The next morning, Rodri called.
“You’ve got the IP logs?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“And the signature?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he said, and his voice shifted into that calm, strategic tone he uses when he’s building a plan. “You need to file the FTC report today. Then police report. Then you send the lender the report numbers and demand they close the application as fraud. You also send a cease-and-desist to Desiree and your parents—formal letter—no more use of your identity.”
My throat tightened. “Cease-and-desist sounds… intense.”
“Fraud is intense,” he replied.
I exhaled. “Okay.”
“And Wit,” he added, “because the lease is in your name, you have leverage. Not emotional leverage—legal leverage. That car is legally tied to you. You can use that.”
The idea landed heavy.
I didn’t want to be that person—the one who “takes” things.
But then I remembered Alana’s voice at brunch—steady and deliberate—like she’d rehearsed it.
Mom says you’re family trash.
My family had already taken from me.
I’d just been calling it help.
“All right,” I said quietly. “Tell me what to do.”
Rodri didn’t hesitate. “If Desiree can’t or won’t take over payments in writing, you remove yourself from the situation. You call the leasing company and ask about voluntary surrender or early termination options. Or—you retrieve the vehicle, keep it secure, and negotiate from there. But you don’t keep paying while they commit fraud.”
Retrieve the vehicle.
My stomach flipped.
“That will be a war,” I said.
Rodri’s voice softened. “Wit… you’re already in one. You just haven’t been fighting back.”
I filed the FTC identity theft report on my lunch break.
The website asked questions in the same flat, bureaucratic language that always makes trauma feel surreal.
Did you authorize this?
No.
Do you know who did?
Yes.
Are they family?
Yes.
I hesitated on that last one, fingers hovering.
Then I clicked yes.
Because if I kept protecting their image, I’d keep paying for it.
After work, I drove to the police station.
Philadelphia police stations have a particular smell—old coffee, worn-out carpet, paper, and the faint chemical bite of disinfectant.
The officer who took my report looked tired. He listened, typed, asked questions.
“Do you have documentation?” he asked.
I slid the printed packet across the counter.
His eyebrows lifted slightly when he saw the IP logs.
“Okay,” he said, and the tone in his voice shifted—less “domestic drama,” more “this is real.”
He asked if I wanted to press charges.
My chest tightened.
I thought about Desiree as a kid—stealing my sweaters, crying when she got caught, my mother yelling at me for “making her feel bad.”
I thought about Desiree now—coaching her daughter to call me trash while driving a car I paid for.
I thought about the fact that she’d already tried to use my identity again within forty-eight hours of losing access.
I looked at the officer.
“I want this documented,” I said. “I want it stopped.”
He nodded. “That’s what a report does,” he said. “If it escalates, you’ll have a record.”
A record.
That word felt like armor.
When I left the station, the sky was already dark, city lights reflecting off wet pavement.
I sat in my car and stared at my hands on the steering wheel.
I wasn’t crying.
I was… focused.
The quiet decision from brunch had evolved into something sharper:
I was not going back.
The leasing company’s customer service line played cheerful hold music that felt like mockery.
When a representative finally picked up, I gave my contract number and asked, plainly, “What are my options to remove myself from this lease?”
She asked for security verification and then read from her script.
Transfer of lease required credit approval for the new lessee.
Early termination carried a penalty.
Voluntary surrender would impact credit, but—she paused here—would not add new debt if the vehicle was returned in good condition and the account settled.
“Who has possession of the vehicle?” she asked.
“My sister,” I said.
“And the car is registered in your name,” she confirmed.
“Yes.”
There was a pause, then the representative’s voice softened slightly.
“Ma’am,” she said, “if you’re the primary on the lease and you’re concerned about liability, you may want to retrieve the vehicle.”
Retrieve. Again.
The word landed like a door opening.
“Okay,” I said. “If I retrieve it, where do I return it?”
She gave me the address of the nearest authorized return lot.
I wrote it down.
Then I asked, “If the vehicle is not returned and payments fail, who is contacted?”
“You,” she said.
Of course.
I hung up and sat in my car outside my apartment building, engine off, hands gripping the wheel.
This was the part where a version of me from last year would have sighed, sent money, and told herself she’d fix it later.
This year’s version of me stared at the address and felt something in her spine lock into place.
“All right,” I whispered to myself. “We’re doing it.”
I didn’t go alone.
Rodri didn’t let me.
He met me the next morning at 7 a.m. in the parking lot of a Wawa, because of course it was a Wawa—Philadelphia’s unofficial neutral ground where everybody is awake too early and running on caffeine and resentment.
Rodri was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a plain jacket and the kind of calm expression that makes chaos feel manageable.
“You sure?” he asked.
“No,” I said honestly. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
He nodded once. “Good.”
We drove to my parents’ rowhouse.
It looked exactly the same as it always had—brick front, narrow stoop, faded wreath still hanging on the door because my mother liked the idea of holidays more than the cleanup afterward.
The crossover was parked out front, shiny, expensive-looking, clean enough to make the neighbors think Desiree was thriving.
Rodri glanced at it. “You have keys?”
“No,” I said.
“Of course you don’t,” he muttered, not unkindly.
I’d expected this.
The car was “hers,” even though my name was on the lease.
I pulled out my folder—lease agreement, registration, my ID.
Then I called a towing company I’d already researched the night before.
It felt surreal, standing on my parents’ sidewalk at 7:28 a.m. calling a tow service on my own sister’s car.
But the tow company didn’t ask about feelings.
They asked about paperwork.
I sent the documents over email. The dispatcher confirmed my name matched the registration.
“We’ll be there in forty minutes,” he said.
I hung up and felt my heart pounding in my throat.
Rodri leaned against my car, hands in pockets. “You okay?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m not stopping.”
The sun was barely up when my mother opened the front door.
She blinked at us like we were ghosts.
“Whitney?” she said, voice thick with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m retrieving the vehicle,” I said calmly.
Her face went slack. “What?”
Before she could form a real response, Desiree appeared behind her in leggings and an oversized hoodie, hair messy, eyes instantly sharp.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Desiree snapped.
Moren turned toward her. “She—she said—”
“I heard,” Desiree cut in, stepping onto the stoop like she was coming out to fight. “You can’t take my car.”
“It’s not your car,” I said, and my voice didn’t shake. “It’s in my name.”
Desiree’s eyes flashed. “You’re ruining Alana’s life out of spite.”
I almost laughed. “You taught your kid to call me trash.”
Desiree flinched, then hardened. “She’s a child. You’re an adult.”
“Yes,” I said. “And as an adult, I’m ending my liability.”
Moren’s voice trembled. “Whitney, please—let’s talk inside.”
“No,” I said.
Philip appeared in the doorway then—my father, jaw clenched, face already angry.
He stepped out, eyes locked on Rodri like Rodri’s presence offended him.
“Who’s he?” Philip demanded.
“My friend,” I said.
Philip scoffed. “You bring a friend to rob your own family?”
I stared at him. “It’s my lease,” I said. “And Desiree tried to refinance it in my name without my permission. There’s a police report.”
That word—police—hit the porch like a thrown brick.
Moren’s face went pale.
Philip’s jaw tightened further.
Desiree’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You called the cops on me?”
“You committed fraud,” I said simply.
For a split-second, Desiree looked almost scared.
Then the anger returned like armor.
“You’re insane,” she hissed. “You’re going to get me in trouble because you’re jealous.”
Jealous.
I had spent my whole life being called jealous for wanting basic respect.
I didn’t take the bait.
At 8:09 a.m., the tow truck turned the corner.
It rolled down the street loud and inevitable, metal clanking softly like it was chewing through denial.
Moren made a small sound in her throat.
Philip stepped forward. “This is humiliating.”
I nodded once. “Yes,” I said. “It is.”
Desiree darted off the stoop and toward the car like she could physically stop the tow truck.
“Don’t you touch it!” she screamed at the driver.
The driver got out slowly, calm as a man who’d seen a thousand versions of this story.
“Ma’am,” he said, holding up his clipboard, “paperwork says repossession authorized by primary registrant.”
Desiree turned to me, eyes wild. “Tell him to stop!”
I met her gaze. “No,” I said.
She looked like she might lunge.
Rodri stepped subtly closer—not threatening, just present.
Philip barked, “Whitney, you’re making a scene!”
I stared at him. “You let Alana make a scene at brunch,” I said. “You laughed.”
Philip flinched like I’d struck him.
Moren’s eyes filled with tears. “She didn’t mean it,” she whispered.
“She said exactly what she was taught,” I replied.
The tow driver hooked the crossover with efficient movements. Chains clinked. Hydraulic hissed.
Desiree stood in the street sobbing—not quiet tears. Loud, performative, neighbor-facing tears.
As the crossover lifted, I saw a curtain twitch across the street.
I knew people were watching.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
