Chapter 4: Fake PI
1896 Words
Denaya
Hope is a fickle thing. It blooms in the most important moments of your life, but when tragedy strikes, it vanishes as if it were never there at all.
I remember that feeling of elation when Marcus and I were trying for a baby for the first time. But when I miscarried, that hope died with it.
The lightness in your heart at the possibility of a better life—then the despair, shock, and disappointment when you realize that change isn't going to happen.
That same feeling swirls in my chest now as I stand in the hallway staring at two words that shouldn’t exist together: Elliot Torres.
"What's wrong?" Maizie stands beside me, but her voice sounds far away, like I’m underwater.
I don’t speak. Can’t move. My mind is a mess but three thoughts play on a loop.
Elliot Torres is the buyer.
The man who is destroying everything.
The man I was attracted to twenty minutes ago.
Mara pulls the mangled card from my fist—when did my hand clench that hard? —and reads it. Her eyes go wide. “Oh shit.”
The shock that’s been holding me frozen cracks. Heat floods my chest, crawling up my neck, burning behind my eyes. That bastard. That absolute f*****g bastard stood there with Greta, used that deep but gentle voice, those patient hands, let me think he was safe, good—
And the whole time he was the enemy.
“I’ll be right back.” The words come out strangled.
“Denaya, wait—” Maizie reaches for me but I’m already moving.
I don’t knock.
The door slams against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame. Mrs. Thomas jolts in her chair. Elliot—Torres—goes still by the window.
“ —benefit greatly from the expansion, through the scholarship—” Mrs. Thomas’s voice dies mid-sentence.
I point at him. “You’re Torres.”
It’s not a question.
Mrs. Thomas puts her hands out, standing slowly like she’s trying to calm an angry lion. Any other time, I would’ve been offended but I can’t bring myself to care right now.
“Denaya, let me explain—”
“Explain what. That you lied? That he lied? That he made me believe he was a teacher when he is the man that is about to f*****g tear this place down.”
Something flickers across Elliot’s face—surprise, maybe? —but it’s gone before I can identify it. He probably didn’t think I’d figure it out this fast. Asshole.
He’s probably surprised that I figured him out so quickly. The asshole.
“Denaya, please,” Mrs. Thomas says. She still has that zoo attendant posture— like I could attack at any time. “I did invite him. Just to observe the place he is about to own.”
“About to own.” The words leave a bad taste in my mouth. I turn back to Elliot, and I hate, absolutely hate, that even furious, I notice how he fills the space. How his jaw is tight. How his hands have curled into fists.
“You wanted to figure us out,” I say. “Figure out how to manipulate us. How to make destroying lives look noble.”
His jaw clenches harder. “I’m not destroying anything.”
“Your company’s reputation says otherwise.” From the corner of my eye, I see Maizie appear in the doorway, hovering like she might need to intervene. “How many communities have you bulldozed for profit?”
There’s a pause, pregnant with unbelief. Mrs Thomas and Maizie seem to be holding their breaths.
Elliot’s face hardens to granite. When he speaks, his voice is low, controlled. Dangerous. “You don’t know anything about me or my intentions.”
“I know enough.” I cross my arms to hide how badly my hands are shaking. “I know you’re a liar.”
The words land like a physical blow. His shoulders tense. That defined muscle in his jaw jumps again.
“I have never lied to you.” Each word is restrained—like he’s holding himself from saying more than that.
“Omission is still a lie.”
I’m out the door before anyone can respond. My vision tunnels.
Heavy footsteps trail me and I know that it’s not Maizie.
“We’re not done talking.” His voice echoes in the hallway.
“Yes, we are.”
Warm fingers circle my wrist— right where the scorpion bracelet sits. The touch is firm but somehow still gentle, and for one traitorous second my body remembers:
You did the right thing. She needed to know someone wouldn’t leave her.
Then reality slams back.
I yank my arm away so violently I stumble. “Don’t f*****g touch me.”
He laughs— an actual, booming laugh— and it’s mocking, bitter. “A daycare teacher who swears like a sailor. How ironic.”
I ignore him. I have no other option. If I respond, I’m going to either scream or start crying, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of either.
Control, Naya. You need control.
“I have two months before I take full ownership,” he calls after me, louder now. “Two months to prove you wrong about me.”
“You can’t prove anything.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I know what you are.”
“No.” Something in his tone makes me pause with my hand on the door handle. “You think you know. There’s a difference.”
Again, I don’t respond. Instead, I slam the door, and watch through the windshield as he stands there for a long moment before turning back toward the building.
My hands are shaking so badly I have to wait before turning the key.
“I’m calm,” I whisper. “You’re calm. We’re calm.”
The first tear falls before I finish the sentence.
Then I'm sobbing—ugly, gasping, angry crying—my face in my hands, my chest heaving. I cry for the daycare. For the kids. For Greta looking at him like he hung the moon. For Ricky May who's finally starting to trust again.
For myself, and how stupid I was to let my guard down for even a second.
By the time I stop at a red light, the tears have stopped but the anger hasn’t.
Houston rushes past my windows— colourful dinners, gas stations and the highway overpass where someone spray-paineted LOVE IS HERE in huge letters. The sun is setting, bleeding a pink and purple hue across the sky like the world isn’t ending.
But mine is.
The daycare is all I have. The only place where I can be around children without the crippling fear of loss. Where I can pretend, for a few hours, that I’m still the mother I was supposed to be.
And Elliot Torres is going to take that all away.
My phone buzzes in the car’s console. Maizie.
| Maizie: You ok? That was really intense.
I don’t respond. What would I even say?
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. Mascara smudged. Eyes red. I look exactly how I feel— utterly wrecked.
The light turns green. Someone honks. I drive.
My laptop boots while I pace my small living room. My feet carry me from one corner of the room to the other. My brain is alive, wired, looking for an outlet for this burning rage inside me.
When I finally see the welcome notification on my laptop’s screen, I trudge to my centre table and start typing.
Torres Development Houston.
Immediately, search results flood my screen, making my eyes cross for a second. Page after page of luxury condos, high-rise apartments, "urban renewal projects." Which is code for: destroy what exists, build something expensive.
One article catches my eye: "Community Group Protests Torres Development Project in East Downtown."
I click.
Residents of the historic East Downtown neighborhood rallied against Torres Development's proposed luxury apartment complex, which would demolish affordable housing units. "They don't care about us," said longtime resident Gina Gonzalez. "They care about profit."
There's a photo: protesters holding signs. OUR HOMES MATTER. PEOPLE OVER PROFIT.
There’s another photo of a man. Their face is blurred but I can tell it’s Elliot.
My chest tightens.
I screenshot it. Then another article. And another. Building my case, piece by piece.
My phone buzzes. Maizie again.
| Maizie: Emergency meeting tomorrow before kids arrive? We need to talk about this
I respond immediately:
| Me:Yes. Rally everyone
| Maizie: Are you sure about this? Going to war?
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Am I sure?
I look at the photo on my wall—the one I can't take down but can't look at directly. Raina and Regan, six years old, gap-toothed grins, before the world took them from me.
I'd promised myself: never again. Never lose control. Never let someone take what matters.
| Me: I’ve never been more sure.
I'm staring at another article about Torres Development when my phone buzzes again.
Finally, Boris said he'd call tonight with an update.
But it's not Boris's nasally voice. It's a woman.
"Is this Denaya Micah?"
"Yes. Who's this?"
"I'm calling from Boris Ernest's office. Well, former office." She sounds apologetic. "Mr. Ernest's phone has been disconnected, and his office lease was terminated three weeks ago."
The room starts spinning. "What?"
"We found out that Boris— or Mr. Ernest is not a PI agent. He used the company name and his position to extort money from a lot of clients. We have been trying to contact all his clients. Did you have an outstanding balance or—"
"No. I spoke with him this morning. He was going to get back to me tonight with information.” Shock licks at the walls of my mind, leaving me speechless. “I—he was working a case for me. Where is he?"
"We don't know, ma'am. He didn't give notice, didn't forward contact information. He just... vanished."
Vanished. Left. Just like Marcus. Just like everyone.
"If you hear from him again—"
I hang up.
For a long moment, I just sit there, phone in my shaking hand.
Three years. Three YEARS I've been paying Boris to find the driver. Thousands of dollars. Every lead I had, every scrap of hope—
Gone.
I open my banking app with numb fingers. Last payment to Boris: $2,000. Two weeks ago. For a lead he was "following up on."
He took my money and vanished.
Or... or something happened to him.
The thought sends ice through my veins. What if he found something? Something big enough that someone made him disappear?
I look at my laptop screen—at Elliot Torres's face in that expensive suit.
A man with billions of dollars. The kind of money that could make problems disappear.
No. That's… That's insane.
My hands curl into fists.
The driver is gone. The PI is gone. And now Elliot Torres wants to take the last thing I have.
I open a new document and start typing:
STOP THE TORRES TAKEOVER - Community Action Plan
If everyone wants to take from me, fine.
But I'm done being a victim.
- Writer
