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Our bank statements haven’t arrived. Which is odd because they always arrive a few days before the bills, and I always check mine before paying anything. Though we still keep separate accounts, Scott and I use the same bank. Our accounts always post on the same day, and I can’t remember the statements not arriving near the beginning of the month.
My stomach coils, as it always does when something like this happens. Even after two years of Scott being completely transparent, of working the program, it’s still so easy for my mind to leap back again to a time when he’d stay out all night, gambling with friends. To the unpaid utilities and service disruptions. And the loss of my grandmother’s engagement ring, sold to pay his bookie.
We’d worked through it in therapy, and Scott has granted me full access to everything. His bank statements, his cell phone and computer. I used to check every night, but I’ve grown tired of the constant monitoring.
Which is exactly when Scott might backslide.
Through the doorway I check to see that he hasn’t moved from the couch, then open his laptop. A quick search of his history shows nothing unusual. His emails are likewise uninteresting. I wander into the kitchen, where his phone sits on the table, and scroll through his messages and history there.
Again, nothing. His last text with his sponsor, Karl, was this morning at nine.
I wander back into the living room and say, “Our bank statements haven’t come yet.”
He keeps his eyes on the game. “Maybe it’s time to finally sign up for online banking.”
“If you recall, the last time I did that, someone stole $1,000. Do I also need to remind you why online banking is a bad idea for your recovery?”
Scott doesn’t respond, but I can see his jaw flex.
“Where do you think they are?” I ask.
His expression grows defensive. “What makes you think I know?”
I try to pick my way carefully through a mix of fear and worry. Had he taken them, perhaps to conceal something he didn’t want me to see? Maybe his account is overdrawn to pay a new gambling debt, or maybe he’s trying to figure out a way to borrow money from me without having to ask. Is this how it starts again? “I’m just wondering what you think, that’s all.” I hold my breath, studying his face looking for any trace of guilt.
But I don’t see any. He pauses the game, his expression serious. “Have you considered the possibility that your con artist friend followed you home? Feeding her a bullshit story about an inheritance from Aunt Calista might have been a mistake.”
“Why would she risk being caught?” I ask.
He sighs. “Mail fraud is some of the easiest to perpetrate. You can get all kinds of information with the right piece of mail. A bank statement would be like gold to someone like Meg.” He glances toward the front of our building, with its drafty vestibule and broken outer door latch. “It’s not like our lobby is exactly secure,” he adds.
I sit down hard on the couch, thinking back to what I’d said the day I told her I wasn’t going to buy a house after all. A throwaway comment now comes back to haunt me: I like seeing that huge number on my bank statement every month. An invitation to come and take a look.
My heart begins to race at the chaos a compromised bank account would create in my life. In Scott’s. Neither of us have much—Meg would surely be disappointed by what she’d find there. And then a new worry comes crashing in.
“If she stole them, not only would she realize there’s no inheritance, she’d see that the name on my account doesn’t match the one I gave her. All she’d have to do is Google me to figure out who I am and what I do. All that work I put into building a relationship with her, gone. Along with the story.”
“If she knows who you are, you’ve got bigger problems than losing the story,” Scott says. “You’re actively trying to expose her. A con artist isn’t going to just let you walk away. She’s going to want to make you pay.”
For the first time, I consider the possibility I might be in over my head.
