I sat across from an officer who looked like he’d been working double shifts for a month. He had tired eyes and a calm face, the expression of someone who’d seen too many versions of human stupidity to be surprised anymore.
He slid my printed report back toward me. “So you’re saying you didn’t sign for this mortgage at all.”
“I’m saying I didn’t buy a house,” I replied. “I’m saying someone used my Social Security number and forged my signature. I’m saying my sister’s email is on the account.”
He nodded slowly, like he was building the case in his head. “And you suspect your sister.”
I took a breath. Saying it out loud made it heavier. “Yes.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Do you have the documents from the bank?”
“Not yet. They’re emailing them,” I said. “But I have the delinquency notice and the account number. And I have the property address.”
I handed over the papers. He looked them over carefully, the way people do when they’re searching for the first crack in a story.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “a lot of folks come in here with family stuff and they change their minds later.”
My jaw tightened. “I’m not changing my mind.”