Chapter 7: The Apartment I Never Rented
“Dad, I have never applied for an apartment.””
My voice sounded strangely small in the dining room.
The email remained open on his laptop, my full name displayed beneath the logo of Northstar Property Group. Below it, the message explained that the company had received a cashier's check for the security deposit on an apartment leased under my name.
The lease had been approved.
The move-in date was less than two weeks away.
And according to their records, I was responsible for a remaining balance of $1,800.
I read the email again, hoping the words would somehow rearrange themselves into something less terrible.
They didn't.
Brielle stood behind my chair, one hand pressed against her mouth.
“Mom said she was getting an apartment for us,” she whispered.
“She never said Maya's name would be on it.””
My father scrolled farther down.
The email included a reference number, an apartment address, and a request for additional payment before the keys could be released.
At the bottom was a copy of the application.
My name.
My date of birth.
My current address.
And a signature that looked almost like mine.
Almost.
“That's not my signature,” I said.
Dad enlarged the document.
The signature began with a tall M, followed by the same sweeping curve I sometimes used when signing school forms. But the final letters were wrong, and the pen strokes were too deliberate.
Someone had copied my name.
Someone who had seen my handwriting enough times to imitate it.
I thought of the financial aid forms I'd left on my desk. The birthday cards I'd signed. The envelopes I'd addressed at the kitchen counter.
Then I remembered Vanessa standing in my bedroom doorway two weeks earlier, holding a stack of papers.
She'd claimed she was looking for an old household bill.
At the time, I'd thought nothing of it.
Now my stomach twisted.
“She could have copied my signature from something in my room,” I whispered.
Dad closed the laptop halfway.
“Maya, listen to me. We don't know exactly how this happened yet. But we're going to find out.””
“How can somebody rent an apartment using my information without me knowing?””
“We'll ask the property manager what documents were submitted.””
He picked up his phone and called the number listed in the email.
A woman answered after several rings.
“Northstar Property Group. This is Allison speaking.””
“My name is Daniel Bennett. I'm calling about an apartment application submitted under my daughter's name, Maya Bennett.””
“Of course. I can transfer you to our leasing department.””
“No, please. Before you transfer me, I need you to understand that my daughter did not submit this application.””
There was a pause.
“I'm sorry?””
“She has never applied for your property. She has never signed a lease with your company. We believe someone used her personal information without her permission.””
The woman's tone changed immediately.
“I see. Sir, I'll need to verify a few details before discussing the account.””
Dad provided the reference number and answered her security questions using information that was already included in the email.
After several minutes, Allison returned.
“Mr. Bennett, the application was submitted online approximately three weeks ago. The applicant uploaded identification and supporting documentation.””
“Whose identification?””
“The application lists Maya Bennett.””
“That's my daughter's name. I'm asking whose identification was uploaded.””
“I can't disclose the full document over the phone.””
“Then tell me whether it matches the name on the lease.””
“It does.””
“Was the application signed electronically?””
“Yes.””
“Can you tell me the email address used?””
Allison hesitated.
“I can confirm the address on file ends with the domain of a major email provider. I can't disclose it without authorization from the applicant.””
Dad took a slow breath.
“Then please place the application under review. We believe this may involve identity theft.””
“I can flag the account for suspected fraud. The leasing manager will contact you regarding the documentation process.””
“Thank you. And please do not release the keys or process any additional payment until the review is complete.””
“I'll add that request to the file.””
When Dad ended the call, he looked exhausted.
“She's flagging it for review.””
“Does that mean I'm safe?””
“It means they know there's a dispute. We'll need to follow up in writing and provide whatever documentation is required.””
Brielle pulled out a chair.
“Dad, the apartment is the one Mom showed me online.””
He looked at her.
“You've seen the listing?””
“Yes. She sent me pictures last month. She said it had two bedrooms, a balcony, and enough room for both of us.””
I stared at her.
“Why would she rent a two-bedroom apartment under my name?””
Brielle shook her head.
“I don't know.””
But her voice lacked conviction.
I turned toward her.
“Brielle, if you know something, please tell us.””
She rubbed her forehead.
“Mom said she wanted a fresh start. She said she couldn't keep living here while Dad spent so much money on you.””
My father closed his eyes.
“Did she tell you how she intended to pay for it?””
“She said she'd saved enough for the deposit and the first few months.””
“From her personal account?””
“I think so.””
I looked at the receipt on the table.
“Twelve hundred dollars.””
Brielle nodded.
“She told me the apartment would be ready before the end of the month.””
My father stood and walked to the window.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he turned.
“Brielle, did your mother ever ask you to help her get Maya's personal information?””
Brielle went pale.
I felt my heart stop.
“What?”” I whispered.
Brielle looked at the floor.
“Not directly.””
“Brielle.””
“She asked me if I knew where Maya kept her Social Security card.””
I stood so abruptly that my chair scraped backward.
“She asked you what?””
Brielle began to cry.
“About a month ago. She said she was organizing household documents and wanted to make sure everything was in order.””
“And what did you tell her?””
“I said I didn't know.””
“Did you look for it?””
“No! I swear, Maya, I didn't.””
I stared at her.
She looked terrified, but I couldn't tell whether it was fear of what Vanessa had done or fear that we'd discover she'd helped.
Dad returned to the table.
“Brielle, I need you to think carefully. Did your mother ever ask you to bring anything from Maya's room?””
She wiped her cheeks.
“Once, she asked me to bring down a folder from the desk.””
“What folder?””
“I don't know. It was blue.””
My breath caught.
My college folder was blue.
“Did you open it?””
“No. I brought it to her, and she said thank you.””
“When was this?””
“About three weeks ago.””
The date matched the apartment application.
I gripped the back of my chair.
“That's where I kept my financial aid documents.””
Dad looked at the papers spread across the table.
The college statement Vanessa had produced.
The cashier's check receipt.
The apartment application.
My name appearing on documents I'd never signed.
Everything was connected.
But we still needed proof of exactly what had happened.
Dad took out his phone and photographed the receipt, the email, and the application. He saved copies in a folder and forwarded them to his personal email account.
Then he called his bank to ask about the unfamiliar transfers.
The bank representative confirmed that the twelve-hundred-dollar withdrawal had been made from Vanessa's individual account, while the four-thousand-dollar transfer had moved from their joint savings into another account under her name.
The bank couldn't tell him why she'd made the transfers.
But the transaction records were clear.
The missing-cash accusation didn't match the available evidence.
Dad thanked the representative and ended the call.
“I want everything documented before we confront her again,” he said.
I nodded.
For the first time since the argument began, I understood why he kept insisting on records.
Vanessa could deny a conversation.
She could twist a sentence.
She could tell everyone I was emotional, jealous, or ungrateful.
But a dated bank statement was harder to explain away.
My phone buzzed.
An unfamiliar number appeared on the screen.
I almost ignored it.
Then a message arrived.
This is Vanessa. We need to talk privately. Don't tell Daniel.
I stared at it.
Brielle noticed my expression.
“What is it?””
I showed her the message.
Dad held out his hand.
“Let me see.””
He read it, then shook his head.
“Don't respond yet.””
Another message arrived.
I know you're angry, Maya. But you don't understand what you've done.
My hands went cold.
A third message followed.
If you want your father to stay married, you'll tell him the apartment application was yours.
I looked up at Dad.
He read the message twice.
Then he placed my phone on the table.
“She's asking you to take responsibility for something you say you didn't do.””
“Yes.””
“Do you have any idea why she'd believe you would agree?””
I thought of every time Vanessa had made me apologize for an argument I'd never started.
Every time she'd said I was destroying the family by refusing to be quiet.
Every time I'd swallowed my anger because I was afraid Dad would eventually grow tired of choosing between us.
“She thinks I'll be afraid of losing you,” I whispered.
My father pulled out the chair beside me.
“Maya, I need you to hear something. My marriage is not your responsibility. You do not have to accept blame for someone else's decisions to keep this family together.””
My eyes filled.
He squeezed my hand.
“And nobody gets to threaten you into signing away your future.””
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then my phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn't a message.
It was a photograph.
Vanessa had sent me a picture of a handwritten note.
The note was dated three weeks earlier.
At the top, she'd written my name.
Beneath it was a sentence that made my blood run cold.
*Maya agreed to take the apartment and repay the deposit herself.*
At the bottom was a signature.
My signature.
Or an imitation of it.
Dad stared at the screen.
“She's creating a paper trail,” he said quietly.
I zoomed in on the image.
There was something written in the lower corner, partly hidden by Vanessa's thumb.
A reference number.
The same reference number printed on the apartment application.
Dad took my phone and enlarged the image.
Then he looked at the date.
Three weeks earlier.
The day Brielle had brought Vanessa the blue folder from my bedroom.
He looked at me.
“Maya, this isn't just about the vacation anymore.””
I swallowed.
“What do we do?””
He placed my phone on the table.
“We find out who submitted that application, what documents they used, and whether anyone else has been given your information.””
Then he looked toward the front door.
“And when Vanessa comes back, she is going to explain why your name is on a lease you never signed.””
As if the house had been waiting for those words, headlights swept across the living room wall.
A car pulled into the driveway.
The engine stopped.
Brielle stood.
“That's Mom's car.””
Dad moved toward the window.
Vanessa stepped out carrying her purse and a thick manila envelope.
She looked up at the house.
Then she smiled.
Not the patient smile she used when she wanted to end an argument.
A different smile.
A confident one.
She walked to the front door and knocked twice.
Dad opened it.
Vanessa held out the envelope.
“Before you accuse me of anything else,” she said, “you should read what Maya signed.””
May you like
And when she pulled the document from the envelope, I saw the words printed across the top.
*AGREEMENT TO ASSUME FINANCIAL RESPONSIBILITY.*
