Marco stared at the bank manager’s monitor as though the numbers might change if he refused to blink.
“That’s Daria’s old phone number,” he said.
Daria’s hand tightened around the blue folder she had brought into the branch.
Until that moment, she had looked completely in control.
Her blazer was pressed, her hair was perfect, and her expression carried the confidence of someone who believed preparation and volume could turn a lie into the truth.
Now one corner of her mouth twitched.
“Lots of people had access to that phone,” she said.
“No, they didn’t,” Marco replied.
She shot him a warning look.
The fraud manager, Mr.
Patel, remained calm.
He had already heard Daria call the transfers rent, household contributions, and repayment for expenses.
He had listened without interrupting while she described me as an irresponsible relative who had accepted their generosity and then emptied an account out of spite.
Then he had opened the authorization report.
Each of the eleven transfers had been approved using the same phone number, the same mobile device identification, and the same internet connection registered at Marco and Daria’s house.
Mr.
Patel turned another page toward them.
“The approvals occurred between 2:07 and 2:41 in the morning,” he said.
“According to the documents your sister provided, she was logged into her employer’s secured system during several of those periods.
Her employer’s records place her work device on a different network.”
Daria looked at me.
“You could have used my phone before work.”
“I didn’t know the transfers existed,” I said.
“That’s convenient.”
“The bank sent confirmation messages after every authorization,” Mr.
Patel added.
“Those messages were delivered to your number.”
Daria’s face hardened.
“She lived with us.
She could have seen them.”
“On a phone protected by your fingerprint?” Marco asked.
The room went silent.
Daria turned toward him so slowly that the movement felt like a threat.
“Whose side are you on?”
Marco looked down at the document she had placed on the desk—the supposed rental agreement carrying my name and an imitation of my signature.
“I’m trying to understand what happened.”
“What happened is that your sister lived in our house for almost a year and now wants every dollar back.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Mr.
Patel lifted the agreement by one corner.
“You stated that this document was signed before the first transfer.”
“It was.”
“Where was it signed?”
“At our dining room table.”
“Who was present?”
“Marco.”
My brother’s head snapped up.
Daria continued before he could speak.
“He may not remember.
It was months ago.”
Mr.
Patel looked at Marco.
“Do you remember witnessing your sister sign this agreement?”
Marco swallowed.
“No.”
“You were there,” Daria said.
“I said I don’t remember it.”
“Then think harder.”
The contempt in her voice made him flinch.
I had seen that reaction before without understanding it.
At family dinners, Daria corrected Marco’s stories, spoke over his answers, and rolled her eyes when he questioned a decision.
I had assumed they had a tense marriage.
Sitting in the bank office, I realized he had learned to survive by agreeing quickly.
That habit had helped her steal from me.
Mr.
Patel placed the document flat on his desk.
“We will need to retain this while the investigation continues.”
Daria reached for it.
