Mulberry Park. Judy Duarte

hated her job, hated getting up each day and going to work.

      But she hated weekends, too. Days when she didn’t have to punch a time clock.

      Her stomach growled, reminding her that she should have had more than coffee for breakfast.

      She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly noon and she was ready to head to the café down the street and pick up a salad, but there was still a call she needed to make and one more customer to see. So she closed the file she’d been working on, put it in the wire basket that held the other loan applications she’d been processing, and picked up the phone. She dialed her supervisor’s extension.

      He picked up on the first ring. “Joe Montgomery.”

      “It’s Claire. Have you got a minute?”

      “Sure.” His voice softened immediately, although she wished it hadn’t. He’d always been a bit more sympathetic than she was comfortable with. “What’s up?”

      “I’d like to take an early lunch on Thursday. I need to see an attorney, and eleven-thirty is his only time slot available.”

      “Is everything okay?” he asked.

      “Yes and no. I received a letter from the parole board, and Russell Meredith’s hearing is on July twenty-fourth.”

      “Do you have any say about him being released early or not?”

      “According to the notice, I do. And I want him to stay behind bars as long as possible.”

      “I can understand that.”

      Could he? Claire wasn’t sure anyone who hadn’t lost a child could.

      Russell Meredith had been responsible for Erik’s death. He’d run him down on the side of the street, then kept driving, callously leaving the scene.

      A jury had convicted him of vehicular manslaughter, which, as far as Claire was concerned, was just another word for murder.

      “Who are you going to see?” Joe asked.

      “Samuel Dawson. He represented Ron and me in the civil suit against Meredith.”

      At first Claire had felt funny going to the attorney who’d worked more closely with her ex-husband than he had with her, but Sam was already familiar with the case.

      “Do you need to take a longer lunch?” Joe asked.

      “No. His office is in that new six-story brick building next to Mulberry Park, so it’s nearby. I shouldn’t be long.”

      “Take all the time you need.”

      “Thanks.”

      After hanging up the receiver and disconnecting the line, she glanced at her appointment list, rolled back her chair, then stood and walked to the waiting area, where a petite Latina woman with a toddler on her lap sat next to a small, school-age boy.

      “Maria Rodriguez?” Claire asked.

      “Yes, that’s me.” The woman stood and shifted the little girl in her arms, revealing a distended womb.

      “This way.” Claire escorted her back to the office, but couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder.

      Maria, her big brown eyes luminous, carried her paperwork in one arm and the toddler in the other, while the boy—about seven or eight—followed along. “I’m sorry, but I had to bring the children with me. There wasn’t anyone who could watch them for me this morning.”

      “That’s all right.” Claire pointed to the chairs that sat before her desk, watching as Maria told her son to take one and chose the other for herself. “What can I help you with?”

      “I recently inherited a house on Sugar Plum Lane,” Maria said. “It belonged to my tía—my aunt—but several months before she passed away, she quitclaimed it to me. It’s an old home, but very clean and comfortable.”

      Claire nodded, assuming the woman meant to use the house as collateral. It was a simple enough procedure, especially if there wasn’t a huge mortgage or if there weren’t any liens against it.

      This appointment was just the first in a prescreening process the bank had recently instituted, and if the initial paperwork was in order, Ms. Rodriguez would be given a full application packet.

      “Did you fill out the form you were given at the front desk?” Claire asked.

      “Yes.” Maria handed over the paperwork.

      Claire looked at the neat, legible writing; it appeared to be complete. “Where do you work, Ms. Rodriguez?”

      “I’ve been cleaning houses, but after my aunt passed away, I no longer had a sitter.” She caressed her stomach, then cleared her throat. “I’m a hard worker and plan to get a job as a waitress. Once that happens, I’ll make double payments and get it paid off in no time at all.”

      “How much money are we talking about?”

      “I need fifty thousand dollars to see me through the next two years.”

      “You don’t intend to work for two years?” Claire asked, realizing she might have to give the woman bad news before they went any further in the process.

      “With the cost of daycare, especially for infants, I’m afraid it wouldn’t do me any good. But as soon as Sara enters kindergarten, the expense should be easier to handle.”

      When Erik had been a baby, Claire had wanted to stay home with him, but Ron had gotten caught in the credit card trap, and she’d been forced to return to work immediately after her maternity leave. It had torn her apart to leave her infant son in the care of others when he’d been so tiny. But at the time, even though she’d worked at an entry-level job and the cost of his sitter had taken nearly half her paycheck, there had been no options.

      Claire looked at the Rodriguez children, a blue-eyed boy with a head of thick dark hair and a squirmy toddler. Her gaze naturally drifted to the woman’s belly. In a couple of months, maybe less, Maria would have another little one.

      “What does your husband do?” Claire asked. Maybe there was a big enough income and it wouldn’t matter that she’d be out of work.

      “He’s…we’re…” She cleared her throat. “Separated. Legally.”

      “My daddy went to prison,” the boy added. “And for a very long time, but he can send me letters.”

      The man was a convicted criminal?

      Every day Claire met people wanting loans, couples hoping to refinance the house—to send a child to college, to remodel, or to pay off credit card bills. It was her job to calculate the risks of loaning them money, whether she sympathized with the applicant or not.

      And in this particular case, Claire did sympathize. The poor woman had a rough row to hoe—and apparently no one to help. But the newly instituted loan regulations were sure to bind Claire’s hands.

      She scanned the application again, looking for something on which to base a decision to preapprove the loan.

      Education? Just high school.

      Work experience? None to speak of.

      A savings account? Just a couple of thousand dollars.

      “Actually,” Maria explained, “I’m very frugal. So I’ve considered my living expenses plus the monthly payment in the loan amount I’m requesting. But maybe I can get by with less.”

      “I believe you,” Claire said, “but I’m not able to approve your loan.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you have no income and no significant savings.”

      “But I have a house. It’s worth a whole lot more than what I’m asking for. If I didn’t make the payments on time, you could take it from