Chapter 3 - TYLER HAD MY ID
I had never met Tyler Grant.
Yet Tyler had a photograph of my driver’s license.
That fact turned Sunday dinner into something else entirely.
“How?”
I asked Ava.
She wiped her cheeks.
“I don’t know.”
Grandpa stared at her.
“That is not an answer.”
“I sent him some paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“The insurance card.”
“And?”
“The registration.”
“And?”
Ava looked toward Mom.
Mom looked confused now.
Not guilty.
Different.
I understood before Ava admitted it.
“You photographed my wallet.”
Silence.
“Ava.”
“I needed your insurance information.”
“My driver’s license was inside.”
“I didn’t think—”
“No.”
I interrupted.
“You did think.”
She looked at me.
“You just thought I wouldn’t do anything.”
Her face collapsed.
That was the truth.
She had taken my wallet while I was showering.
Photographed my license.
Registration.
Insurance card.
Then sent everything to Tyler because he said he could “research options.”
Grandpa asked:
“What options?”
Ava did not know.
That frightened me more than if she had.
Tyler handled the loan application.
Tyler contacted the dealership.
Tyler filled in business projections.
Tyler told Ava they could use the SUV as “temporary business leverage.”
Temporary.
My least favorite financial word.
Grandpa called his attorney from the study.
At seven-thirty on Sunday night.
The man answered.
Apparently Grandpa inspired that level of availability.
His name was Harold Pierce.
He advised us not to contact Tyler yet.
Preserve messages.
Freeze any credit activity connected to my identity.
Notify the dealership and lender in writing that I had not authorized any transfer, lien, or guarantee.
I did everything before dessert.
Mom kept saying:
“This is getting out of hand.”
Grandpa finally turned to her.
“No, Linda.”
“It got out of hand when you took a legally owned birthday gift away from the owner.”
She became quiet.
Then he added:
“The rest is simply documentation.”
I liked that sentence.
On Monday morning, I drove my SUV to work.
For the first time in two weeks.
It felt ridiculous how emotional I became adjusting the seat back to my height.
Ava was five inches shorter.
The mirrors were wrong.
Radio presets changed.
A pink lip gloss rolled out from under the passenger seat.
Fast-food receipts.
A parking stub.
I almost threw everything away.
Then I saw the parking stub.
Blackstone Commerce Center.
Date:
Three days earlier.
I knew that name.
The building housed several financial firms.
Including the credit union that had considered the business loan.
But the timestamp was 4:18 p.m.
The tracker showed Ava left at 6:03.
Nearly two hours.
I called Harold.
He told me to keep the receipt.
Then, at lunchtime, my credit-monitoring alert triggered.
A hard inquiry.
Not from the business lender.
From First Carolina Auto Finance.
I froze.
Application date:
Friday.
Applicant:
Amelia Grace Mitchell.
Requested loan:
$38,500.
Purpose:
Vehicle refinance.
My SUV was fully paid for.
Grandpa had bought it outright.
Someone was attempting to refinance a vehicle with no loan.
In my name.
I called the finance company.
Fraud department.
After identity verification, they froze the application.
Then the agent asked:
“Did you authorize a co-applicant?”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“Tyler Grant.”
Of course.
The application claimed Tyler and I lived at the same address.
We did not.
It listed my income incorrectly.
It listed his business income at nearly $11,000 per month.
False.
Then came the worst part.
The lender already had a title image.
A modified one.
My name.
Tyler’s address.
And a lien section showing a lender that did not exist.
Someone was manufacturing documentation around my vehicle.
The agent asked:
“Do you know this person?”
“No.”
Not really.
That evening, Ava came into my room without knocking.
Old habit.
Then stopped.
“Can I come in?”
Small improvement.
“Yes.”
She closed the door.
“I think Tyler lied to me.”
I almost laughed.
“What gave it away?”
She ignored the sarcasm.
“He said the loan was for twenty-five thousand.”
“It wasn’t.”
Her face went pale.
“You know?”
“Thirty-eight five.”
She sat down.
“Oh my God.”
“What did you think the money would be used for?”
“Marketing.”
“Define marketing.”
“Video equipment.”
“Ads.”
“Office space.”
“Did you see a budget?”
“No.”
“Bank statement?”
“No.”
“Business plan?”
“He made one.”
“Did you read it?”
Silence.
No.
She had trusted him because he made her feel like an entrepreneur.
The same way Mom made her feel entitled.
Different flavor.
Same vulnerability.
Then Ava whispered:
“He told me you were going to become an investor.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He said once the business started growing, Mom would convince you.”
There it was.
Again.
My future consent treated like a predictable asset.
“I never agreed to invest.”
“I know.”
“Did Mom?”
Ava hesitated.
“She said you’d come around.”
Of course.
Then she handed me her phone.
Messages with Tyler.
One stopped me.
TYLER:
Once the car is refinanced, we can pull enough equity to cover the old balance too.
Ava:
What old balance?
Tyler:
Don’t worry about it.
I looked at her.
“What old balance?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Harold Pierce found out the next day.
Grant Media Ventures had an existing debt.
$61,000.
But the debt was not in Tyler’s name.
It was guaranteed by someone else.
May you like
Linda Mitchell.
My mother.
