Back at my apartment, the glow of my laptop screen illuminated the dim room. I logged into my account, navigating the unfamiliar interface until I found the activity log. There, in stark black and white, was the confirmation of the license application.
“May 3rd,” I read aloud, the date glaring at me. I hadn’t been near a computer that day, having been in court for a high-profile case.
I called the department’s helpline again, hoping for a different answer this time. “Is there any way to track the IP address from which the application was submitted?” I asked, desperation creeping into my voice.
The operator hesitated, then replied, “We typically don’t track that information for privacy reasons, but I can escalate your request. It might take a few days.”
“Please do,” I said, grateful for any lead, however small.
As I hung up, I realized how deeply this had started to affect me. I needed answers, and I was willing to chase every lead until I found them.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
