“Not recently?”
I shook my head. “No. Why?”
He pulled another stack of papers from the folder and handed them to me.
“Because according to this, your credit is not what you think it is.”
I looked down.
TransUnion official letterhead. My score sat at the top.
For a second, I thought I was reading someone else’s report.
“That’s not possible,” I said automatically. “I don’t have any debt except student loans. I’ve never missed a payment.”
“Turn the page.”
I did.
Business loan: $87,000, opened April 2022.
Next page: credit card, $42,000 limit, maxed out.
Another page: personal loan, $95,000.
More pages. More accounts. None of them mine.
The total at the bottom hit like a physical blow.
$340,000.
My hands went cold.
“How?”
The word barely came out.
Peterson didn’t look at me. He looked at my parents.
“All applications were filed under Kathy McCoy’s name, social security number, and forged signature. The listed addresses do not match any residence she has ever occupied.”
He laid out bank statements in a row across the table.
“Here is where the money went, one by one.”
A $180,000 transfer to George and Sandra McCoy’s mortgage account, preventing foreclosure.
I looked at my parents. My father’s jaw was locked so tight it looked painful. My mother had both hands over her mouth now.
“$95,000 transferred to Marcus Thompson, listed as business investment.”
Marcus stared at the floor.
“$65,000 used to cover medical expenses for Sandra McCoy.”
I felt something break loose inside my chest, but it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Clean.
“You bankrupted me,” I said.
My mother reached toward me. “Kathy, sweetheart, we were desperate—”
“Don’t.”
I stepped back.
“Don’t call me that.”
The word sweetheart sounded wrong now, like it belonged to a version of reality that no longer existed.
Grandma moved forward then, pulling a folded document from her purse, blue-backed, legal size. Her movements were slower now, but there was nothing uncertain about them.
“This is my will,” she said. “Revised and executed last Thursday.”
My father’s head snapped up. “Mom, what are you—”
“You are removed,” she said, cutting him off.
“All of you.”
Silence.
“My estate,” she continued, “liquid assets, property, investments, everything, is transferred solely to Kathy.”
My mother made a sound then. Not quite a sob, not quite a word.
“Mom, please,” she whispered. “We’re your family.”
Grandma looked at her.
“You were my family. You stopped being family when you committed felonies against your own daughter.”
She handed the document to Peterson. He placed it back into his briefcase without comment.
My mother sank into a chair, shoulders shaking. My father didn’t move at all. He just stood there staring at nothing.
I checked the time on my phone without thinking. 12:47 a.m.
Marcus shifted slightly toward the hallway. Small movement, but I saw it. Peterson did too.
“Are they here?” he asked quietly.
The front door opened.
Two uniformed officers stepped inside.
The air changed again. This time there was no confusion about what was happening.
“You Marcus Thompson?” the taller officer said, checking his notepad.
Marcus froze. Then, quietly: “Yes.”
