I trusted her too. Years earlier, she notarized a residency form for my mortgage refinance. Later, she helped me complete an insurance survey after a hailstorm. The form asked for extensive details—birth dates, our mortgage company, and the last four digits of my Social Security number. When I questioned it, she just smiled and said the insurer required it for "owner verification."
I signed it. That memory would come rushing back years later.
The illusion shattered the morning a mortgage officer named Lucas Grant from Commonwealth Union Bank called me.
"Mr. Harper, I’m calling because your home-equity application triggered an internal review," he said.
"What application?" I asked, confused. "I didn't submit anything."
A heavy pause hung on the line. "Mr. Harper, the application submitted Monday contains your Social Security number, driver’s license image, property details, and signature. It requests a loan of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars."
My hand tightened around the phone. "Where was the money supposed to go?"
"A business account," Lucas replied. "Avery Community Services."
I went to her house that very afternoon. Colleen stood defensively behind her screen door. When I confronted her about the company, she claimed "Avery" was a common name and that the company's address—a storage unit—was rented by her brother for his construction business.
"The application contains documents I gave you," I pressed.
Her expression turned to stone. "You’ve given copies of those documents to banks, schools, doctors, and government offices. If you intend to spread accusations, speak to an attorney first."
She closed the door. I did speak to an attorney, but more importantly, I spoke to my neighbors.