Inside were pages I had never seen. My signature sat at the bottom of each one, looped and confident, nothing like my real handwriting. There were pay stubs from a company I had never worked for, a driver’s licence with my photo pulled from an old social account, and an email address that wasn’t mine.

Gregory slid one page toward me. The loan officer who approved it had met the buyer in person. I stared at the description. Blonde, mid-thirties, expensive coat. My stomach dropped. That wasn’t me. That was Rebecca. My own sister had walked into a bank wearing my name like a costume, and tonight she expected me at her dinner table.