Chapter 4: The Man Who Came Back
"I'm glad we reached you," the voice said.
"As I mentioned to your — grandmother, was it?
— there's still a remaining balance of twelve hundred dollars on the lien.
We do need that resolved within the next ten days to prevent escalation."
Twelve hundred dollars.
He hadn't even paused before saying it.
"Escalation to what?" I said.
"To the next stage of the compliance process.
Which would involve a formal notice of seizure."
I pressed the phone harder against my ear.
Abuela Rosa hadn't moved.
She was reading my face the way she always had — the same way she'd watched me as a child when I was trying not to cry.
"I see," I said.
"And where exactly would I bring this payment?"
"We can arrange a home visit.
Same as before.
Would tomorrow afternoon work?"
"Tomorrow afternoon is perfect," I said.
"Let's say two o'clock."
"Wonderful.
We'll have someone there at two." A pause.
"Cash only, please.
As we discussed."
"Of course," I said.
"Cash only."
He hung up.
Abuela Rosa said, "What did he say?"
"He's coming back tomorrow."
Her face went tight.
"To take more money."
"He thinks he is."
I called the San Antonio Police Department non-emergency line first.
They transferred me to the Economic Crimes unit.
A detective named Garza answered on the third ring, and I told him everything — the clipboard, the badge, the blue shirt, the P.O.
box address, the business card with the pencil note, the eight hundred dollars, and the call I had just ended thirty seconds ago.
He was quiet for a moment after I finished.
"You agreed to a two o'clock visit tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"And he's expecting cash?"
"Twelve hundred dollars."
"Miss Mendez," Detective Garza said, "do not pay him anything.
Do not let him inside.
What I'd like to do is have two officers in plain clothes present at your address before two o'clock tomorrow.
Is that something you can arrange without alerting anyone in the household?"
I looked at Abuela Rosa.
"Yes," I said.
"I can arrange that."
After I hung up, I sat across from her for a long moment without speaking.
The refrigerator hummed.
Outside, a neighbor's dog barked twice and went quiet.
"The police are coming tomorrow," I said.
"Before he gets here."
She nodded slowly.
"You did nothing wrong, Abuela.
He was dressed like an official.
He had a badge.
He came to your door.
Anyone could have believed him."
"I should have told you."
"You were trying to protect me."
"I made it worse."
"No," I said.
"You didn't make it worse.
He made it worse.
He chose to walk up to this house and lie to a seventy-two-year-old woman and take her grocery money." I paused.
"That's on him.
All of it."
She picked up the rosary again.
Her hands had stopped shaking.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about what it must have been like for her — three weeks of carrying that alone, not saying a word, paying the water bill with what was left, washing rice carefully so it would stretch further, and all the while waiting for the phone to ring or the door to knock and not knowing which would be worse.
And then I walked through the door after class, dragging my feet, and she had decided that the one thing she could do — the one useful, loving, concrete thing within her power — was to clean my computer so it would be nice for me while I worked.
She had soaked it in fabric softener because she loved me and she was scared and she didn't know what else to do with her hands.
At one in the morning, my phone buzzed.
It was a text from the repair shop technician.
His name was Daniel.
*Update on your MacBook — found something interesting.
Can you come in tomorrow morning before noon?
Don't want to explain over text.*
I read it twice.
May you like
Then I set the phone face-down on the nightstand.
Tomorrow was going to be a long day.
