I noticed her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see Ava.”
I stared at her.
“No.”
Pain crossed her face.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t argue.
That mattered.
She held out a small bag.
“I brought something.”
“What?”
“A blanket Ryan used when he was a baby.”
I almost laughed at the cruelty of that symbolism.
“I don’t want it.”
Diane lowered the bag.
“Okay.”
She looked thinner.
Tired.
For once, she wasn’t crying dramatically.
She just looked sad.
“I spoke with the investigators.”
I waited.
“I gave them everything.”
“Everything?”
“My bank records. Messages with Ryan. The money I gave him.”
“That was the right thing.”
“I know.”
She swallowed.
“I also told them about the first time he asked me to lie for him.”
My attention sharpened.
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
My skin prickled.
“What lie?”
“He lost money for a client.”
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand.”
“What happened?”
“He covered it with his own money.”
“That sounds bad, but not like this.”
“He didn’t use his own money.”
I stared at her.
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
Of course.
“He said it was temporary.”
“And you gave it to him.”
“Yes.”
“What did he ask you to lie about?”
“If anyone asked, I was supposed to say it was an investment.”
I closed my eyes.
Four years.
Before Marcus.
Before the fund.
Before nearly everything.
“Did anyone ask?”
“No.”
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because I think that was when he learned I would always rescue him.”
Diane looked at me.
The admission was painful.
Not an excuse.
An understanding.
“I taught him that consequences could be covered.”
I stayed quiet.
“I don’t think I made him do any of this,” she continued. “But I helped him believe he could always escape the first mistake.”
That was more honest than anything I had heard from her since the mall.
I sat beside her.
“I don’t know whether I can forgive you.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I may never trust you with Ava.”
Her face crumpled.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She wiped one tear.
“You should protect her from anyone who refuses to respect you.”
For the first time, I saw actual change.
Not because she apologized.
Because she accepted that forgiveness might not belong to her.
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
She looked surprised.
“For what?”
“For finally not making your guilt my responsibility.”
Diane lowered her head.
“I’m trying.”
I believed that.
Not enough to let her into the NICU.
But enough not to hate her.
The next day brought a new shock.
Agent Nolan asked me to come to a conference room inside the hospital.
Rebecca joined by phone.
Nolan placed a printed photograph on the table.
It showed an online banking page.
My name appeared at the top.
EMILY CARTER.
Balance: $913,482.17.
I felt sick.
“This isn’t mine.”
“We believe you.”
“Where did it come from?”
“The account is in the Cayman Islands.”
I stared at him.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“How was it opened?”
“Using copies of your identification and forged certification documents.”
“Who put the money there?”
“We’re tracing transfers.”
“Ryan?”
“Some transfers came through companies tied to Ryan.”
“Some?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
Nolan showed another page.
Incoming transfers from three entities.
One was Marcus’s.
One belonged to Ryan.
The third made me pause.
“DLM Ventures.”
“Do you recognize it?”
“No.”
“Neither did Ryan, according to his attorney.”
I looked at Nolan.
“You believe him?”
“We verify everything.”
“Who owns it?”
“We’re working on that.”
The account had been active for eight months.
Money moved in.
Money moved out.
Hundreds of thousands.
All under my stolen identity.
I felt violated in a way I couldn’t explain.
Someone had built a financial version of me.
A criminal shadow wearing my name.
“Can the money be recovered?”
“That’s the goal.”
“Will investors get it?”
“Victim restitution is part of the process.”
I nodded.
That mattered.
Then Nolan leaned forward.
“There’s something we need from you.”
“What?”
“Do you recognize the email address associated with the account?”
He slid the page toward me.
I read it.
ecarter1972@...
I frowned.
“I wasn’t born in 1972.”
“Anyone close to you?”
“No.”
Then I stopped.
1972.
My mother’s birth year.
My breath caught.
Nolan noticed.
“What?”
“That was my mother’s birth year.”
“Who would know that?”
“Lots of people.”
“Ryan?”
“Yes.”
“Diane?”
“Yes.”
“Claire?”
“Of course.”
“Anyone else?”
I thought.
Then I remembered something.
My mother had used 1972 in an old email address too.
A private email.
Someone with access to her records might have seen it.
“My mother’s accountant.”
“Mr. Stein?”
“No. Before him.”
Nolan leaned forward.
“Name?”
I struggled to remember.
Mom had fired the woman after some disagreement years ago.
Then it came to me.
“Melissa.”
My heart stopped.
“Melissa what?”
I stared at Nolan.
“Lang.”
The same woman connected to Marcus.
The same woman whose company had received money from the home-equity line.
Suddenly the room felt much smaller.
Nolan’s expression changed.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Melissa Lang worked for your mother?”
“For nearly ten years.”
“Did Ryan know her?”
I swallowed.
“He met her at my mother’s funeral.”
That date hit me like a slap.
My mother had been dead five years.
Ryan’s fraud had begun roughly three years ago.
Maybe Marcus wasn’t the beginning.
Maybe Ryan wasn’t either.
I whispered, “Could Melissa have had access to my trust documents?”
Nolan answered carefully.
“Possibly.”
A terrifying thought formed.
“What if Ryan didn’t choose my trust randomly?”
Nolan waited.
“What if someone told him exactly how to get to it?”
May you like
He closed the folder.
“We need to find Melissa Lang.”
