Chương 4
His volunteer shift had ended, but a snowstorm delayed the bus, and he had gone back upstairs because the hospital lobby smelled like wet coats and floor cleaner. Children’s Harbor funded equipment, transportation grants, family meals, and temporary housing for parents whose children required long treatment.
His mother had received a transportation grant during the last year of her illness.
She had hated accepting it.
“Rich people love naming things,” she told Ethan after a black car brought them home from chemotherapy. “They name rooms, chairs, programs. Nobody wants their name on gas money.”
The grant had no donor plaque. That was why she eventually accepted it.
After she died, Ethan began volunteering for the foundation because grief made him restless and because Margaret Leland had asked once without asking again. He entered donor acknowledgments, prepared packets, and delivered sealed envelopes between the foundation office and the hospital’s finance department.
One Tuesday in November, a family transportation payment failed.
The mother, Keisha Bell, had called the foundation from a parking garage after her card was declined at the exit gate. Her seven-year-old son had spent six hours in treatment. She was trying not to cry because he was asleep in the back seat.
The program coordinator, Hannah Wu, found enough money in a different account to cover the charge.
“It’s probably a coding delay,” she told Ethan.
But the next week, two hotel vouchers were suspended. Then a meal-assistance payment arrived late. Each problem was small enough to explain.
Together, they created a shape.
Ethan asked to see the program ledger.
Hannah refused.
“You’re a volunteer.”
“I enter donor data.”
“You enter names and addresses. That is not the same as access to financial records.”
“My mother’s memorial fund is in that program.”
“And that is exactly why you should not be the person reviewing it.”
He left angry.
The following afternoon, Hannah called him into the copy room and handed him a printed summary.
“I’m not giving you access,” she said. “I am showing you totals that are already in the quarterly packet.”
The transportation fund had received $312,000 in designated gifts that year.
Only $84,000 remained available.
Spending on families did not account for the difference.
A line labeled donor-relations consulting appeared three times.
Ethan asked what it meant.
Hannah rubbed both hands over her face.
“It means I asked finance and finance told me to ask Vanessa.”
Vanessa chaired the foundation’s development committee. She cultivated wealthy donors, organized events, and had doubled annual contributions in four years. People forgave her impatience because she produced results.
Ethan requested the invoices through the foundation’s internal records portal. The request was denied.
Two days later, Vanessa invited him to lunch.
They ate at a private club overlooking Michigan Avenue. The waiter knew her name and brought sparkling water before she ordered it. Vanessa asked about school, college applications, and whether Ethan still planned to study public policy.
Then she said, “You have been asking questions that make staff uncomfortable.”
“Which questions?”
“The kind that imply wrongdoing before you understand the work.”
“I asked what consulting services we paid for.”
“You asked a program coordinator who has no role in development contracts.”
“She told me to ask you.”
Vanessa cut a piece of salmon and set down her fork without eating it.
“Do you know why the gala raises more money every year?”
“Because you invite wealthy people.”
“Because I know what they need in order to give.”
“What do they need?”
“To feel that their money joins something competent. Beautiful. Important. They do not want to fund confusion.”
“Transportation isn’t confusion.”
“No. It is a service. Services require administration.”
“Nearly half a million dollars?”
Her eyes sharpened.
“You accessed a figure you were not authorized to see.”
“It’s in the board packet.”
“Which is not prepared for volunteers.”
“My mother’s memorial fund was charged.”
Vanessa’s expression softened too quickly.
“Ethan.”
“Was it?”
“Your mother’s fund is part of a pooled program.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No,” she said. “It is the explanation.”
He had left the restaurant before dessert.
For days afterward, he doubted himself.
Vanessa understood organizations. Ethan understood spreadsheets and the particular humiliation of needing help. Those were not the same thing. She had raised millions. He had raised $1,870 through a school run after his mother died, most of it from parents who felt obligated.
Then Maya found the companies.
Northline Advisory Group.
Lake Street Partnerships.
Briar Civic Strategies.
All three were registered to a mailbox service in Oak Brook. Two listed the same organizer, a retired accountant named Paul Drennan. The third listed a woman who had died fourteen months before the company’s formation date.
“That can’t be right,” Maya said.
They sat at a library table beneath fluorescent lights while a man nearby watched fishing videos without headphones.
“It could be a data error,” Ethan said.
“It could be fraud.”
“Don’t say that.”
“You’re the one who brought me here.”
“To check.”
“I checked.”
“Check again.”
Maya looked at him across the laptop.
“You want it to be a mistake because she’s your aunt.”
“Yes.”
It was the first honest answer he had given anyone.
Now, upstairs in the blue sitting room, someone knocked.
A woman in a navy suit entered. She was in her fifties, with short auburn hair and reading glasses hanging from a cord around her neck.
“I’m Elaine Porter, foundation counsel.”
“I know.”
They had met once at a donor breakfast.
Elaine closed the door and sat opposite him.
“Do you have your phone?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to ask you not to delete anything.”
“I haven’t.”
“Messages, photographs, drafts, browser history, recordings, emails.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
The question was not cruel.
Ethan placed the phone on the glass table.
Elaine looked at it but did not touch it.
“Your aunt’s counsel has raised concerns about how the townhouse images were obtained.”
“They came from the home security archive.”
“How did you access it?”
“I didn’t.”
May you like
“Who did?”
“Hannah gave them to Margaret.”
