Mr. Davis clicked through a few pages, his expression becoming more serious as he delved deeper into the account history. « There was a change made last Tuesday, » he finally said, swiveling the monitor so I could see. « This update was authorized by… » he hesitated, « a different signature. »
I stared at the unfamiliar scrawl, disbelief mingling with the growing anxiety in my chest. « I didn’t authorize anything, » I stated, my voice steady but my heart pounding.
Mr. Davis nodded, his demeanor professional yet empathetic. « We need to investigate how this happened. It could be a clerical error or something more. »
He stood up, gesturing for me to follow. « Let’s move to a private room to discuss this further. »
As we walked, Linda whispered, « I’m really sorry about this. » I nodded, appreciating her empathy but needing answers more than apologies.
In the privacy of a small conference room, Mr. Davis laid out the procedures: contacting the fraud department, reviewing the transaction logs, and verifying the identity of the person who signed the change. « It might take a few days, » he cautioned, « but we’ll get to the bottom of it. »
I agreed, feeling both reassured and frustrated by the delay. As I left the bank, the envelope felt heavier in my hand, a tangible reminder of the sudden uncertainty in my life.
Back home, I skimmed through my documents, looking for any hint of what might have gone wrong. My phone buzzed—a message from my sister. « Heard you’re dealing with something at the bank. Let me know if you need help. » Her words were a comfort, a reminder I wasn’t completely alone in this.
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