"Then all those times you told me to keep records?"
"Good advice for any homeowner facing disputed fines. I told you the same things I would tell my own brother. Keep originals. Don't guess about evidence."
She continued, "Don't publish private material. Get independent counsel. None of that required knowing anything about an investigation."
I went back to the chair and sat down. The anger I had felt was mixed with embarrassment, relief, and something that made me want to laugh at the absurdity of my own assumptions.
"I asked whether your work involved filing forms," I remembered.
"It does sometimes. A remarkable number of forms."
"And you told me you couldn't discuss your day because of confidentiality."
"That part was true."
"I once explained what a subpoena was to you."
She finally laughed, and it broke some of the tension. "You did. Very enthusiastically."
"You could have stopped me."
"You were having such a good time."
We sat there for a while. Then I asked the question that mattered most. "If I go forward with this, am I going to become somebody's convenient story about a prosecutor getting revenge for her boyfriend?"
Maria's expression turned serious again. "Possibly. That's why we have to keep our roles separate. Anything you report goes through your lawyer or the designated investigators."
She held my gaze. "I can't promise arrests, control a federal investigation, or show you confidential evidence. I can be your girlfriend. I can tell you when I think you're taking an unnecessary risk. But you have to decide what you want to do as a homeowner."
"And if I want to keep going?"
"Then keep going because the documents matter, not because you happen to be dating me."
That was the first night I truly understood her. Not because she'd finally given me a title, but because she refused to use it as a shortcut around the work I was trying to do.
We talked until after midnight. I told her how badly the divorce had shaken my ability to trust someone when they held back important information. She told me that being the district attorney had cost her friendships, changed the way strangers spoke to her, and made ordinary dating surprisingly difficult. Neither of us pretended the conversation resolved everything.
Before she left, she stood beside my front door and touched my arm.
"I'm sorry I made you feel as if you had to discover something important about me by accident," she said. "You deserved a straight answer."
"I did."
"I won't make you ask twice again."
I believed she meant it. Whether I was ready to trust that promise entirely would take more time.
The following day, Nadia called with the results of her initial review of the 1995 declaration. She had located the recorded amendments she could identify and had found no document authorizing the assessment increases I had calculated. She cautioned that some missing meeting records still needed to be investigated, but the pattern justified a demand for a complete independent accounting.