Chapter Twelve-The Suicide

Janet found it by accident. She was combing through cross-referenced police reports and victim statements, matching names against scraps of social media. Buried in a nearly empty feed with only a handful of friends, timestamped at 2:14 a.m., was the final post of Thomas Reid, seventy-three. Widower. Retired mechanic.

It read like a confession — but also like testimony.

Three months ago, I answered the phone while making tea. The name of my bank was on the screen. Not a number — their name. That mattered to me. I thought I was speaking to my own bank’s fraud department.

The man’s voice was steady, professional. I could hear typing, the hum of a call centre. He told me someone was stealing from my savings. He said he could stop it if I gave him the security code he texted me. The text appeared under the bank’s name. I read it back. He asked for my password. I gave it, because he said he needed to act before the transfer cleared.

He took me into a “secure screen.” I saw the cursor move as though guided by a second hand. He told me to move my savings into a safe account. I did it. I thought I was protecting what little I had. In moments, the balance that had taken me a lifetime to build was gone.

The next morning I went to the branch. The woman in the gray suit told me it was my fault. That I had authorized it myself. “We cannot reimburse funds you transferred, sir.” She said it with professional regret, as if explaining the weather.

The police took my statement, gave me a file number, and told me they would “circulate it.” They were kind but helpless. “It’s very difficult,” the officer said. “They move the money fast.”

I missed my rent. One month, then two. My landlord tolerated it at first. By the third, the notice was taped to my door. Eviction.

I stopped answering my daughter’s calls. What could I say? That her father, who told her all her life to be careful with money, had handed everything over to a stranger on the phone? That he was too ashamed to admit how easily he was fooled?

I sold my wife’s watch for groceries. I walked to a payday place once, stood outside until the sun went down, then went home. My pension is gone. My savings gone. My pride gone.

Now there is nothing left but shame and silence. The bank says it was my fault. The police wrote it down and filed it away. My landlord is done waiting. I have no way back.

If anyone reads this, know that it can happen to anyone. The phone will say it’s your bank. The man will sound calm, patient. He will tell you it’s urgent. You will believe him. And when you do, it is over. Don’t be as blind as I was.

I’m tired now. I’m sorry.

The post had only a scattering of sad-face reactions. Neighbours, old friends, people who barely remembered him had clicked quickly and moved on. No one had commented.

By the time the police responded to the welfare call from his landlord, Thomas Reid was already gone.

Janet leaned back from the glow of her laptop screen, cigarette trembling between her fingers. It wasn’t a police report. It wasn’t a line in a spreadsheet at the Anti-Fraud Centre. It was the victim’s own voice, written in despair — raw and final.

She whispered into the smoke curling in the kitchen light.

“Not invisible anymore.”