Chapter 2 - The Sycamore Account
The document was an Experian credit disclosure statement, stamped by Wes’s accounting firm with red verification flags along the right margin.
Tate’s eyes dropped to the paper. His posture didn't just stiffen; it froze completely. The belligerent flush in his neck drained into a sickly, chalky gray. Beside him, Jolene suddenly stopped breathing. Her knuckles turned white around the strap of her bag.
"What is that?" Dad asked, leaning forward for the first time.
"Read it, Dad," I said.
My father reached across the table, took the paper, and pulled his reading glasses down from the crown of his head. He squinted at the lines.
"LendingClub," Dad read aloud, his voice rough. "Personal signature loan. Twenty-two thousand, five hundred dollars. Opened October fourteenth of last year." He stopped, frowned, and looked up at me. "Oliver, why did you take out a personal loan for twenty-two thousand dollars?"
"I didn't," I said.
Silence dropped over the living room like an iron weight. Outside, the neighbor’s lawnmower droned faintly in the heat of a Carolina afternoon, but inside, you could hear the tick of the mantle clock above the hearth.
"I found it on Tuesday," I explained, looking straight at Tate. "After Tate sent that message in the family chat calling me a pathetic father for walking out of the park. Wes and I pulled my full bureau files because my credit score dropped forty points without explanation. Ally Financial reported a missed payment on the truck, yes—but there was another inquiry. A funded signature loan. Taken out in my name. Using my Social Security number. My birth date."
Dad's brow furrowed deeper. "If it's your name, how did it... where did the money go?"
"The disbursement went into a digital checking account with Green Dot Bank," I said. "An account opened online. And the mailing address associated with that account wasn't my house in Huntersville. It was 1142 Sycamore Road, Apartment 4B."
Dad froze. He turned his head very slowly toward Tate.
Tate didn't speak. He stared at the carpet, his jaw locked tight, a muscle jumping violently under his ear.
"Tate?" Dad’s voice lost its gravel. It went thin, hollow. "Tate, that’s your address."
"It's a mistake," Jolene whispered. Her voice cracked down the middle. "Mr. Vance, it's some kind of clerical error. Identity theft is everywhere now—"
"Shut up, Jolene," I said. Not loudly. Just cold enough that her mouth snapped shut.
"Don't talk to my wife like that!" Tate snapped, but there was no power left in it. The fire had turned into panic.
"I spoke with the fraud division at LendingClub on Thursday morning," I said, turning a page. "They provided the digital IP address used to complete the application. The application was submitted from a mobile phone operating on a Spectrum residential Wi-Fi network registered to Tate Vance. The confirmation phone number listed on the profile belongs to you, Tate. And the bank account it paid out to? It paid off your back rent on Sycamore, cleared four months of credit card debt in Jolene’s name, and bought you a pair of four-wheelers you’ve been bragging about on Facebook."
Mom had stopped reaching for the papers. She stood motionless beside the dining chair, her face drained of color, her apron strings hanging loose at her side.
"Tate..." Mom breathed, her hand going to her throat. "Tell your brother that's not true. Tell him."
May you like
Tate didn't answer. He couldn't.
"You forged my signature on an electronic promissory note," I said, leaning over the table until I was three feet from his face. "You committed felony identity theft and bank fraud against your own brother. And then you stood in front of thirty people, stole my six-year-old boy’s birthday, and had the audacity to call me petty when I took my family home."
