The woman across from the banker wore a gray wig, my lavender cardigan, and my own reading glasses. I knew that chin before I knew anything else. It was Melissa, my daughter-in-law, signing my name with the same steady hand that had organized my filing cabinet. Denise swallowed hard. “She showed the teller a driver’s license, Mrs. Whitaker. A real one, with your number on it.”

Then Denise opened a second file, and my stomach dropped. It was a loan application on my home, the one Walter and I paid off decades ago, dated the same day, with my forged signature and a closing set for this Friday. The amount read $210,000. Behind me, the lobby doors opened, two officers walked straight toward Denise’s desk, and one of them quietly said Travis’s name.