Chapter 4 - The Warning Shot
By Tuesday, the bank transfer date arrived.
My account remained untouched by the usual $550 deduction. The silence from Arthur’s end lasted exactly forty-eight hours until the bank’s automated grace-period notification hit his inbox.
Then came the voicemail.
I listened to it in my car during my lunch break, my phone pressed to my ear while rain drummed against the roof.
*“Maya. This is your father. The bank just called about the first mortgage installment. I assume this childish tantrum has run its course. You transfer that money by five o’clock today, or you and I are going to have a very different conversation. You think that social services agency doesn’t care about family stability? You think they don’t check character references before a finalization hearing? You remember who signed your background vouching forms, Maya. I can call Sarah Vance this afternoon and tell her this household is fractured and financially unstable. Do the right thing. Five o’clock.”*
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck.
Sarah Vance was our court-appointed adoption caseworker. She was scheduled to make her final home visit next week before our formal court date on the twenty-fourth.
Arthur had signed a standard family reference form four months ago, an endorsement of my character and emotional readiness. If he contacted the county agency claiming financial instability or domestic chaos, he couldn’t stop the adoption outright, but he could stall it. He could demand an investigation. He could drag the process into months of bureaucratic limbo—months that would rip Olivia’s fragile sense of security to shreds.
He was willing to sabotage an eight-year-old orphan’s future to collect a five-hundred-dollar check.
My hands shook on the steering wheel, but not from fear. From a cold, calculating fury.
I didn’t call him back.
Instead, I called my mother’s sister, Aunt Evelyn.
Evelyn hadn't spoken to Arthur in nearly a decade, not since my mother passed away from breast cancer. The family story Arthur always fed us was that Evelyn was “greedy” and “cut off contact over the estate.” I had never questioned it as a teenager.
The phone rang three times before an older, crisp voice answered. “Hello?”
“Aunt Evelyn? It’s Maya.”
A pause on the other end, long and sharp. “Maya? Good heavens. Is everything all right?”
May you like
“No,” I said, swallowing hard. “Aunt Evelyn, I need to ask you something about Mom’s will. And I need you to tell me the absolute truth about the house.”
Evelyn exhaled a heavy, ragged sigh through the receiver. “I’ve been waiting eight years for you to make this phone call.”
