Chapter 6: Everything She Kept in That Closet
Dennis called at seven forty-five the next morning.
"I spoke with a colleague in Austin last night.
Family law, some overlap with financial crjmes.
Her name is Patricia Reyes.
She's agreed to consult." He paused.
"She wants to meet with you and Maya today if possible.
Not to pressure Maya — just to understand the full picture before we decide how to proceed."
"Maya has school."
"After school, then.
Patricia is flexible."
I texted Maya.
She replied in four minutes: *okay.
where?*
I spent the morning at a copy shop on South Congress printing every bank transfer record I had going back five years.
The stack was two inches thick.
I organized it by year, paper-clipped each section, and put it in a new folder I bought at the drugstore next door.
Then I drove to Ridgemont Drive.
I didn't go inside.
I just sat across the street and looked at the house.
It was a good house.
Cream-colored brick, a covered porch, a flower bed along the front walk.
A wind chime hanging near the door.
A welcome mat.
Evelyn's car was in the driveway.
I had not called her back since the conversation from Mrs.
Ortega's office.
She had called me twice since then.
I had let both go to voicemail.
I hadn't listened to them yet.
I drove away before she could look out the window.
Patricia Reyes had an office in a converted house on West 6th.
She was in her late forties, compact and unhurried, with the kind of stillness that made you want to be precise with your words.
She shook my hand, then Maya's, and gestured to the chairs across from her desk.
"I've reviewed what Dennis sent me this morning," she said.
"I want to hear from both of you.
Jason, I'll ask you to let Maya speak without interruption when it's her turn." She looked at Maya.
"And Maya — nothing you say here is going to get anyone in trouble today.
I just need to understand what your life has actually looked like."
Maya sat with her backpack on her lap again.
Same habit.
Same grip on the strap.
"Okay," she said.
Patricia asked her questions.
Careful ones, in order.
What did a typical week look like.
What did she eat.
What did she wear.
Did she have a phone.
Did she have internet access.
Did she have money for school supplies, for transportation, for anything she needed.
Maya answered all of it.
Flat and factual, the way someone answers when they've stopped expecting the answers to matter.
Then Patricia asked: "Did your grandmother ever tell you why things were tight financially?"
"She said my dad's money was unreliable.
That he promised things and then didn't follow through." Maya paused.
"She said that was just how he was.
That he meant well but couldn't be counted on."
"Did she ever show you any evidence of that?
A missed transfer, a bank statement, anything like that?"
"No.
I just believed her." A pause.
"She was the adult."
Patricia wrote something down.
"Maya, you mentioned a box of cards in the hallway closet.
Can you describe what you saw?"
"Two envelopes.
White.
My name on the front in handwriting I didn't recognize.
They were sealed.
She took them back before I could look more closely."
"Did you see a return address?"
Maya thought about it.
"There might have been something in the top left corner.
I don't remember clearly.
I only had them in my hands for a few seconds."
Patricia looked at me.
"Jason, did you send birthday cards to Maya at the Ridgemont Drive address?"
"Every year.
Along with a card for Christmas.
I also sent two letters — one when Maya started middle school and one when Sarah's mother passed away, because I thought Maya should know about it."
"And none of those were delivered to Maya."
"Apparently not."
Patricia set down her pen.
"Here is where we are.
You have five years of wire transfer records showing consistent, substantial financial support.
You have school records showing Maya was enrolled in a low-income assistance program during that same period, with documentation signed by Evelyn Vance falsely stating no financial support was provided.
You have a property purchase that correlates in timing and amount with the funds transferred.
And you have a pattern of deliberate information control — altered phone numbers, intercepted correspondence, false statements to the child about the father's conduct." She folded her hands.
"This is not a misunderstanding.
This is a sustained, deliberate scheme."
The room was quiet.
Maya said: "What happens now?"
"That depends partly on what you both want." Patricia looked at her directly.
"Maya, you are the person most affected by this.
Your voice matters here."
Maya was quiet for a moment.
"I want the cards," she said.
"Whatever else happens — I want the cards she kept from me."
"We can work toward that."
"And I want her to say it." Maya's voice stayed level.
"Not to a judge.
Not in a document.
I want her to look at me and say what she did."
Patricia looked at her for a long moment.
"That is a reasonable thing to want," she said.
"I can't guarantee it.
But I understand why you need it."
She turned to me.
"Jason, I'm recommending we send a formal demand letter to Evelyn Vance before we involve law enforcement.
It gives her an opportunity to respond, return assets, and make a full accounting.
It also gives us her response on record, which is useful regardless of what she does." She paused.
"She will almost certainly call you before the letter arrives."
"What should I say?"
"Nothing.
Let her talk.
Don't confirm or deny what you know.
And do not, under any circumstances, go to that house before we have sent the letter."
I nodded.
Maya looked at me.
"She's going to be scared."
"Yes."
"Good," Maya said quietly.
Patricia's assistant knocked and opened the door.
"Mrs.
Reyes — Evelyn Vance is on the line.
She says she's trying to reach her son and she thought he might be here."
The three of us looked at each other.
May you like
Patricia picked up the phone on her desk.
"Put her through."
