Chapter 7 - Protecting Renata
By Wednesday morning, the storm broke over the city.
Not a snowstorm, but a legal blizzard.
At eight o'clock sharp, court-appointed marshals and forensic accountants from *Sterling & Partners* entered the headquarters of Morales Capital on Financial Center Plaza. By nine o'clock, Hector Morales was formally served with an emergency injunction removing him as CEO, citing material breach of fiduciary duty and fraudulent concealment of trust assets.
At ten o'clock, Hector’s corporate computer was seized.
I spent the morning in Arthur Sterling’s conference room, reviewing the real-time reports coming from the forensic audit team. What they found was even worse than we had anticipated.
Hector and Carmen had not just hidden Renata’s identity—they had been systematically siphoning funds from a secondary healthcare endowment left by Jonathan Vance, routing it through offshore shell companies in the Cayman Islands to cover Paola’s husband’s disastrous real estate speculations.
“It’s wire fraud, bank fraud, and tax evasion,” Arthur Sterling said, tossing a fresh file onto the glass table. “The United States Attorney’s Office for the District of Massachusetts has already opened a preliminary grand jury inquiry. By Friday, Carmen and Hector will be facing federal indictments.”
As he spoke, the double doors opened.
A woman in a sharp navy blazer entered, carrying a leather briefcase. She had kind brown eyes, silver-streaked hair, and an official badge clipped to her lapel: *Department of Children and Families, Office of the Ombudsman.*
“Mr. Morales?” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Dr. Sarah Jenkins. I’m the independent court-appointed guardian ad litem assigned to review Renata’s status following the emergency paternity filing.”
My heart tightened instinctively. Even though I knew I was her biological father, the trauma of the past few days made me defensive whenever an official approached my daughter.
“Dr. Jenkins,” I shook her hand. “Is there a problem with the paternity recognition?”
“Not at all,” Dr. Jenkins smiled reassuringly. “The genetic markers are irrefutable, and the probate judge signed the amended birth certificate this morning. You are officially Renata’s father on all legal records, past, present, and future.”
I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for five years.
“However,” Dr. Jenkins continued, her tone turning serious, “your mother filed an emergency petition for temporary emergency guardianship two hours ago, alleging that you experienced a psychiatric break on Christmas Day, abducted Renata, and are keeping her in an unstable hotel environment while suffering from paranoid delusions regarding your late partner.”
A cold fury ignited in my gut. “She filed for custody?”
“She did,” Dr. Jenkins nodded. “Which is why the judge sent me here directly. I need to speak with Renata. Alone, if possible, for fifteen minutes. To assess her emotional state, verify her safety, and determine whether there is any substance to the grandmother’s claims.”
I looked through the glass window of the adjoining room. Renata was sitting on a plush rug, carefully constructing a tall tower out of colorful wooden blocks with Mrs. Gable.
“She’s six years old, Dr. Jenkins,” I said softly. “She has been through hell. Please be gentle.”
“I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years, Mr. Morales,” Dr. Jenkins said gently. “I know what trauma looks like. And I know what love looks like.”
I stepped out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar as legally required. I stood in the corridor with Arthur Sterling, watching through the glass.
Dr. Jenkins walked in, sat cross-legged on the rug beside Renata, and admired the block tower. She spoke softly. Renata answered, nodding, occasionally gesturing with her small hands.
After ten minutes, Dr. Jenkins pulled out a set of child-friendly psychological evaluation cards—drawings of families, houses, and everyday scenes.
She showed one to Renata. Renata pointed to the figures, speaking animatedly.
Then Dr. Jenkins pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a box of crayons, asking Renata to draw something.
Renata worked diligently for five minutes. When she finished, she handed the paper to Dr. Jenkins.
Through the glass, I saw Dr. Jenkins’s face change. Her professional detachment melted into a look of profound, quiet sorrow, followed by a resolute tightening of her jaw.
She stood up, patted Renata gently on the head, and walked out into the corridor.
“Dr. Jenkins?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
Dr. Jenkins handed me the drawing.
It was a picture of the kitchen at my parents' house.
On the left side was a giant mountain of gray plates, taller than the little girl standing on the wooden stool. The little girl had tears drawn in blue crayon streaming down her cheeks. Behind her stood a woman in an emerald green dress with sharp, claw-like hands and an angry red mouth.
Underneath the drawing, written in Renata’s shaky first-grade handwriting, were three sentences:
*Grandma said I don't have real blood.*
*Grandma said if I tell Daddy, he will send me back to the orphanage.*
*Daddy saved me.*
I choked back a sob, gripping the edges of the drawing.
May you like
Dr. Jenkins placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Morales, your mother’s emergency petition has been dismissed with prejudice. In fact, I am attaching this drawing and my official deposition to a criminal child endangerment referral against Carmen Morales. She will never be allowed within five hundred yards of your daughter again.”
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