Chloe finally stopped scrolling. She looked up, her expression shifting from bored indifference to mild irritation. “Sloan, stop being so dramatic. It’s just a credit line. I’m paying the balance down as soon as my quarterly client retainer clears next month.”
“There is no credit line, Chloe,” I said. “The bank just froze the account.”
A heavy silence fell over the small waiting area. The soft hum of the air conditioner and the quiet clatter of the tellers behind the counter suddenly seemed amplified.
“What do you mean, froze it?” Richard asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing its breezy authority. “David has known our family for fifteen years. He knows how we operate.”
“David operates under federal banking regulations,” I replied. “And right now, those regulations classify that application as identity theft and bank fraud.”
Beatrice’s hand dropped to her side. The color began to drain from her cheeks, leaving her blush looking stark and unnatural against her pale skin. “Sloan, you need to turn right back around and tell him it was a simple misunderstanding. Tell him I had your power of attorney.”
“I never gave you power of attorney, Mom.”
“You gave it to me implicitly!” she snapped, her voice rising just enough to draw the attention of a teller behind the main desk. She caught herself, quickly lowering her volume, but her eyes were wide now, glittering with a sudden, sharp desperation. “When you were in college, when you bought your first car, when you had your surgery—I handled your paperwork! I have always managed these details for you!”
“I was twenty years old then,” I said. “I am thirty-two now. I own my house. I run my own business. And I never authorized you to take out a six-figure debt in my name to fund Chloe’s luxury boutique.”
I looked down at the handbag sitting on the table beside Chloe. The designer logo caught the bright fluorescent light of the lobby. It was brand new. The coat she was wearing still had the crisp, uncreased look of an item purchased off the rack within the last twenty-four hours.
“How much of that balance has already been spent?” I asked.
Chloe looked away, suddenly fascinated by the tile floor.
“How much, Chloe?”
“Just the setup costs,” Chloe muttered, her tone defensive. “Marketing. Client outreach materials. A few wardrobe essentials for meetings. You know image matters in my industry.”
“Twenty-eight thousand dollars,” David’s voice cut through the air.
We all turned. David Sterling stood in the doorway of his office, a thick Manila folder in his hands. He was no longer looking at us like a family friend or a neighborhood banker. His expression was cold, clinical, and completely professional.
“Mr. Sterling,” Richard began, stepping forward with his hand extended in an attempt to project authority. “David, let’s step back into your office and clear this up. This is an internal family matter—”
“It stopped being an internal family matter the moment a fraudulent signature was transmitted across state banking networks, Mr. Vance,” David said, ignoring my father’s outstretched hand. He held up a printed sheet from the file. “This application was processed digitally, but because the limit exceeded fifty thousand dollars, it flagged our internal compliance department for human verification. That is why I called Sloan in this morning.”
David looked at my mother. “Mrs. Vance, the IP address used to submit this application traces back to your home router. The contact number matches your mobile line. The driver’s license photo uploaded was a cropped scan from an old passport renewal document. And the signature matches the signature on your personal checking account here at this branch.”
Beatrice swallowed hard. “David, please. Sloan is my daughter. She wouldn’t want to pursue anything formal over a simple family misunderstanding.”
