CHAPTER 159: The Interview

POV: Selene Castellano

A JOURNALIST CALLED on a Monday. Not the foundation’s press line, Selene’s personal number. Someone had given it to her. Which meant this wasn’t casual.

“My name is Rachel Smith,” a crisp, professional voice said. “I’m writing a piece for the Chronicle on the Pierce Foundation’s displacement bond acknowledgment. I’d like to speak with you directly.”

“About what specifically?” Selene asked, her gaze flicking to the framed photo on her desk.

“About whether an acknowledgment is enough,” Rachel said. “There are community members who don’t think it is. I want your response.”

“Send me your questions in writing first,” Selene said.

“I’d prefer a conversation,” Rachel said.

“I’d prefer to know what I’m walking into,” Selene said. “Send the questions. If I’m comfortable I’ll sit down with you. If not I’ll respond in writing.”

A pause. “Alright,” Rachel said, then hung up.

Amara appeared in the doorway. “I heard,” she said.

“Is there something I don’t know about the community response?” Selene said, her stomach twisting.

Amara came in and sat down at the desk, pushing aside a stack of papers. “Patricia Ruiz called me Friday. She’s been hearing from residents in the Mission who feel the land trust is moving too slowly. They’re talking to journalists.”

“Who specifically?”

“Three families,” Amara said. “They’re all connected to the original displacement. They’ve been waiting for the land trust to have its first completed transaction and it’s taking longer than the timeline suggested.”

“How much longer?” Selene asked, the words tight.

“Six weeks,” Amara said. “The property assessment had complications. It’s all legal. Nothing wrong, just slow.”

“Six weeks feels like broken promises when you’ve been waiting forty years,” Selene said, her voice low.

“Yes,” Amara said simply.

Selene looked out the window, the late afternoon sun a pale smear. “Get me a meeting with those three families,” she said, turning back to Amara. “Before I talk to Rachel Smith. Before anyone talks to anyone.”

“When?” Amara asked.

“This week,” Selene said. “Whatever it takes.”

SHE TOLD AVALON that evening, over dinner at home.

“A Chronicle piece?” he said, setting down his wine glass.

“On whether acknowledgment is enough,” she said. “Which is a fair question.”

“Is acknowledgment enough?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But acknowledgment plus action is. The land trust is the action. It’s just slow.”

“What do you need?” he asked, his expression serious.

“The legal complication on the property assessment,” she said. “I need it resolved this week.”

“I’ll call Margaret tonight,” he said, picking up his phone.

“Thank you.”

“Selene.”

“Yes?”

“You’re twenty-seven weeks pregnant,” he said.

“I know how pregnant I am, Avalon.”

“I’m not saying slow down,” he said. “I’m saying-tell me when it’s too much. Don’t manage it from me.”

She looked at him, feeling a flush rise up her neck. “I’m not managing it.”

“You’re doing the thing where you process everything internally first and then present me with the finished version,” he said, his tone gentle. “That’s managing.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “That’s fair,” she said.

“Tell me what you’re actually feeling,” he said, reaching across the table to take her hand.

She was quiet for a moment, the words catching in her throat. “Scared,” she said. “That we moved too slowly. That the families who trusted us are going to feel like we’re just another institution that made promises and didn’t deliver.”

“Okay,” he said, squeezing her hand. “That’s real. Now we fix it.” He picked up his phone again and called Margaret.

THE THREE FAMILIES agreed to meet Thursday, in the Mission. Selene went alone, no Amara, no James, no one from the foundation’s official structure. Just her.

The meeting was held in a cramped community room in a low-slung building that smelled vaguely of old coffee and too many hard conversations. Six adults sat around a table of mismatched chairs, and two young children hunched over homework in the corner, their faces lit by the glow of a tablet.

A woman named Gloria Reeves, her hands folded tightly in her lap, spoke first. “My mother lost her house on Valencia Street in 1985,” Gloria said, her voice husky. “I grew up in four different apartments after that.

My kids grew up in three.”

She looked directly at Selene. “When the foundation announced the land trust, my mother cried. She’s seventy-nine. She cried because she thought-finally.

Someone is actually doing something.”

“Yes,” Selene said, her chest tightening.

“That was five months ago,” Gloria continued. “The first property was supposed to be in transaction two months ago.”

“It’s six weeks late,” Selene said, meeting Gloria’s gaze. “Not two months. There was a legal complication in the property assessment that we didn’t anticipate and didn’t communicate clearly enough.

That’s our failure.

Not the timeline.”

Gloria’s expression shifted slightly, her gaze softening a fraction. “Six weeks,” she said, the words tentative.

“Six weeks,” Selene confirmed. “The legal issue is being resolved this week. Margaret Pierce-our legal lead-is personally handling it. The transaction closes in three weeks.”

“You’re sure?” Gloria asked, a flicker of hope in her eyes.

“I’m sure,” Selene said. “And I want to give you my number. If three weeks becomes four you call me directly.” She wrote it down on a scrap of paper and pushed it across the table.

The room was quiet. An older man named Bernard cleared his throat. “Why didn’t someone call us when the delay happened?”

“Because we made the mistake of thinking a six-week delay was manageable without communication,” Selene said, her voice steady. “We were wrong. You deserved to know the moment we knew.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said we were wrong,” Gloria said, a hint of challenge in her voice.

“Because we were,” Selene said.

ON THE DRIVE home, she called Avalon. “How was it?” he asked.

“Hard,” she said. “Gloria Reeves’s mother lost her house on Valencia Street in 1985,” she said, relaying Gloria’s story. “She’s seventy-nine and she cried when we announced the land trust.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Three weeks,” he said finally. “Margaret will make it happen.”

“I know,” she said. “Avalon.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for making me say the feeling,” she said. “Before the plan.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“Don’t get smug about it.”

“I’m sequencing the smugness,” he said. “I’ll release it later.”

She almost laughed.