Chapter 4 - FIVE SONGS AND A MILLION QUESTIONS
"Five?"
I looked at the names written beneath my mother's signature.
Summer on Maple Street.
The Blue Window.
Letters for Sunday.
The Last Little Star.
And Sofia's Waltz.
Each title brought back a memory.
Mom practicing while I did homework.
My father repairing radios at the kitchen table.
Sofia falling asleep on the living room rug.
Our family hadn't been wealthy.
But those evenings had felt like everything we needed.
Now I wondered how many strangers had heard those melodies without ever knowing my mother's name.
"Why didn't Mom tell me?" I asked.
Dad's voice was quiet.
"She planned to."
"When?"
"After she got better."
None of us spoke.
We all knew how that promise had ended.
The next morning, I met Julian at the foundation's Dallas office.
Mercedes came with me.
She'd taken the morning off from the hotel after telling our director there was a serious dispute involving material used at the gala.
"Whatever happens," she told me in the elevator, "don't let anyone turn this into a fight about whether you should have been playing the piano."
Julian was waiting in a conference room.
He looked as though he hadn't slept.
"I've asked our records department to preserve everything connected to your mother's compositions," he said.
I placed the yellow permission form and certified mailing receipt on the table.
Then I showed him the photographs.
He examined each one.
When he reached the letter listing five songs, he stopped.
"I know three of these titles."
My stomach tightened.
"From where?"
"Our children's music education program."
He opened a laptop.
Within minutes, a collection of educational materials appeared on the screen.
There were beginner piano arrangements, classroom recordings, and teaching videos.
Julian clicked the first recording.
A familiar melody filled the room.
The Blue Window.
Mom used to play it when thunderstorms frightened Sofia.
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
The recording ended.
Beneath it was a credit.
Composed by Victoria Luján.
Julian opened another.
Summer on Maple Street.
The same credit.
Then another.
Letters for Sunday.
I felt suddenly cold.
"They've been teaching children my mother's music."
Julian nodded grimly.
"For years."
"And telling them Victoria wrote it."
He closed the laptop.
"Yes."
Mercedes moved her chair closer to mine.
"Carolina, breathe."
I shook my head.
"I'm fine."
But I wasn't.
My mother had spent her final months worrying that our little music school would be forgotten.
Meanwhile, her compositions had traveled farther than she ever had.
Only her name had been erased.
Julian explained that the foundation had a separate publishing arrangement for its educational catalog.
Victoria served as board chair.
She also appeared in the publicity materials as a composer and arts patron.
"Who approved the licensing?" I asked.
"The foundation's acquisitions department. Our chief financial officer handled the transactions."
"Did you approve them?"
He hesitated.
"I approved the overall music education budget. I didn't examine every individual composition."
"So you funded this."
"Yes."
The word hung between us.
He didn't make excuses.
"I should have paid closer attention."
"Why didn't you?"
Julian looked at me for a long moment.
"Because I trusted people who appeared to be doing good work."
I almost laughed.
My father had said nearly the same thing.
Trust.
Such a beautiful word.
Such an expensive mistake.
Julian turned the screen toward me again.
"I also reviewed the payment summaries last night."
"Did you find the money?"
"Not all of it. But I found the main outgoing transfers."
He showed me a column of transactions.
Almost every major payment into the account under my name was followed by a transfer to the same organization.
Luján Arts Initiative.
"That's Victoria's company?" Mercedes asked.
"An affiliated nonprofit organization," Julian explained. "It funds arts events, community classes, and promotional programs."
"How much of the money went there?"
"Most of it."
I stared at the screen.
"My father didn't spend it?"
"There's no evidence he received the licensing payments. His name appears as an authorized representative, but the recurring electronic transfers were created through separate instructions."
"With my signature?"
"Apparently."
"I never signed anything."
"I believe you."
But belief wasn't proof.
I knew that.
Julian knew it, too.
He explained that the original account authorization, publishing agreement, and transfer instructions needed independent examination.
He was arranging for the foundation's records to be preserved before its board could make changes.
That was when Mercedes noticed something.
"Julian, go back."
He scrolled.
"Which part?"
"The publication dates."
She pointed at the screen.
The first educational recording had been released before the foundation claimed to have purchased the rights from me.
Julian leaned forward.
"That shouldn't have happened."
"Why?"
"Because the licensing agreement used to justify publication hadn't been signed yet."
A moment passed.
Then I understood.
Victoria hadn't simply acquired the music through questionable paperwork.
She had already been using it.
The supposed sale came later.
Mercedes looked at me.
"That's why the dates matter."
Julian opened another file.
A catalog showing the foundation's active educational programs.
I scanned the pages.
Hundreds of schools.
Thousands of students.
Five songs carrying Victoria's name.
Then I noticed a sixth title on the upcoming schedule.
It wasn't one of my mother's compositions.
It was a scholarship program.
The Victoria Luján Young Musicians Award.
Beneath the program description was a note identifying applicants whose eligibility had been restricted.
The first name on that list made my blood run cold.
May you like
Sofia Reyes.
My eighteen-year-old sister.
