Chapter 5: People Behind the Numbers
After Tessa hung up, Rachel wrote one sentence across the top of her legal pad: She never saw the originals.
I watched her underline it.
“Does losing access mean Adrian knew what she asked for?” I said.
“It means she lost access after asking. We don’t know who made that decision or why.”
Rachel turned the pad toward me. Under the sentence, she had written three more words: Do not infer.
I wanted to tell her I understood. Then I thought of my initials beside a payment I had never approved, and I wasn’t sure I did.
The next afternoon, Tessa came to Rachel’s office with an attorney of her own. She carried a small spiral notebook, its cover bent at the corners. She set it between the two lawyers but kept a hand on it while her attorney explained what she had agreed to share.
“These are Tessa’s notes about her own questions and the answers she received,” he said. “They aren’t copies of company records. We’re not representing them as a complete account of the firm’s files.”
“I wouldn’t want you to,” Tessa said.
She looked tired. At Adrian’s company, I had known her as the person who could find a missing decimal in a crowded spreadsheet without making anyone feel foolish for putting it there. Now she turned the notebook so Rachel could see it.
One entry listed the date Tessa had asked for supporting material on a consulting bill. Another recorded that she had received an approval page instead. Beside a third, she had written: Cannot match description to completed work in materials provided.
I recognized the frustration in those careful words. I had used ones much like them six weeks earlier.
“How many invoices did you ask about?” Rachel said.
“Several. I wrote down the ones I couldn’t reconcile. I didn’t review every project the firm worked on.”
“And the approval pages?”
“I recorded that they were sent to me. I didn’t record whose names were on them.”
Her attorney nodded. Rachel did not press for a recollection Tessa had already said she could not trust.
“Could the services have been delivered?” Rachel asked.
“Yes. Someone may have records I wasn’t given.” Tessa tapped the word provided. “That’s why I asked for the originals and the system history. An approval page tells me what the page says. It doesn’t tell me when an entry was made, or whether anybody did the work.”
Tessa’s attorney took custody of the notebook and arranged to provide Rachel with a copy of the relevant entries. I was disappointed by how little the pages proved. I was also ashamed of that disappointment. Tessa had come forward with what she knew, when staying quiet would have cost her less.
As we stood to leave, she caught my eye.
“I should have asked sooner,” she said.
“You did ask.”
“Not the first time.”
I thought of Marcus’s unanswered question to the charity, and of my own invoice questions sitting in an archive while I went on living with Adrian. There were a lot of first times none of us could recover.
In the car, Rachel called counsel for the charity’s independent directors. She told them Tessa had raised questions about documentation, that records relating to the invoices and approvals needed to be preserved, and that a charity program director could explain any immediate obligations tied to the affected accounts. She did not mention my photographs or invite them to accept my conclusions.
By evening, an attorney for the directors had arranged a conversation with Maya Torres, the charity’s program director. Maya had requested it after learning a review might delay a scheduled grant.
We met the following morning in a conference room at the charity, without Serena. Maya arrived carrying a binder and a canvas tote that looked heavy enough to hold another one. She recognized me from a fundraising dinner the previous winter.
“I’m not here to ask about your marriage,” she said before she sat down.
“I’m relieved,” I said.
She gave me a brief, tired smile. Then she opened the binder.
The charity paid a local transportation partner to take people to medical appointments when bus routes, mobility needs, or work schedules made the trip difficult. Maya coordinated the requests with clinic staff and the partner’s dispatcher. She showed us a calendar marked with pickup windows, not names.
“The grant scheduled for release this week covers the next block of rides,” she said. “The partner books drivers ahead. I told them the payment was scheduled, because the directors approved the program budget.”
Rachel asked which account funded it. Maya pointed to a column in her binder.
“That’s the account code finance gave me. I don’t have authority over transfers.”
“Do you know whether any of the consulting invoices were paid from that account?” Rachel asked.
“No.” Maya closed the binder halfway. “Is that what this is about?”
“It’s one question the directors need to check,” Rachel said. “We’re not asking you to decide it.”
Maya looked at me. I could see her weighing what my presence meant. Serena had introduced us at that dinner as if our long friendship were another reason to give. I had stood beside her and helped guests find the donation cards.
“I don’t need anyone’s private history,” Maya said. “I need to know whether I can make a promise on behalf of this program.”
She told us about a father who had called that morning to confirm his daughter’s ride after her appointment was moved earlier. Maya had confirmed the pickup window. She didn’t tell us their names, or what the appointment was for. She didn’t have to. Her finger rested on the time she had written down.
“If you can’t release the grant,” she said, “tell me soon enough to call people before they’re waiting outside.”
“I’ll pass that on exactly,” Rachel said.
I stared at the calendar. Until then, I had pictured the disputed money as entries moving between accounts: dates, amounts, fields someone might have filled in under my name. Maya had to make decisions with it in hours.
“Could another fund cover the rides temporarily?” I asked.
“Possibly. I’ve asked finance what’s unrestricted and available. They haven’t confirmed it.” She met my eyes. “I can’t spend the same dollar twice because I wish it were there.”
“No,” I said. “You can’t.”
After Maya left to take a call from the dispatcher, Rachel remained with the directors’ attorney. She repeated the preservation request, including the original approval records, system history, invoice support, and account records. She asked that they preserve what they had before anyone tried to reconstruct a cleaner version from memory.
Their attorney took notes.
“The directors are considering a short pause on the next grant release,” he said. “They need to verify the source and the available balance.”
“Have they considered the scheduled rides?” Rachel asked.
“Maya made that clear.”
He did not promise a decision. Rachel did not ask me to speak to the directors. She represented me, not the charity, and there was already an entry in Adrian’s files that appeared to connect me to a payment.
At home that afternoon, I found a voicemail from Adrian. I listened to the first few seconds—my name, followed by a request to talk—and saved it without answering. I kept thinking of Maya confirming that pickup window.
I could still hear Serena saying, Poor Claire, beneath the hotel chandelier. I had imagined the worst part of what happened there was that she thought I was someone she could fool. It was easier to be angry at her when I pictured only the two of us.
Rachel called just before dinner.
“The directors have paused the scheduled grant while they check the account,” she said. “They’re reviewing other funds for a temporary payment.”
“Have they told the transportation partner?”
“They’re speaking with Maya now. They haven’t canceled the rides.”
I held on to that distinction. A pause was not a cancellation. A possible temporary payment was not money in the account.
“Did Marcus have any say?” I asked.
“He was told about the review as a donor observer. The independent directors made the decision.”
I thanked her and went into the kitchen, where I found myself reaching for two plates. I put one back. Then I stood at the counter and called Maya’s office number from the card she had given me.
She answered on the fourth ring. I could hear voices behind her and the faint sound of a printer.
“I know you can’t tell me anything new about the accounts,” I said. “I just wanted to know if you heard from the directors.”
“I did. I’m making a backup list of rides the partner might be able to keep while we wait.”
“Can I help?”
There was a pause. I had meant it. I also knew there was no useful way for me to step into her office and start calling families.
“Not with this list,” she said gently. “If Rachel has information the directors need, make sure they get it. I’ll take care of my people.”
Behind her, someone asked about a Monday pickup. Maya covered the phone to answer, then came back to me.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go.”
May you like
“When do you need their answer?”
“The dispatcher needs it first. After that, I have until Friday at four to tell families whether their rides are still available on Monday.”
