Chapter 7: A Dead End Call

The next morning, armed with a fresh determination, I made a silent vow: no more relying on Chloe. I would tackle Elite Properties directly, even if it meant battling their automated system for hours. My first step was to bypass the generic line. I searched online for “Elite Properties corporate office” and found a different main number, hoping for a higher-level contact.

I dialed, my heart thumping a steady rhythm against my ribs. The initial automated menu was slightly different, offering options for “corporate accounts” and “management inquiries.” I pressed the one for management, figuring a supervisor might have more access than the general agents.

After another tedious wait, filled with elevator music that grated on my nerves, a new voice answered. It was a woman, polite but brisk, introducing herself as Ms. Albright’s assistant. “Elite Properties, this is Sarah. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Sarah,” I began, trying to keep my voice calm and professional. “My name is Maya Rodriguez, and I’m calling about our application for the cultural center. We received a letter saying it’s incomplete, and we just had a loan for the project delayed because of it.”

I laid out the situation concisely, explaining that I had submitted all documents through Chloe Davis, and that the bank was now requesting clarification directly from Elite Properties. I focused on the facts, leaving out my suspicions about Chloe for now. I needed information, not speculation.

Sarah listened patiently, her responses punctuated by the occasional click of a keyboard. “Hmm, the Rodriguez Panadería file,” she murmured, a pause following. “Yes, I see the notes here.”

My breath hitched. Notes? What notes? Was this it? Was I finally going to get some clarity?

“According to our records,” Sarah continued, her voice even, “all your family’s files are currently in order. Ms. Albright has reviewed them. There was some back-and-forth, as there often is with new applications, but everything seems to be with us now.”

My jaw dropped. “In order? But we received a letter two weeks ago saying it was incomplete! And our loan was just delayed today because of missing documentation from your office.” The frustration was bubbling over, making my voice sharper than I intended.

“I apologize for any confusion, Ms. Rodriguez,” Sarah said, her tone suddenly stiffening. “But my records indicate everything is now present. Any previous communication regarding missing items would have been before the latest submissions were processed.”

“The latest submissions?” I pressed, trying to keep up. “When were those?”

Another pause, a slightly longer one this time. “I’m not authorized to give out specific dates or details without Ms. Albright’s direct approval,” Sarah stated, her voice now flat and impersonal. “All I can confirm is that the file shows as complete now. Any further inquiries regarding specific timelines or past communications will need to go through Ms. Albright herself.”

“Can I speak to Ms. Albright, then?” I asked, feeling a familiar wall go up. This was exactly what Chloe had done, blocking access, controlling the flow of information.

“Ms. Albright is in meetings all day,” Sarah replied, the answer sounding rehearsed. “I can put you down for a callback, but it might be a few days.”

A few days? Our loan was already delayed, and Abuela was resting under doctor’s orders. A few days could mean losing the lease entirely. It felt like I was running in quicksand, every step sinking deeper.

“But the bank needs this information urgently,” I pleaded, trying a different tack. “They need to confirm what happened with the missing documents. Can you just tell me *when* the documents were finally submitted? It’s crucial for our loan.”

“I understand your urgency, Ms. Rodriguez,” Sarah said, her voice completely devoid of empathy now. “But as I’ve already stated, I cannot provide that information. My role is merely to confirm the current status of files. Ms. Albright is the only one who can discuss specifics of the application timeline.”

The conversation felt like banging my head against a brick wall. The politeness was a thin veneer over a stone-cold refusal to provide any actual help. “All files are in order,” she said, yet the bank still had outstanding documentation requests. It made no sense. It was a direct contradiction.

“Thank you for your time, Sarah,” I said, realizing this was a dead end. I hung up, my hand still gripping the phone tightly.

The silence that followed was heavy with my frustration. They were blocking me. Elite Properties, Chloe’s supposed “connection,” was actively withholding information. It solidified my suspicion that something was being hidden, something beyond mere disorganization.

The way Sarah had stiffened when I mentioned “latest submissions,” her quick refusal to provide dates, it all felt too deliberate. It felt like someone had indeed “smoothed things over,” but not in a way that helped us. It felt like a cover-up.

I walked back to the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread no longer offering comfort. The sun, usually bright and cheerful through the panadería window, seemed muted, casting a gray light on the counter. My path to the truth felt obstructed, intentionally so. The more I pushed, the more resistance I met, suggesting there was something specific being protected. What exactly were they hiding? And who was behind it? The wall around our application was not just high; it felt like it had been carefully constructed.