On my eighteenth birthday, I opened my Stanford acceptance letter—and my dad said, “Give it to Jake. You can take out loans.”

spilled soda as if it might rescue him.

I gripped the edge of the counter. “Student loans?”

Mr. Reed’s voice remained steady. “Applications were submitted using Hannah’s Social Security number. The funds were intended for a private college account under Jake’s name.”

Denise snapped, “That’s impossible.”

“Is it?” Mr. Reed asked. “Because the IP address continue reading …