I was moved to the garage.

Officer Reyes took my statement in the kitchen — my kitchen, at my table — while the younger officer stayed outside with Javier.

Daniel sat across from me the whole time.

He didn't speak unless Reyes asked him something directly.

He just sat there, which was enough.

I told Reyes everything.

The suitcases at the door.

The power of attorney.

The bank statements that stopped arriving.

The debit card that vanished.

The call I made from the neighbor's phone.

"Do you have documentation?" Reyes asked.

"Bank records, statements, anything showing the account activity?"

"Javier controlled all of it," I said.

"He had my mail redirected."

Daniel set a folder on the table.

I looked at it.

"Where did you get that?"

"I called your bank three days ago," he said.

"I explained the situation to their fraud department.

They flagged the account and sent me a summary of transactions going back ninety days.

I'm listed as your emergency contact — you added me when you opened the account in 2019."

I had forgotten that.

Elena had insisted on it.

Reyes opened the folder.

The numbers were worse than I had known.

I had estimated tens of thousands.

The actual figure, across ninety-two days, was sixty-one thousand, four hundred dollars.

Line by line: a sixty-inch television.

Three visits to a steakhouse on Michigan Avenue.

A used pickup truck, paid in full.

Clothing purchases.

Liquor.

A weekend hotel stay in Milwaukee.

A payment to a name I didn't recognize — four thousand dollars, marked only as *consulting.*

"Who is Marcus Trent?" Reyes asked, looking at the consulting entry.

Daniel and I looked at each other.

"I don't know that name," I said.

Reyes wrote it down and circled it.

Outside, through the kitchen window, I could see Javier standing near the fence with the younger officer.

He was talking steadily, gesturing with his hands.

Performing reasonableness.

I had watched him do it a hundred times — at dinner parties, at the bank, with the neighbors who believed the story about me being unstable.

He was very good at it.

"Mr.

Vega," Reyes said, "based on what you've told me and what's in these records, I'm going to recommend this be referred to the Illinois Adult Protective Services and the Cook County State's Attorney's financial crimes unit.

This goes beyond what we handle at the patrol level."

"How long does that take?" Daniel asked.

"Depends on caseload.

Could be a few days before someone contacts you.

Could be faster if we flag it urgent, which I'm inclined to do given the physical component."

He meant the bruise.

"What happens to him in the meantime?" I asked.

"We can't arrest him today on the financial charges — that requires a warrant.

But I can document the physical altercation based on your statement and your daughter's corroboration.

That gives us grounds to issue a notice to vacate.

Meaning he and your daughter would need to leave this property."

"She doesn't have to leave," I said.

Reyes looked at me.

"Gabriela can stay," I said.

"If she wants to.

That's her choice."

Daniel said nothing.

But his hand, resting on the table, moved slightly toward mine.

Reyes nodded and kept writing.

It took another hour.

By the time he closed his notebook and stood up, the afternoon light had shifted and the kitchen felt different — like a room that had been holding its breath and finally let it go.

Javier was escorted back inside to collect identification documents.

He walked through the kitchen without looking at me.

At the back door, he stopped.

"You're making a mistake," he said.

Not to Reyes.

To me.

"Javier," Daniel said, "the officer is waiting."

He left.

The front door closed.

I sat at my kitchen table for the first time in three months and listened to the sound of my own house.

Then Daniel's phone buzzed.