Chapter 9 - The Notary's Camera
"Claire took the picture," Evan said. "She kept it because she knew something was wrong."
"Why bring it now?"
He stared at the folder. "Because I told her I'd postpone the wedding until I understood what she signed. She said I was choosing you."
"Are you?"
"I'm choosing not to marry a lie."
Talia contacted the notary office and learned its lobby camera footage was retained for only thirty days. The photo was six weeks old. We thought the recording was gone until the receptionist mentioned a separate building security contractor.
Gabriel sent a preservation request that night. The next morning the contractor agreed to retain the relevant footage while lawyers sought a lawful release.
Meanwhile, my father held a press conference. He called the gala 'an unfortunate misunderstanding' but repeated that my work had required internal review. His lawyers circulated a report accusing me of leaking a proposed housing site to a developer.
"He wants you to look like the person who arranged the sale," Talia said.
"Because the deed has my name."
A journalist named Lena Ortiz called me. She covered housing policy and had interviewed Grandma years before.
"Your father says the records are private," she said. "Do you have something on the record?"
"I have evidence being reviewed by attorneys."
"Can you tell me if the Renewal Fund built a single apartment?"
"Not one."
"Then where's the money?"
"That's what we're trying to prove."
She was silent for a moment. "I interviewed your grandmother after the flood. She told me she was afraid the money would be turned into a photo opportunity. I thought she was being dramatic."
"She usually wasn't."
Lena asked if I would meet residents who had been promised housing. I wanted to say yes. I also wanted to hide. For months I'd treated Eastbank as a drawing and an impossible budget. I had not looked closely enough at the people waiting behind the plans.
That evening I went to the community center. A woman named Mrs. Alvarez listened without interrupting as I explained the stalled project.
"Your last name opens doors," she said. "Use it to keep one open for us. But don't come here asking us to make you feel innocent."
"I'm not."
"Good. Because we need roofs, not another apology."
On my way out, Lena sent a photograph from a city planning meeting. It showed Martin handing an envelope to a zoning consultant on May seventeenth.
May you like
I enlarged the badge on the consultant's jacket.
It said ASHDOWN PARTNERS.
