The room smelled like coffee and furniture polish. Framed photographs covered one wall. Most were old. In one, a younger Mr. Alvarez stood beside a woman with dark hair. They were both smiling.
He pointed toward the table.
“Sit.”
I placed the shoebox in front of me and lifted the lid.
Inside were my rent checks.
All of them.
They were arranged in careful stacks, held together with rubber bands. Each bundle had a small note attached with a date.
August.
September.
October.
Every month was there.
I looked up at him.
“You kept them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He pulled out the chair across from me and lowered himself into it.
“You paid on time.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“No,” he agreed. “It doesn’t.”
My hands began to shake.
For three years, I had lived with the fear that he might cash every check at once.
I had counted that money over and over.
I had worried about one mistake destroying the little stability Trixie and I had built.
I pushed the box toward him.
“Mr. Alvarez, I need you to explain this.”
He studied the table.
Then he said, “My daughter was named Sofia.”
I stopped moving.
He nodded toward the wall.
The woman beside him in several photographs was not his wife.
I could see it now.
She had his eyes and the same serious mouth.
“She had a little girl,” he continued. “Her name was Camila.”
I waited.
“Sofia married young. The man was charming at first. Everyone liked him.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then he began controlling everything. The money. Her clothes. Her friends. He made sure she had nowhere to go.”
My anger faded.
Mr. Alvarez rubbed his thumb against the scar on his hand.
“She called me once,” he said. “She asked if she and Camila could stay here.”
“What did you say?”
His eyes closed for a moment.
