The phone rang at 9:17 AM on a Tuesday. It was an unrecognized number. I almost let it go to voicemail, but then I thought, What if it’s the vet about my dog, Buster? I answered.
“Hello, this is Tara Vance speaking.”
The woman on the other end was calm, professional. “Ms. Vance, this is Jennifer from First National Bank. I’m calling about an outstanding balance on your account.”
“My account?” I replied, confused. “I don’t have an account with First National.” My checking and savings were with Wyoming Community Credit Union, where I’d been since high school.
“Yes, ma’am, a credit card account,” she continued, unphased. “It’s currently $7,400 overdrawn, and we haven’t received a payment in sixty days.”
I laughed, a short, disbelieving puff of air. “Ma’am, I think you have the wrong number. Or this is a scam. I have no credit card with your bank.”
“I assure you, Ms. Vance, this is not a scam. We have your full name, date of birth, and the last four digits of your social security number on file.” She read them out. My blood ran cold. Every detail was correct. “And we have your signature on file, too. Would you like me to email you a copy?”
My voice was suddenly hoarse. “Yes,” I said. “Please. Send it now.”
I hung up, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Three minutes later, the email landed in my inbox. I clicked it open, dread coiling in my stomach. What I saw next made my breath catch.
It was my name. “Tara Vance.” Signed in thick, black Sharpie. Sloppy. Rushed. A botched, childish version of my signature, like someone had tried to forge a permission slip.
But it was his handwriting. My stomach twisted.
My name, my identity, was now tied to a maxed-out credit card I didn’t even know existed. And the man responsible was sitting on my couch, barefoot, eating mac and cheese straight from the pot like nothing happened.
The Scam
Let me back up. My name’s Tara. I’m 34 and, up until two months ago, I lived a quiet life in Casper, Wyoming. It’s not a big city; people know each other’s business. I work as an assistant manager at a local pharmacy. I owned my small house, and my biggest excitement was usually finding a new hiking trail for Buster, my golden retriever.
I met Dave last spring at a friend’s cookout. He was tall, charming in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way. He had a quick smile and a story for everything. He said he used to do construction but was “between jobs,” planning to start his own contracting business. He just needed a little time to line up a crew, a few investors. At first, I didn’t mind. Everyone hits a rough patch, right?
We dated for six months before he moved in with me. And that’s when things started to get weird.
He never paid rent. “It’ll come out of the LLC’s first payout,” he’d say, brushing off my concerns. He borrowed my car so much I barely saw it on weekends, always returning it on fumes. His phone was always flipped upside down, screen hidden, even when it buzzed with incoming messages. He never left it unattended.
But the real red flag was how he acted when things didn’t go his way. Like that day in Costco. We went in just to get dog food and paper towels. But Dave spotted a 32-inch TV on clearance for $189.
“I need this,” he said, already pulling it off the shelf. “My old one’s busted.”
I reminded him we hadn’t paid rent yet. I was already behind on bills after covering groceries and his gas for the past three weeks. “Maybe we should wait,” I suggested, my voice low.
“Relax,” he said, flashing that charm. “I got it covered.”
But when the cashier ran his card, it declined. Twice.
That’s when he snapped. He snatched the TV off the counter, shoved it back into the cart like it was the cashier’s fault, and yelled, “You just embarrassed me in front of everyone! How dare you treat me like dirt!”
People stared. The line behind us stalled. A kid started crying two carts over. And me? My face burned with shame. I fumbled for my wallet, swiping my debit card just to end the scene. It was the money I’d set aside for rent. But in that moment, I just needed to get out of there.
In the car, he sulked, slamming the door, then blamed me for not “stepping in,” for “letting them treat him like dirt.” I didn’t even respond. I just stared out the window, wondering how I ended up here, wondering who this man really was.
Two days later, the bank called.
It turns out Dave had applied for that joint credit card six weeks ago, claiming we were engaged, forging my signature, and using my information. The charges were all over town: a mechanic shop, a pawn store, bars, restaurants I’d never heard of. I asked the bank what could be done. They told me to file a police report.
That’s when it really hit me. This wasn’t just a bad relationship. It was fraud.
But the worst part? He didn’t even deny it. When I confronted him, holding the printed bank statement in my trembling hand, he just shrugged. “You were going to marry me anyway,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s not like I bought anything for myself. It was all for the business.”
He looked at me like I was overreacting. That was the moment something inside me shifted. I wasn’t just heartbroken anymore. I was angry. A cold, quiet, righteous anger that settled deep in my bones.
I was going to make him regret every dollar he stole, every lie he told, and every single time he made me feel small.
But I had to be smart. Men like Dave, they don’t just walk away when they’re caught. They double down. They get dangerous. So I played it cool. I pretended to forgive him. Told him I just needed time to calm down. All while I planned the kind of revenge that would make sure he never used another woman like this again.
The Bait
First, I made a list. Everything in my name. Everything he touched. The joint credit card (even though I never signed up for it), the car loan he’d asked me to co-sign, the phone bill, even my pharmacy store rewards account. He’d been using it for discounts, racking up points like it was his. I printed every document I could find.
Then I opened a second checking account under a different bank. Quietly, secretly, I started transferring my direct deposits there. Dave didn’t notice. He was too busy working on a “side hustle,” which really meant sitting on my couch for hours watching YouTube videos about cryptocurrency and get-rich-quick real estate scams. He kept telling me he was “just one deal away” from flipping everything around.
Meanwhile, I was planning his downfall.
I started with the police report. I walked into the Casper Police Department with a folder full of evidence: the fake signature, screenshots of text messages where he admitted using my info, even the receipt from the Costco meltdown. The officer was quiet as he flipped through it all. “Do you have reason to believe he’d do this again to someone else?” he asked.
I didn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely.”
He nodded. “We’ll take it from here.”
But I didn’t stop there. I remembered something Dave had said during one of his rants, “My ex tried to ruin me once. Jokes on her. The IRS never found out.” It stuck with me. So, I called the IRS tip line. I told them everything. His under-the-table construction work. The cash he bragged about making without reporting it. Even the fake business he claimed to be starting, the one that kept him from paying rent. They told me they’d open a file.
Then I contacted the credit card company and formally disputed every charge after the date the card was opened. I sent them the police report, attached a copy of my actual signature for comparison. A week later, they removed my name from the account.
Dave still thought everything was fine. He got bolder after that, started inviting his sketchy friends over. One guy even offered me a “business opportunity” selling knockoff sneakers out of my apartment. I smiled, said I’d “think about it.” Then I called our landlord, asked if it was okay for a tenant to sublet their apartment without permission. He said no. I recorded the next time Dave told his friend, “Yeah, I can get you a room here if you toss me cash under the table.” I emailed the clip to the landlord. Dave got an eviction notice the following week.
He blamed me, of course. “Some jealous neighbor must have snitched,” he fumed. I just nodded sympathetically while I helped him pack. Or so he thought. Really, I was helping him walk straight into the last trap I’d set.
The Exposure
See, while all this was happening, I’d started talking to a local news reporter named Dana. She ran a small investigative segment on the local station, usually about scams or housing issues. People trusted her. I sent her everything: the forged credit card application, the unpaid bills, the fraudulent business paperwork he’d left lying around the apartment like junk mail. She was very interested, especially after I told her Dave had been couch-surfing under fake names and claiming to be a licensed contractor.
She fact-checked everything. She called the licensing board. She spoke to the bank. She even got a comment from the police department confirming an open investigation.
And the night before Dave was set to leave my place, Dana’s segment aired on live TV.
The title flashed across the screen: “Local Woman Scammed by Fake Fiance Catches Him Red-Handed.” His face, his name, his whole fake business story—all exposed.
I watched him watch it. He sat frozen on the couch, mouth slightly open, like the air had been knocked out of him. “This is slander,” he muttered, finally. “I could sue…” But he didn’t move. Because his phone was blowing up. Friends, old flings, even his mom called to ask why he was on the news.
And just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, two plainclothes officers knocked on the door with a warrant. They didn’t cuff him right away. One of the officers calmly said, “David Matthews, we have a few questions about a credit card fraud case. Would you mind coming down to the station voluntarily?”
I’ll give him this: he tried to play it cool. He even winked at me on the way out, like I was going to wait at home and bake him a casserole when he got back. But I didn’t stay home. I followed them down to the station quietly, sat in my car in the lot, and watched.
Two hours later, Dave came out looking different. Less smug. Sweaty, pale, shaky. He wasn’t arrested yet, but they’d made it clear the investigation was serious, that the forged documents, identity theft, and fraudulent credit card could land him in court and possibly prison. He climbed into his friend’s car without even glancing at me. I didn’t see him again for three days.
The Cleanup
That Sunday, I was taking out the trash when I saw my old TV—the one he insisted on replacing—sitting on the curb. Next to it, a soggy duffel bag and a cracked toolbox. It was his. And I realized he wasn’t just hiding. He was broke. His name was burned in town. None of the people he used to freeload off would touch him now.
I kept my distance, but word travels fast in Casper. He was sleeping in someone’s garage, charging his phone at gas stations, getting turned down for jobs because of the news segment and the investigation hanging over him.
Meanwhile, I was cleaning house. Literally. I got the apartment deep cleaned, replaced the locks, changed my number, and then came the final blow.
The IRS called back. They said they were opening an audit into Dave’s finances. Apparently, my tip led them to several years of unreported income, cash jobs, under-the-table deals, and bogus write-offs on a business that didn’t exist. They flagged over $52,000 in unpaid taxes and penalties. If he didn’t start paying, they could seize assets, bank accounts, even put a lien on anything he tried to own in the future.
I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t. I just filed that email in a folder called Closure.
And then, as if karma wasn’t done with him yet, I got a call from someone unexpected: his ex. Her name was Reena. She found my number through Dana the reporter, and said, “He did the exact same thing to me in Billings, but worse.” Apparently, Dave had a pattern. Moving from woman to woman, always in smaller towns, always charming at first, then slowly draining them emotionally, financially, and sometimes even legally. She’d pressed charges once, but dropped them when he promised to change. When she saw his face on the news, she cried—not from sadness, but from relief.
We ended up talking for almost two hours. She gave me a lawyer’s name, a civil attorney who helped her recover damages through small claims court. “Go after him,” she said. “Even if you don’t get a cent, make it official.”
So, I did. I filed a civil case for damages, emotional distress, and financial loss. I attached receipts, police reports, text messages, everything. And I didn’t just file it. I made sure he got served in public, right in front of the hardware store where he was begging for day labor gigs. He saw the envelope, opened it, and for the first time since the Costco meltdown, he looked genuinely scared.
And that was when I finally smiled.
UPDATE:
The court date was set for a Wednesday morning. Small Claims Court in Natrona County isn’t fancy. No big speeches, no “objection, your honor” theatrics. Just the facts. But I made sure every fact hit hard. I walked in with a thick binder: timelines, receipts, printed screenshots, a notarized copy of the forged credit card application, even a copy of the Costco receipt—the one I paid with my rent money.
Dave showed up late, wearing a wrinkled polo shirt and scuffed boots, like he’d just rolled out of someone’s basement. He tried to charm the judge. “This was all a misunderstanding, Your Honor. We were in a relationship. Finances were shared.”
But I didn’t let him rewrite history. When I handed over the forged signature page and the statement from the bank manager who flagged it, even the clerk raised an eyebrow. And when I read the text where Dave wrote, “It’s not like I bought anything for myself,” the judge held up a hand.
“That’s enough,” she ruled in my favor. “I order David Matthews to repay Ms. Vance $3,700 in damages and legal costs.”
Not life-changing money, but it was official. Public record. It followed him wherever he went.
And then came the cherry on top. A month later, I got a letter in the mail from the IRS. Not about Dave. About me. It said I was not liable for the fraudulent charges, and that my report helped them flag additional suspicious activity. As a result, they closed my case and offered me a $500 whistleblower reward.
That $500? I used it to pay off the last chunk of credit card debt he left in my name. The rest I spent on something small but symbolic. I went back to Costco, bought myself a new TV—a little bigger, a little better. And I paid for it with my card, standing tall, smiling at the same cashier who’d been there during Dave’s meltdown. “You look lighter,” she said.
I nodded. “Yeah,” I replied. “I finally took out the trash.”
I still live in Casper. Same apartment, new locks, quiet life. But I’m different now. I know what a red flag looks like. I know what love doesn’t sound like. And I’ll never ignore that gut feeling again.
Dave, he skipped town after the judgment. Rumor is he tried to start a new business in South Dakota, but the internet never forgets. That news clip still pops up when you Google his name. He’s not just broke; he’s branded.
And me? I got my rent money back. I got my name cleared. I got my peace. And I didn’t even have to raise my voice. Because revenge doesn’t always need fire. Sometimes, it just needs receipts.