And because my name was on the dotted line because my identity had been weaponized, I was standing squarely in the blast radius. I reached for the trackpad ready to export the documents to a secure server to prepare my own legal defense. I needed to generate the exact IP logs showing the loan was originated from this very laptop.
I needed absolute irrefutable proof that I was the victim, not the perpetrator, before Warren Jefferson’s auditors caught the discrepancy. But before my finger could press the key, the heavy brass door knob turned with a sharp click. I had not locked the door. The thick mahogany panel swung wide open, casting a long dark shadow across the Persian rug.
I snapped my head up, my hand, freezing over the keyboard. Standing in the doorway, holding a crystal glass of bourbon, was Terrence. His dark eyes immediately bypassed me and locked directly onto the brightly lit computer screen, taking in the unmistakable federal financial documents, the loan amount, and the bold letters of his own family’s corporate logo.
