Chapter 4: The Name on the Account
The name on the registration record was Robert Miller.
My father's name.
For several seconds, I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. Dad stood beside the kitchen table, staring at his phone as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something less terrible.
“That can't be right,” I whispered.
Dad shook his head slowly.
“I didn't create this account.””
“Maybe someone used your email.””
“Maybe.””
But he didn't sound convinced.
The house was silent except for the refrigerator humming behind us. Upstairs, a floorboard creaked, followed by the soft click of a door.
Karen was awake.
I knew because her bedroom light had been on when I'd gone to the bathroom ten minutes earlier.
Dad lowered himself into a chair.
“The account was registered with an email address connected to my name,” he said.
“The messaging company hasn't confirmed who created it yet. Someone could have used my information.””
“Why would someone use your name to pretend to be me?””
“That is the question.””
He opened his email and searched for the address shown in the record. After a moment, he found something that made him sit straighter.
A password-reset notification.
It had arrived six weeks earlier.
The subject line read: Your account security information has been updated.
Dad opened it.
The email said that a recovery address had been changed on an account he rarely used. He'd apparently received another notification confirming the change, but he'd been working in Pennsylvania at the time and hadn't paid attention.
“I thought it was spam,” he muttered.
“Who had access to your email?””
“Karen sometimes uses the family computer to pay bills.””
My stomach tightened.
“Does she know your password?””
“She did. We shared it when we first got married.””
He closed his eyes briefly.
“That's not proof of anything, Hannah. We need to be careful.””
I appreciated that he was trying to be fair, but fairness felt different when the person under suspicion was the same person who had emptied my savings envelope.
“What happens if it was her?””
Dad looked at me.
“Then she'll have to explain why.””
A soft thud sounded upstairs.
Then another.
Someone was moving around in the hallway.
Dad stood.
“Stay here.””
He walked toward the staircase, but I followed him.
We found Karen in the upstairs hallway carrying a cardboard box. Several folders and envelopes were sticking out of the top.
She stopped when she saw us.
“What are you doing up?”” she asked.
Dad looked at the box.
“What's that?””
“Personal paperwork.””
“At ten forty-five at night?””
She shifted the box against her hip.
“Is there a law against organizing your things?””
“No. But I'd like to know why you're carrying it downstairs.””
“I'm not carrying it downstairs. I'm putting it in the garage.””
“Why?””
“Because I want to.””
Dad's expression hardened.
“Karen, put the box down.””
She laughed nervously.
“Robert, this is ridiculous.””
“Then it shouldn't be difficult to put it down.””
For a moment, neither moved.
Finally, Karen set the box on the hallway floor.
Dad crouched beside it but didn't open it.
“What's inside?””
“Bills. Old receipts. Nothing that concerns you.””
“Then you won't mind explaining why you're moving it tonight.””
Karen's face reddened.
“I can't believe you're treating me this way after everything I've done for this family.””
I recognized the tactic immediately. Whenever Karen was caught doing something questionable, she shifted the conversation toward how unfairly she was being treated.
Dad didn't fall for it.
“I'm asking you a simple question.””
“And I'm telling you that you have no right to interrogate me!””
Her voice echoed through the hallway.
Madison's bedroom door opened behind us.
“Mom? What's happening?””
Karen turned sharply.
“Go back to bed.””
Madison stepped into the hallway anyway.
She looked at the box, then at her mother.
“Why are you packing?””
“I'm not packing!””
“Then what's in the box?””
Karen grabbed it.
“Enough!””
She pushed past us and hurried down the stairs.
Dad followed her, and I stayed close behind him.
In the kitchen, Karen placed the box on the counter and opened it with exaggerated irritation.
“Look! Paperwork! Is everyone satisfied?””
There were utility bills, old insurance documents, a stack of receipts, and several envelopes addressed to my father.
Then I noticed a small white envelope wedged beneath a folder.
My name was written across it.
Hannah Miller.
I reached toward it.
Karen snatched it away.
“That's private.””
“It's addressed to me!””
“It's an old document.””
“Then let me see it.””
“No.””
Dad stepped between us.
“Karen, give Hannah the envelope.””
She clutched it against her chest.
“Robert, you cannot possibly believe everything she's saying.””
“I believe that envelope has her name on it.””
Karen looked from him to me.
Then she slowly placed it on the counter.
Inside was a printed document from a mobile phone provider. Most of the text concerned an account change, but one section caught my attention.
It listed a secondary contact number.
I recognized the last four digits.
They belonged to the prepaid phone Madison had received the previous Christmas.
Madison leaned over the counter.
“That's my old number.””
Karen's mouth opened.
Then she closed it.
Dad examined the document.
“Why is Madison's number listed as a recovery contact on an account connected to my name?””
Karen shook her head.
“I have no idea.””
Madison looked at her mother in disbelief.
“You set up that phone for me. You told me it was only for emergencies.””
“Madison, don't get involved.””
“But you used it to register something?””
“I said I don't know what you're talking about!””
Dad lifted the document.
“This account change happened in June. While I was still home.””
Karen turned toward him.
“Robert, please. You're making connections that may not exist.””
“Then help me understand them.””
She stared at him.
For the first time, she had no immediate answer.
Dad took a photograph of the document, then placed it back inside the envelope.
“We're going to verify everything tomorrow.””
Karen snatched the box from the counter.
“Fine. Verify whatever you want.””
She marched upstairs and slammed her bedroom door.
Madison remained beside the island, staring at the spot where the document had been.
“I didn't know,” she whispered.
I looked at her.
“Didn't know what?””
“That Mom was using my old phone number for anything.””
Dad put a hand on her shoulder.
“We're not blaming you, Madison.””
She swallowed.
“But what if she used it because she knew I wouldn't notice?””
Nobody answered.
Later, after Madison went to bed, Dad and I sat in the living room with the lights off. The streetlamp outside cast a pale rectangle across the carpet.
He handed me a glass of water.
“I should have protected you better.””
I shook my head.
“You didn't know.””
“I knew Karen could be controlling. I told myself it was just her personality. I thought if I worked hard enough, everyone would have what they needed.””
He rubbed his hands together.
“Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking whether everyone was being treated fairly.””
I leaned against his shoulder.
For a while, we said nothing.
Then Dad's phone vibrated.
An email had arrived from the messaging service.
The subject line read: Account Registration Information — Preliminary Response.
Dad opened it.
His eyes moved across the screen.
Then he sat upright.
“What is it?”” I asked.
He turned the phone toward me.
The service had identified the device used to create the account. It wasn't registered to my phone or Dad's laptop.
It was a tablet.
A tablet connected to our home Wi-Fi.
And the registration had taken place at 9:07 p.m. on the same night Karen claimed she'd gone to bed early.
Dad stared at the timestamp.
I remembered that night.
Karen had told us she was exhausted after working all day. She'd gone upstairs before eight, leaving Madison and me watching television downstairs.
But at nine, I'd gone into the kitchen for a snack.
The light under Karen's bedroom door had been on.
And I'd heard her speaking softly on the phone.
I hadn't thought anything of it.
Now Dad looked at me and asked, “Do you remember seeing anyone use a tablet that night?””
Before I could answer, Madison appeared at the living room entrance.
She was pale, holding something in her hand.
“Dad,” she whispered.
“I think I know where that tablet is.””
She opened her palm.
A small memory card lay across it.
“Mom told me to hide this in my room three weeks ago.””
Dad stood.
“Why?””
Madison's eyes filled with tears.
“She said if anyone ever asked about her old tablet, I should tell them it was broken and she'd thrown it away.””
She took a shaky breath.
“But I looked at it yesterday, Dad.””
“Where is it now?””
Madison glanced toward the staircase.
“It's in Mom's closet.””
May you like
Then she added something that made my blood run cold.
“There's a folder on it called *Hannah — Surgery*.””
