Chapter 2 - THE AUNT WHO SIGNED FOR THIRTY-EIGHT THOUSAND DOLLARS
Aunt Deborah arrived at Willow Creek at 9:41 p.m.
I knew because I was sitting in Mrs. Bennett’s classroom with a cup of hot chocolate and could see the digital clock above the whiteboard.
She came in angry.
Not worried.
That difference stayed with me.
“Rosalie.”
She only called me Rosalie when other adults were watching.
I held my cup tighter.
A child protective services worker named Ms. Alvarez sat beside me.
Mrs. Bennett stood near the window.
Roman was in the hallway because Ms. Alvarez had asked him to give me space while she talked to me.
He had said yes.
Aunt Deborah saw him through the open door.
Her face went white.
“What is he doing here?”
Roman did not move.
Ms. Alvarez said:
“Mrs. Mercer, please sit.”
“I asked what he is doing here.”
Roman answered from the hallway.
“Showing up.”
That made Deborah flinch.
I noticed.
Ms. Alvarez closed the classroom door.
Roman stayed outside.
Good.
Then questions.
Did Deborah know about the dance?
“Yes.”
Why did she not attend?
“I was ill.”
Had she arranged another adult?
“No.”
Did she know I traveled to school events alone sometimes?
“I do not.”
I stared.
Ms. Alvarez noticed.
“Rosie?”
I looked at Deborah.
Then at Ms. Alvarez.
“I take the bus.”
“To school?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Sometimes.”
Deborah said quickly:
“She is very mature.”
I hated that word.
Adults use mature when a child does something an adult should have done.
Ms. Alvarez asked about the thirty-eight thousand dollars.
Deborah became offended.
“Those are private guardianship funds.”
“School records show you signed receipt certifications.”
“For Rosie.”
“What was purchased?”
“Clothes. food. transportation. tutoring.”
Mrs. Bennett looked at my dress.
My shoes.
Then away.
Deborah saw.
“She ruins clothes.”
I stopped breathing.
Not because the sentence was new.
Because she said it in front of people.
Ms. Alvarez’s voice changed.
“Rosie is eight.”
“I know how old she is.”
“Then we’ll need receipts.”
“I don’t carry eighteen months of receipts in my purse.”
“No one asked you to.”
Good.
Deborah looked toward the door.
Roman’s shadow was visible through the narrow glass.
Her anger sharpened.
“This is because of him.”
Ms. Alvarez said:
“This is because a child was left alone at a school family event and financial records raised questions.”
Good.
No mafia drama.
Facts.
Then Deborah looked at me.
“You called him?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Mrs. Bennett spoke.
“I did.”
Deborah stood.
“You had no right.”
Mrs. Bennett did not move.
“Elena gave the school that right in writing.”
Silence.
My mother’s name changed everything.
Deborah looked at me.
Then the note.
Mrs. Bennett handed her a copy.
I watched Deborah read.
Her mouth tightened.
“She was sick when she wrote this.”
Mrs. Bennett answered:
“She filed it three years before her death.”
There.
Not dying confusion.
Plan.
Deborah sat again.
For the first time, she looked scared.
Ms. Alvarez asked:
“Did you know Roman DeLuca was listed as emergency family contact?”
“No.”
Lie.
I knew.
Children know lies when adults over-answer.
Roman must have known too from the hallway because the door opened half an inch, then stopped.
He did not enter.
Good.
Ms. Alvarez asked me where I wanted to sleep that night.
I looked at Deborah.
My room was in her apartment.
My books.
My blanket.
Mom’s scarf in the bottom drawer.
But going home with her felt different now.
I looked at Mrs. Bennett.
“Can I stay with her?”
Mrs. Bennett looked surprised.
So did Deborah.
Ms. Alvarez said:
“That may be possible for tonight if we complete an emergency caregiver check and Mrs. Bennett agrees.”
Mrs. Bennett said yes immediately.
Roman said nothing outside.
Good.
I had expected him to say I could stay with him.
Maybe a mansion.
Maybe guards.
Maybe everything.
He did not.
That mattered.
Deborah stood again.
“She is my legal ward.”
Ms. Alvarez looked at her.
“And tonight the agency is exercising emergency placement authority pending review.”
Deborah’s face turned red.
“You cannot hand her to a teacher because some gangster walked into a dance.”
Ms. Alvarez’s voice became cold.
“I am not handing her to Mr. DeLuca.”
Good.
I liked her.
Deborah looked at me.
“You want this?”
The question carried too much.
Want to embarrass me?
Want strangers?
Want him?
I looked down at the blue wristband.
Then:
“I want Mrs. Bennett tonight.”
Silence.
Deborah’s face changed.
Not grief.
Insult.
That hurt.
She left after a police officer explained she could not take me.
Roman was still in the hallway.
He did not stop her.
Good.
When she passed him, she whispered something.
I could not hear.
His face became dangerous.
Then he said:
“Not in front of her.”
Me.
Deborah looked toward classroom.
Then walked away.
Later, in Mrs. Bennett’s car, I asked Roman what she said.
He was not riding with us.
He stood beside the passenger window in the school parking lot while snow came down softer.
“You don’t need to know tonight.”
I frowned.
“I hate adult answers.”
“I know.”
“What did she say?”
He thought.
Then:
“She told me Elena would hate me for coming back into your life.”
My chest tightened.
“Would she?”
Roman looked toward the snow.
“I don’t know.”
Good.
He could have lied.
He did not.
“Did Mom hate you?”
“Sometimes.”
That answer surprised me.
“Did you hate her?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did you love her?”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
Two things.
I understood that better than adults thought.
I had loved Deborah when she made grilled cheese after Mom died.
I hated her for not coming tonight.
Both.
Roman reached into his coat.
A card.
Not money.
Phone number.
He handed it to Mrs. Bennett, not me.
“If Rosie asks to call, any time.”
Mrs. Bennett nodded.
“No unannounced visits.”
Roman almost smiled.
“Understood.”
“School too.”
“Yes.”
“No men in black coats at pickup.”
He looked offended.
“They are navy.”
Mrs. Bennett stared.
He sighed.
“No men.”
I laughed.
Good.
Then he looked at me.
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
I looked at Mrs. Bennett.
She said:
“You decide.”
That felt big.
“Yes.”
Roman nodded.
“What time?”
“After pancakes.”
“Specific.”
“Ten.”
“I’ll be here.”
He left.
I watched his car disappear.
Mrs. Bennett drove me home.
Her house smelled like laundry soap and cinnamon.
She had a dog named Pickle.
I slept badly.
At 3:00 a.m., I woke and remembered Mom’s note.
HE WILL COME.
I wondered how she knew.
The next morning, Roman arrived at 9:57.
Three minutes early.
No guards at the door.
One car across the street.
Mrs. Bennett noticed.
“So much for no men.”
Roman looked through the window.
“They are across the street.”
“That is still men.”
He sighed.
Then called.
The car left.
I watched from the stairs.
Powerful men apparently could be trained.
Breakfast was pancakes.
Roman ate two.
Pickle hated him.
Good.
At ten thirty, Ms. Alvarez came with a family-court investigator.
They explained what would happen.
Temporary placement with Mrs. Bennett for seventy-two hours.
Emergency hearing.
Financial review.
Home inspection at Deborah’s.
Search for other relatives.
Roman raised one hand.
Not to interrupt.
To ask.
“Am I eligible to petition?”
The investigator looked at him.
“You can petition. Eligibility is a separate question.”
“Because of my record.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
No threat.
Good.
I did not know what record meant.
I asked.
Roman looked at the investigator.
She said:
“You can answer age-appropriately.”
He looked at me.
“I’ve been arrested before.”
“For being Mafia?”
Mrs. Bennett dropped her fork.
Roman almost smiled.
“For things connected to that.”
“Jail?”
“Once. A long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Eleven months.”
“Did you do it?”
He took time.
“Yes.”
Good.
I did not know why that made me trust him more than if he said no.
Maybe because everyone else was answering too carefully.
Then the family-court investigator asked Roman about his relationship with my mother.
He looked at me.
“Do you want to hear?”
I nodded.
He began.
Elena had been six years younger.
She loved piano.
Hated olives.
Could throw a baseball better than him.
Their father, my grandfather, had been a hard man.
A criminal man.
Roman followed him.
Elena refused.
At twenty-two, she left.
At twenty-four, she married my father, Daniel Mercer.
I knew Dad only through photos.
He died when I was two.
Car accident.
Then Mom raised me.
Alone.
“Why didn’t you find her?” I asked.
Roman looked down.
“I did.”
Silence.
“What?”
“I knew where she was until six years ago.”
“Then?”
“She asked me to stop watching.”
Watching.
Not visiting.
I understood enough.
“Did you?”
“Eventually.”
Bad word.
“Eventually?”
He rubbed one hand over his jaw.
“I sent people to make sure she was safe.”
“Without telling her.”
“Yes.”
“That’s creepy.”
Mrs. Bennett coughed.
Roman nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“She moved.”
“And you lost her?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“She changed numbers.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His eyes lifted.
No.
It was not.
“I was angry.”
There.
Good.
“I told myself if she wanted me gone, I would stay gone.”
“And then she died.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t know.”
“No.”
His voice broke.
Just enough.
I looked at Mom’s emergency note on the table.
“She still wrote your number.”
Roman looked at it too.
“Yes.”
“She thought you would come.”
His eyes went wet.
“Yes.”
Then Ms. Alvarez’s phone rang.
She stepped into hallway.
Returned five minutes later.
Her face had changed.
“What?”
Mrs. Bennett asked.
“The guardianship account.”
Roman went still.
“What about it?”
“Rosie’s mother left more than school assistance.”
I stared.
“How much?”
Ms. Alvarez looked at me first, then the adults.
“Approximately two-point-four million dollars in a restricted trust.”
I laughed because the number sounded fake.
Roman did not.
Mrs. Bennett did not.
Ms. Alvarez continued.
“Deborah Mercer has been the acting trustee for eighteen months.”
Roman’s face became stone.
“How much remains?”
Silence.
Then:
“Preliminary balance is under nine hundred thousand.”
The kitchen went completely quiet.
I did not understand millions.
I understood only this:
May you like
Aunt Deborah had told me we could not afford new shoes.
And somehow more than a million dollars my mother had left for me was gone.
