My Furtive Roommate
by Marc Watson
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
I finally reached the register after what felt like an eternity. It didn’t help that the cashier had been competing to be the world’s slowest cashier. She was nice enough, though. She gets done scanning all of my items and tells me the total. I pull out my card and swipe it on the machine. The cashier makes a weird face, and the printer spits out an abnormally small receipt. She hands it to me. The cashier says, “Sorry, honey. You have insufficient funds.” That can’t be right. I don’t make financial mistakes. Ever.
I looked down at the card to verify that I’m using the right one. It is, in fact, the right one. Maybe there is an error in the internet connection. “Can we try it again?” I asked the cashier. “No problem, sweetie,” the cashier says. She runs it again with the same outcome. I have to admit, I’m freaking out a bit here. I will have to call the bank after this and see what happens. Luckily enough, I always carry a backup form of payment so I can get these groceries.
The second card works without any issues. I feel an immense sigh of relief. I would have been mortified if that one had failed as well. This gives me hope that there is only a minor issue with my card. My bank has put a hold on transactions before due to fraud detection. I have triggered that more than once for ordering impossible-to-find books from other countries. I bet you that is what it is. What have I ordered recently, though?
I load up my car and prepare to drive home, but I can’t focus at all. I need to call the bank now, or I will be distracted by my worrying while driving. I am fairly certain that after I handle this call, I will feel pretty done with running errands for the day. Home is guaranteed to feel immensely better and more welcoming after something like this. It is better not to take the hard part home. So, I take a deep breath and dial. I hate calls like this. I wish I could just do the whole thing through an app or something. I am already stressed as it is.
The phone rings, and I wait for my anxiety to spike when someone inevitably answers. They answered pretty quickly, which caught me off guard. “Uhm. Hello. I, uh, have a problem with my, uh, card?” I swear I sound like a little girl who isn’t supposed to use the phone yet. Honestly, I think I always sound like that if I am honest with myself. The banking employee replies, “Not a problem. I see you are calling from a previously verified phone number. If you could just verify your date of birth, Abbey.” What?
I take a second to question if I had just heard her wrong. “Excuse me, but did you just say Abbey?” The employee quickly responds. “With whom am I speaking? Please verify your name and date of birth. Account access is granted only on this account to the account holder.” What is going on? “My name is Ainsley, and I am the account holder! Why is my roommate’s name on my account?” I am seriously going into a panic attack.
The other end of the phone responds. “I am sorry, Ms. Ainsley, but I am not authorized to give out any information regarding a client’s account to unauthorized users.” I am freaking out. I immediately ask, “Can you check if there have been any recent changes to my account? What about my social security number? Surely you have that on file. Can you look me up with that?” I provided my Social Security number, and there was a pause on the other end of the line.
The silence lasted for an eternity. “Hmm. Ms. Ainsley, while I cannot discuss the account at this time, I have sent a report over to our fraud department. After an investigation is concluded, we will send a notice with the findings and actions. Is there anything else I can assist you with today?” Apparently, they won’t be able to help me at all. If I am not permitted to even access my own account, what else could they possibly help me with?
I reluctantly answer, “I guess not.” The woman finishes the call by stating, “Well, thank you, Ms. Ainsley. I am sorry we couldn’t assist you further today. I hope you have a pleasant day.” Seriously? Have a pleasant day? I am seriously going to find a new bank after this. How is it even possible that Abbey could take over the rights to my account? Wait, what am I saying? Abbey did this? Did she really steal my bank account? Who am I living with?!
I pull out of the parking lot in a clouded fog of thought and hyperventilating, so much for ridding myself of the distraction before driving. When I do end up getting home, I will just want to pull the covers over my head and disappear for a while. I don’t handle stress very well, especially the stress of this magnitude. Hence why I work at the library in the evening hours; getting lost in a book sounds divine right about now.
I parked the car and loaded up my arms with groceries. I managed to overload them enough that I will only need to take this one trip from the car. I stumbled and fumbled my way up the stairs to my second-floor apartment. I started to panic as I realized I didn’t know what I would do if Abbey were home. While I know it is entirely unlikely that I will run into her, I don’t think I could handle that level of confrontation at the moment.
I reached the front door, and there was an envelope with a Post-it note attached to it. Of course, I have no hands to grab it until I set down the groceries. So, I struggled to get the key in the lock and open the door. I set all the groceries on the counter and grabbed the envelope and note. I closed the door and read the note. It is from the property manager.
The note states I was already paid up on rent, and no further payment is required. They were going to ask me if I wanted them to cash the check for an additional month of rent. However, they noticed the signature did not match the account holder, so they were returning it to me. What? What do they mean that it doesn’t match? I have never had an issue before.
I opened the envelope and checked my signature. It looked the same as always. What was the issue then? I don’t see the problem. I scanned over the check for a moment and then realized the problem in its entirety. In the upper left-hand corner of the check, right above my address, the name Abbey sat there, menacingly inscribed on the paper. How long ago did she commandeer my bank account?
I defaulted to my breathing exercises to ensure I won’t lose myself in a state of emotional mindedness. I turned my focus to putting up the groceries. Even if it was a minor accomplishment I completed today, it was at least something positive. Once every last item was put up, I stared back at the counter with the returned check staring back at me. It was at this point that I noticed a stack of envelopes where Abbey and I had left notes for one another. On top was one of those particular communicative notes.
I turned the stack toward me with the note on top facing so I could read it. The note states:
Don’t forget to set up a payment plan for the overdue medical bills, and don’t use the debit card. The account is going to become overdrawn if you do. We can get out of this. We are incredibly strong!
A heart symbolizing a signature followed, as always. What did she mean by “We can get out of this”? What did she do to get us into whatever this is? What medical bills is she talking about? Did she just admit to clearing out the bank account like it was nothing?
In big bold letters across the top envelope, I see the words “Final Notice.“ I started thumbing through all the pieces of mail. Most of it was for her, with a few that didn’t belong to either of us, but had our address. We get a lot of the previous tenants’ mail, although I don’t recognize a couple of names. I figure it is probably a case of a wrong address, like when people leave out an important part, like West Main Street versus Main Street.
I set those letters aside and sorted the pile. What I had found with Abbey’s name on it was one threatening notice after another. Delinquent account after delinquent account. She is seriously drowning in debt! Now, it is all starting to make sense. She must be getting extremely desperate. Maybe the account thing was a way to establish the payment plans?
I realize now that she is undeniably trying to get out of the hole she is in, but I am unclear as to how she is going about it. Why would she take over my account and pose as the authorized user? Why not just steal my debit card and make withdrawals? It isn’t like I have much in my account to begin with.
I am sure the bank will figure it out, and all of this will be resolved. In the meantime, I need to try to confront her. Thankfully, I love coffee. I will need to rely on it if I am going to stay up long enough to catch her. I picked up a stack of my books and began reading to pass the time. The books are all ones I have read before, except for the book I apparently had checked out without remembering. I read that one first.
A good detective story has always been a guilty pleasure of mine. I couldn’t remember where I left off, so I decided that, since I have the time, I may as well restart from the beginning. This ended up being a smart move because there was a lot I didn’t recall. I had remembered most of the general plot, but had totally forgotten some of the critical details. Maybe I was more alert this time around? I have for sure dove more deeply into this story this time than I had previously.
One of the things that really struck me was how the assailant kept eluding the detective. It was through continuous use of stolen identities that the perpetrator kept one step ahead. Switching from one identity to the next, I found it particularly fascinating. Even in a dystopian future, the same basic methods are used as in today’s world. It always involves picking a target, exploiting a vulnerability, and then slipping into the shoes of the victim in one form or another.
A criminal always leaves behind a trail that is nearly impossible to erase. The detective only has to find one slip-up or missed detail to keep the cat-and-mouse game alive. I suppose that is generally how all cases are solved these days. There is, however, something so captivating in the possibility that someone could outsmart the system and remain one step ahead or disappear entirely. Cunningness with intelligence almost overshadows any inherent evil to justify some twisted sense of validation.
The best part of the book so far is when the detective starts to realize that the assailant must be getting firsthand information about his life. He realizes that the only way the assailant could have gotten it was if he was, in fact, being watched. The detective soon discovers that one of his neighbors might actually be the one he is hunting. It is a scary thought to think that somebody could be living right under your nose who would be a hardened criminal. If the detective couldn’t see it, what hope is there for the rest of us?
My eyes grew wide, and I dropped the book. I hadn’t thought about this before. The bank account. The fact that I never see her. The mail with other names. Have I been living with an identity thief? Is Abbey a con artist? Have I been living with a criminal for months and not even known it? Should I really be waiting for her to arrive? Am I confident that she wouldn’t harm me? Perhaps I should contact the police. The world seems to spin from the thoughts of it all.
I rushed into my bedroom, locked the door, and fell to the ground. I sat back against the door with tears in my eyes and my face buried in my arms. What was I going to do? I was so eager to face her, and now I am terrified to even exist in our shared space. My breathing started to sound impossibly loud. Calm down, Ainsley, or she might hear you up against the door.
After a few breathing exercises I had learned on the internet years ago, I felt a little better. My heart was still racing, but at least I wasn’t hyperventilating anymore. The waiting grew agonizingly painful. I lost track of time. I don’t know if it had been minutes or hours. Every car door closing caused panic and slowed time. Eventually, enough time would pass that the fear dissipated enough to fuel the next freak-out. It had been beyond exhausting.
I awoke in my bed the next morning with a pounding headache. I felt like someone had punched me in the temples over and over again with a couple of bonus punches right between the eyes. It didn’t help that the walls and ceiling weren’t agreeing to sit still. After waiting for the vertigo to stop, I needed to make myself something to eat and drink. I, for sure, needed to get something to swallow some migraine medication right away.
After stepping into the kitchen, I looked into the fridge for breakfast inspiration. Abbey has so many leftovers in here that she does nothing with them except let them rot. Eventually, I will have to clean it all up for her. Abbey! The revelations of last night had hit me like a ton of bricks, and I suddenly felt very exposed. I rushed back into my room and quickly, but quietly, closed my door and locked it.
I realized at that moment that I should be going directly to the police at this point. I began to get dressed when I noticed I had clothes on the floor. I never throw my clothes on the floor. She had been in my room! I grabbed a shirt and jeans and quickly changed out of my pajamas and threw them on. It took me a second to realize it wasn’t even my shirt. It was hers.
The second realization hit a little harder when I discovered I had been in pajamas and woke up in bed. The last thing I recall was having been on the floor against the door. Did she put me to bed? What made her come into my room in the first place? How many times had she gone into my room without my knowing? Was that how she was stealing my information? Was she going through my stuff?
I hurriedly finished getting ready and flew out the door like the place was on fire. I pondered where I could run to for safety’s sake. In my heart, I knew it was time to involve the police, but I was scared to. There was no other option. I hated to do this, but so many boundaries had been crossed. I was terrified of how far Abbey might go. Throughout the entire ride to the police station, I cried. How could I have been living with someone like this and never seen the signs? How had Tim been so wrong about her character?
I sat in the parking lot of the police station for a good forty-five minutes. I don’t know why I was feeling so nervous, but it took a lot for me to work up the nerve, get out of the car, and walk through those doors. Maybe I was scared to face my reality. What if they thought I was crazy? They are supposed to be here to help me, though, right?
The woman working at the front desk was really nice. She immediately asked how she might help me and if I was in any trouble. I told her I wasn’t sure, and I did need help. She asked me what’s going on. I didn’t know how to answer that exactly. So, I just blurted out, “I think my roommate is trying to steal my identity.” She told me to sit on a nearby chair, and she would get an officer shortly to take my statement and write a report.
Copyright © 2025 by Marc Watson
