I drove to my parents’ house with the folder on the passenger seat like a living thing. Inside it were copies of the delinquency notice, the police report, and the email Megan had finally sent with the closing documents.
I’d read them twice the night before. Then once more that morning, like rereading might make it less real.
There it was in clean, legal language: I had “purchased” a home in July. I had “verified” my identity. I had “signed” a stack of forms, including the mortgage and deed.
The signature looked enough like mine to fool a notary who wasn’t paying attention, or maybe a notary who didn’t care. The ID attached wasn’t mine at all. It was a blurry scan of something that looked like my driver’s license, except the photo was Cass with her hair darkened and her makeup toned down.
She didn’t just take my name.
She wore it.
I pulled into my parents’ driveway and sat for a moment, watching through the windshield.
My father stood at the grill in his usual uniform: faded jeans, a polo shirt, tongs in hand like they were a weapon. My mother moved between the kitchen and the patio with a tray, smiling at neighbors who walked by. The whole scene looked like a commercial for stability.