Chapter 5 - The File on Maya
Marcus called Northgate the next morning.
A receptionist answered.
“My name is Marcus Reed. You have an assessment scheduled for my daughter.”
“Yes, Mr. Reed. October nineteenth.”
“I didn’t schedule it.”
Silence.
“Sir?”
“Who did?”
The receptionist became careful.
“I’ll need to verify your identity.”
Marcus provided the necessary information.
A few minutes later, a consultant named Dr. Helen Park joined the call.
“Mr. Reed, our intake form lists both you and your wife.”
“I never completed an intake form.”
Another pause.
“Your electronic signature is on it.”
“Send me a copy.”
When the PDF arrived, Marcus saw his name.
The signature looked like his.
But it was not.
Camille had access to an old scanned signature Marcus used occasionally for construction documents.
His stomach tightened.
The intake packet was twenty-three pages long.
Camille had described Maya as manipulative, destructive, dishonest, jealous, and emotionally unstable.
She claimed Maya stole money.
Threatened to run away.
Destroyed Camille’s belongings.
Started fights at school.
None of it had ever been reported to Marcus.
There were photographs attached.
A broken perfume bottle.
A torn blouse.
A kitchen drawer pulled open.
A pile of snack wrappers beneath Maya’s bed.
Marcus enlarged the last image.
The wrappers were brands Maya disliked.
Peanut butter crackers.
Spicy chips.
Coconut cookies.
Maya hated coconut.
Marcus called Ms. Coleman.
“Has Maya ever been aggressive at school?”
“Never.”
“Stealing money?”
“No.”
“Threatened to run away?”
“Not that we know.”
He spent the afternoon calling every adult listed in the packet.
Teacher.
Pediatrician.
After-school coordinator.
Neighbor.
Every story Camille had built began falling apart.
Yet each contained one grain of truth.
Maya had taken crackers.
Because she was hungry.
She had cried during class.
After Camille withheld breakfast following an argument.
She had once shouted, “I want my dad.”
Camille labeled it a behavioral episode.
That evening Marcus showed Maya the photograph of the snack wrappers.
“Have you ever seen these?”
Maya immediately pointed at the spicy chips.
“Camille eats those.”
Marcus stared.
“The wrappers were found under your bed.”
“I didn’t put them there.”
He believed her.
That frightened him.
Not because Maya was unreliable.
Because believing her meant accepting what Camille might have done.
At 8:40 p.m., Marcus received a text.
Camille.
Can we talk without Maya around?
Marcus replied.
Tomorrow. Public place.
They met at a coffee shop the following morning.
Camille looked exhausted but composed.
“You contacted Northgate.”
“Yes.”
“You had no right to cancel that appointment without discussing it.”
Marcus almost laughed.
“I’m her father.”
“And I’m the person raising her while you’re always gone.”
“You forged my signature.”
“I used the signature you told me I could use for household paperwork.”
“A residential-placement application is not household paperwork.”
“She needs help.”
“No. You need her gone.”
Camille’s face hardened.
“That is not true.”
“Then explain this.”
Marcus placed the intake packet on the table.
“You say she stole money. When?”
Camille hesitated.
“Cash went missing.”
“How much?”
“Twenty dollars.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Police report?”
“Of course not.”
“You claim she destroys your clothes.”
“She does.”
“Show me.”
“I threw them away.”
“School aggression?”
“They don’t see what she’s like at home.”
Marcus leaned back.
Every accusation existed where no one else could verify it.
He thought about construction inspections.
If a contractor claimed ten separate failures but every one occurred off-camera, without reports, invoices, witnesses, or photographs showing context, Marcus would not approve a thing.
Yet he had accepted Camille’s version of Maya for months because she was his wife.
“Why the pantry lock?”
Camille stared down.
“I told you.”
“No. You gave me an excuse.”
“She ate without permission.”
“Children eat.”
“She was becoming entitled.”
“She was hungry.”
Camille looked up sharply.
“You always take her side.”
There it was.
Not parenting.
Competition.
Marcus lowered his voice.
“She is eight years old.”
Camille’s eyes glistened.
“And I’ve spent three years being second place to a dead woman and her daughter.”
Marcus went still.
“Elena has nothing to do with this.”
“She has everything to do with it. Her pictures are still in the house. Her furniture is still there. Maya compares everything I do to her.”
“Maya barely remembers her mother.”
“She remembers enough.”
Marcus studied the woman sitting across from him.
For the first time, he saw something beneath the cruelty.
Not an excuse.
A motive.
Resentment.
Long cultivated.
Carefully hidden.
Camille leaned closer.
“You want the truth? I was trying to save our marriage.”
Marcus shook his head.
“No. You were trying to remove my daughter from it.”
Camille stood.
“You’ll regret believing everything she says.”
She walked away.
Marcus remained at the table.
His phone vibrated.
An alert from his newly secured email account.
Suspicious login blocked.
Location: their house.
Marcus stared.
May you like
Camille had told him she was staying with a friend.
But someone was inside his home.
