Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
She turned the monitor slightly toward me, pointing to a scanned authorization slip at the bottom of the screen.
The signature on the line was not my father’s, and it was certainly not mine.
It was Chad’s signature, written in his loose, looping handwriting that I had seen on dozens of unpaid high school report cards.
The wire transfer had cleared the remaining balance of my mortgage, but the leftover twenty-five thousand six hundred dollars had been routed to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.
“Can you certify this log?” I asked.
“I can print the verified transaction receipt and stamp it with our branch seal,” she said.
“Do it now,” I said.
She walked toward the heavy printer behind the teller line, leaving me alone in the glass cubicle.
I stared at the screen, looking at the exact path my home’s equity had taken.
My father had told me he paid off the loan to help me, but the bank records proved he had simply let Chad use Benson’s commercial account to route the stolen money to a gambling creditor.
