Collection notices.
Identity-theft reports.
Letters.
And one handwritten note from my father that practically admitted he had opened accounts under my name.
Sarah touched my shoulder.
“I always knew they’d try to rewrite the past someday.”
I nearly cried.
But there was someone else I needed to see.
Daniela Ruiz.
I found her living in an accessible apartment in Queens.
When she opened the door in her wheelchair and saw my expensive suit, her expression hardened.
“I’m not signing anything else.”
“I’m not here to ask you to.”
She hesitated.
I entered and placed a thick folder on her coffee table.
“I’m not here to buy your silence.”
She looked at me suspiciously.
“Then why are you here?”
“To make sure you’re heard.”
She opened the folder.
By the second page, tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Then Daniela told me something my investigator hadn’t found.
