CHAPTER 6
TERMS OF CONTACT
By ten the next morning, I had changed my mind about meeting Roman six times.
By ten-oh-three, I had changed it again.
The café near Eastern Market was crowded enough to make me feel safe without being so crowded that I could not hear myself think. Warm air fogged the windows, carrying the smell of espresso, toasted bread, and cinnamon. Outside, people moved beneath heavy coats while the sky threatened rain.
I chose a table near the entrance.
A clear view of the door.
A clear path outside.
Old habits did not disappear simply because I had returned to the city where they began.
I placed my folder on the table and checked my phone.
One message from Nia.
You okay?
I typed, Yes.
Then deleted it.
I am here. I will call when I leave.
Her reply came immediately.
Good. Do not let him make you feel trapped.
I slipped the phone into my coat pocket.
The bell above the café door rang.
Roman entered.
He wore a dark jacket over a gray sweater, his hair slightly damp from the fine rain beginning outside. He scanned the room, found me, and paused for half a second.
He did not bring Darius.
He did not bring anyone.
That mattered more than I wanted it to.
Roman approached the table but did not sit until I nodded.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“I asked you to come.”
“I know.”
He removed his gloves and placed them beside him. His gaze moved to the folder between us.
“I brought copies,” he said. “Nothing original.”
“Good.”
“And I spoke with Darius. He will send everything through Mara.”
I studied his face, looking for irritation, impatience, or the familiar expectation that I would eventually give in.
I found none.
That did not mean it was not there.
It only meant I had learned not to mistake a quiet expression for a changed man.
A server came over, and I ordered tea. Roman asked for coffee.
When she left, neither of us spoke.
The silence was not comfortable, but it was honest.
“I want to establish a few things before we discuss the records,” I said.
Roman leaned back. “All right.”
“You do not contact Maya.”
His expression shifted, barely.
I watched him carefully.
“You do not approach her, ask questions about her, or involve anyone from the club in her life.”
He lowered his gaze for a moment, then looked back at me. “Understood.”
“You do not decide where I go, who I speak to, or what I do with the evidence.”
“I will not.”
“If I say I need space, you give it to me.”
“Yes.”
“And if I decide that I do not want to continue working with you, you accept that.”
His jaw moved.
Not anger, exactly. Something closer to the discomfort of being told there was a door he could not force open.
“I accept that,” he said.
I held his gaze. “You do not get to punish me for having boundaries.”
“I know.”
“No, Roman. You knew boundaries existed four years ago. You simply thought the club mattered more.”
The words cut through the space between us.
His eyes did not leave mine.
“You are right.”
I looked away first.
The tea arrived. Steam curled above the cup, briefly blurring the space between us.
Roman waited until the server left.
“Is that everything?” he asked.
“No.”
I wrapped both hands around the cup.
“You do not get to use Maya to make me forgive you.”
His face tightened.
“I would never do that.”
“You might not intend to. That does not mean you could not.”
He absorbed the words slowly.
“Then I will be careful,” he said. “And if I make a mistake, you tell me.”
I almost smiled at the simplicity of it.
Almost.
“Fine,” I said. “Now we can talk about the records.”
Roman opened his folder.
The first document was a copy of an internal property review dated four years earlier. The second showed a payment authorization connected to Northline Development Partners. The third contained a list of names, several of which had been partially blacked out.
He pushed the papers toward me.
“I found these in the clubhouse archives,” he said. “There are missing pages, but the sequence suggests that the property committee approved an amendment before the formal meeting where it was supposedly discussed.”
I examined the dates.
Mara had identified the same inconsistency.
“This one,” I said, tapping the payment authorization. “The signature looks different.”
Roman leaned closer, but he did not reach for the document.
“Different how?”
“The first signature is quick. The second one is more deliberate. The spacing between the letters changes.”
“You can tell that?”
“I used to process invoices for a construction company. People think signatures are just names. They are not. People have patterns.”
Roman looked at the page.
“Could it have been copied?”
“Possibly. Mara will need a forensic review.”
He nodded.
I turned to the next document.
There it was again.
The former treasurer’s name.
Below it, a reference to a property consultant connected to Victor Hale.
My pulse quickened.
“Victor was involved in the negotiations?”
“According to this, he advised the committee on the proposed consolidation.”
“Was he involved before the accusation?”
Roman's eyes remained on the page. “Yes.”
The answer was quiet.
I leaned back.
“So he was already near the property records when I was accused.”
“I do not know whether he helped fabricate the evidence.”
“But you suspect it.”
“I suspect someone used the accusation to create confusion around the property transactions.”
“And I was convenient.”
Roman looked at me.
“You were targeted.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “That sounds better?”
“No.”
“Because I was not just targeted. I was abandoned.”
His shoulders stiffened.
The café continued around us. Cups clinked. Someone laughed near the counter. A child complained that his pastry had too much sugar.
The ordinary world kept moving while the past sat between us.
Roman lowered his voice. “I should have challenged the accusation publicly.”
“Yes.”
“I should have demanded independent verification.”
“Yes.”
“I should have stood beside you.”
I looked down at my tea.
There it was, the sentence I had once needed more than anything.
It arrived four years too late.
“I waited for you to say that,” I admitted.
Roman’s face changed.
“I know.”
“No, you do not. You do not know what it was like to stand there while everyone looked at me as if I had already confessed. You do not know what it felt like to hear you say nothing.”
“I know I failed you.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” he said. “It is not.”
For a moment, I could not find another response.
He did not reach for my hand. He did not ask me to forgive him. He did not try to explain the club, the pressure, or the obligations he had used as excuses.
He simply sat there and let the truth remain ugly.
I pulled the current property file from my folder.
“Mara found this through an independent contact. The current negotiation refers to an easement dispute connected to the same parcel.”
Roman studied the pages.
“This is more recent than anything I found.”
“Which means someone may still be using the old structure.”
“Or someone inherited it without knowing the full history.”
I gave him a look.
He stopped.
“Right,” he said. “We do not assume.”
“Exactly.”
We compared the documents piece by piece.
Dates.
Names.
Property references.
Payment codes.
A series of initials appeared in both sets of records, though the context differed. Roman recognized one of them as belonging to a former committee administrator. I recognized the formatting from the old files.
By the time we finished, my tea had gone cold.
The evidence did not form a complete picture, but it formed enough of a pattern to make denial impossible.
The original accusation had not simply destroyed my relationship with Roman.
It might have helped conceal an attempt to manipulate Iron Crown’s property interests.
Roman closed his folder.
“We need an independent timeline.”
“Mara is already building one.”
“Then I will give her everything Darius finds.”
“Through her.”
“Through her.”
I watched him for a moment.
“And what do you want from me?”
His eyes lifted.
“Access to anything you still have. Copies only. You keep the originals.”
“I know.”
“I also want you to tell me if you find evidence that points toward someone inside the club.”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you can handle the truth without protecting the club first.”
Roman did not answer immediately.
Outside, rain began tapping against the glass.
Finally, he said, “I cannot promise that the truth will leave the club untouched.”
“That is not what I asked.”
He looked at me.
“I will not hide it.”
The words settled heavily.
I wanted to believe him.
Wanting was not the same as trusting.
“Then we have an arrangement,” I said.
Roman nodded.
Neither of us moved to leave.
The space between us had changed, though I could not name it. We were no longer pretending the investigation was only about paperwork. We were also examining the choices that had brought us here.
He glanced toward the window.
“Are you staying in Hamtramck?”
The question was ordinary.
That made it dangerous.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I do not know.”
He nodded, accepting the answer without pressing.
“What about Maya’s school?”
My body went still.
Roman noticed.
“I am not asking for details,” he said quickly. “You mentioned her yesterday. I only meant…”
“You do not need to explain.”
His mouth closed.
I gathered the documents and returned them to my folder.
He stood when I stood, but he did not reach for my coat or attempt to walk me out.
At the entrance, I paused.
“Roman.”
“Yes?”
“This arrangement is not a reconciliation.”
“I know.”
“It is not a second chance.”
His gaze held mine.
“Not yet.”
The words stirred something I did not want to examine.
I opened the door.
Cold air rushed inside, carrying the scent of wet pavement and autumn leaves.
“Do not make promises you cannot keep,” I said.
Roman’s expression was steady.
“I will try to make fewer promises and keep more of them.”
I stepped outside before he could say anything else.
For the first time in four years, we had sat across from each other without pretending the past could be ignored.
It had not healed anything.
But it had given the truth a table, two chairs, and terms neither of us could quietly rewrite.