Chapter 3 - The Address Ava Never Mentioned
Grandpa pressed the phone to his ear and said:
“Freeze everything.”
The banker gave him a second account number.
The final four digits were 8842.
Mom whispered those numbers before he repeated them.
She already knew they existed.
I stared at her.
The study suddenly felt too small.
Grandpa asked the banker to email every available document and ended the call.
Mom sank into the nearest chair.
Ava remained standing.
For the first time all night, my younger sister wasn't defending herself.
She was looking at Mom exactly the way I was.
Like we had both discovered a stranger.
“What did you do?” I asked.
Mom rubbed her forehead.
“Nothing happened.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“The loan didn't go through.”
“Why was my information on it?”
“You're making this sound criminal.”
Grandpa's cane struck the floor once.
Not hard.
Enough.
“Because it may be.”
Mom looked horrified.
“Dad.”
“You used Amelia's identity on documents she didn't authorize.”
“I was trying to help Ava.”
There it was.
No denial.
Ava whispered, “Mom.”
Mom looked at her.
“You needed capital.”
“For what?”
“Your business.”
“I never asked you to take out a loan in Amelia's name.”
Mom stood.
“You complained constantly about money.”
“That doesn't mean forge her signature!”
The irony was almost unbearable.
My sister, who had taken my SUV for two weeks, was now furious about a boundary.
Maybe that was how deep Mom's behavior had gone.
Even Ava hadn't realized there were limits Mom would cross for her.
I leaned against the desk.
“Why me?”
Mom looked at me.
Not guilty.
Almost annoyed.
“Your credit is better.”
I laughed.
I couldn't help it.
It was one short, stunned sound.
“My credit is better because I spent three years fixing it.”
“I know.”
“After Ava damaged it.”
“That wasn't intentional.”
“Nothing is ever intentional when Ava does it.”
Ava flinched.
I didn't apologize.
Mom opened her mouth.
Grandpa stopped her.
“What was the second loan for?”
She looked at him.
“I don't know.”
“You just admitted you submitted one.”
“One.”
“Then what is the other?”
Silence.
This time, her fear looked different.
Grandpa's laptop chimed.
Email.
He opened it.
Three attachments.
He clicked the first.
Application paperwork.
The first attempted loan was for thirty thousand dollars.
Purpose listed:
BUSINESS STARTUP EXPENSES.
The second was different.
Vehicle refinance.
I leaned closer.
It used the VIN of Mom's car.
Applicant name:
Amelia Carter.
I stared.
“Why would my name be on Mom's car?”
Grandpa scrolled.
The application listed my salary.
My employer.
My date of birth.
My old apartment address.
Information Mom knew.
Or could easily find.
Grandpa opened the next attachment.
Bank statement.
Not mine.
Mom's.
Several deposits were highlighted.
Transfers from Grandpa's household account.
Then transfers out.
Some went to Ava.
Others went somewhere I didn't recognize.
Prescott Holdings LLC.
Grandpa typed the name into a search.
Nothing obvious.
Ava stared at the screen.
“I've never heard of that.”
Mom suddenly stood.
“This is ridiculous. I'm going home.”
Grandpa didn't move.
“You arrived in Amelia's SUV.”
Mom froze.
I held up the keys.
“I guess you'll need an Uber.”
The sentence came out before I thought about it.
Ava looked at me.
Even Grandpa's mouth moved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
Mom's face burned.
“That was unnecessary.”
“So was taking my car.”
She grabbed her handbag.
“I am not staying here to be insulted.”
Grandpa walked toward her.
“Margaret.”
She stopped.
“You need to understand something.”
His voice was almost gentle now.
“That young woman has spent her entire life making herself smaller so you would not have to tell Ava no.”
Mom looked away.
“And tonight, you used her identity.”
“We don't know that.”
“I know her signature.”
“So do I.”
The room went silent.
Mom realized what she had admitted.
Grandpa's eyes hardened.
“You will go home. You will not touch Amelia's documents, accounts, vehicle, mail, or belongings. Tomorrow morning, we are meeting with the bank.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot order me around.”
“No.”
He nodded toward me.
“But she can decide what happens next.”
Everyone looked at me.
That terrified me more than Grandpa's anger.
For most of my life, decisions involving Ava had been made for me.
Give her the dress.
Let her have the room.
Loan her the money.
Drive her somewhere.
Cover the bill.
Don't embarrass her.
Don't be selfish.
Suddenly nobody was telling me what to do.
I looked at Mom.
“I'll be at the bank.”
Her face changed.
Not anger.
Betrayal.
As though my refusal to protect her was somehow worse than what she had done.
“You'd do that to your own mother?”
I almost answered.
Then stopped.
That sentence had controlled me for years.
You'd do that to family?
You'd embarrass your sister?
You'd make your mother worry?
I finally understood how often the question was used backward.
I said, “You put my name on loan applications.”
She stared at me.
Then walked out.
Ava stayed.
That surprised me.
She sat on the edge of Grandpa's sofa.
“I didn't know.”
I believed her.
Again, that didn't erase the SUV.
It didn't erase the photographs.
It didn't erase two weeks of entitlement.
But there were levels to wrongdoing.
Ava had taken advantage of me.
Mom had impersonated me financially.
Those were not the same thing.
“Did you know about any loan?” Grandpa asked her.
Ava hesitated.
“One.”
My stomach tightened.
She looked at me quickly.
“Not in your name.”
“What did you think it was?”
“Mom said she was helping me get a small business loan.”
“How small?”
“Ten thousand.”
Grandpa pointed at the screen.
“This is thirty.”
“I know.”
“What business?”
Ava looked embarrassed.
“Marketing.”
“You don't have a company.”
“I was starting one.”
“With clients?”
“I had leads.”
I sat down.
“Ava, did any of them actually agree to hire you?”
She looked away.
“No.”
“Then why rent a townhouse?”
She frowned.
“I didn't.”
“Logan lives there.”
“Yes.”
“The photo said congratulations on the new place.”
She hesitated.
“I was going to move in.”
“With what money?”
“Mom said she would help for a few months.”
There it was again.
Mom would help.
Which meant someone else would pay.
Grandpa leaned back against his desk.
“How much rent?”
“Twenty-four hundred.”
I stared at her.
“You don't have a job.”
“I freelance.”
“How much did you make last month?”
She whispered, “Seven hundred.”
I closed my eyes.
Grandpa said nothing.
Ava started crying quietly.
Not dramatically.
Real tears.
“I know how it sounds.”
“It sounds impossible,” I said.
She nodded.
“Mom said I needed to look successful before people would treat me like I was successful.”
I thought of the SUV photographs.
New whip.
Hard work pays off.
Suddenly I understood the strategy.
Look wealthy.
Look established.
Spend first.
Earn later.
Mom had encouraged the entire illusion.
“Did Mom tell you to say the SUV was yours?”
Ava wiped her eyes.
“She said you'd eventually let me keep using it.”
My chest tightened.
“Eventually?”
“She said you didn't really need something that nice.”
Of course.
I looked toward Grandpa's shelves.
For years, I had thought Mom's favoritism was emotional.
A habit.
A blind spot.
Tonight made me wonder whether she had actually built a financial system around it.
Grandpa closed the laptop.
“You're staying here tonight, Ava.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“You're not going back to Prescott Lane.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't yet know what your mother has attached your name to either.”
Ava went pale.
“I didn't sign anything.”
“Neither did Amelia.”
That stopped her.
Grandpa called his attorney.
It was after nine, but apparently wealthy retired businessmen had lawyers who answered after nine.
He explained enough to arrange a meeting the next morning.
Then he insisted I freeze my credit.
We sat together while I contacted all three bureaus.
Ava did the same.
At ten thirty, she finally whispered, “Amelia?”
I looked at her.
“I'm sorry about the SUV.”
I waited.
She swallowed.
“I really am.”
It wasn't enough.
But it was the first apology I could remember receiving from her that wasn't followed by but.
No excuse.
No explanation.
Just sorry.
“I need time,” I said.
She nodded.
Grandpa gave me the guest room beside the study.
Ava slept upstairs.
I barely slept.
At six fifteen, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then a text appeared.
ARE YOU AMELIA CARTER?
Another message came immediately.
MY NAME IS DIANE. I WORK WITH YOUR MOTHER.
I sat up.
A photograph followed.
It showed Mom seated across from a man at a café.
Between them was a folder.
On the folder, written in black marker, was my full name.
AMELIA CARTER — FINANCIALS.
Then Diane sent one final message.
YOUR MOTHER ISN'T DOING THIS JUST FOR AVA.
I stared at the screen.
A knock came at my door.
Before I could answer, Grandpa entered.
He was holding a printed property record.
He placed it in front of me.
Owner:
PRESCOTT HOLDINGS LLC.
Registered manager:
Margaret Carter.
Grandpa looked at my phone.
Then at the property record.
And suddenly the townhouse had nothing to do with Logan.
Grandpa pointed to one line near the bottom.
“Amelia,” he said, “your mother bought that property six months ago.”
I looked closer.
The financing source was listed beneath it.
May you like
And next to the loan guarantee was a name I knew.
Mine.
