Chapter 9 - The Donor Ledger on the Twelfth Floor
I got to the foundation tower just after nine, when the parking lot was still half empty and the glass doors were spotting with morning condensation. I hadn't slept much in the apartment. My back ached and the baby had been restless all night, shifting low every time I tried to close my eyes. I wore jeans and a soft gray sweater that actually fit, my hair pulled back low, no makeup. I didn't want to look like last night's woman in the champagne gown. I wanted to look like someone who belonged on a clipboard.
The lobby smelled like fresh carpet and coffee. A directory board listed Hart Family Foundation — 12. My throat went dry when I saw it. Daniel's last name up there in brushed silver letters, like it owned the building.
The elevator ride up felt too fast. A man in a suit held a paper bag from a diner and didn't look at me. I kept my hand on my belly without thinking, counting floors.
On twelve, the reception area was all white and light wood, with a big photo of Carol on the wall from last year's gala, smiling in a black dress. The receptionist was young, maybe twenty-two, with a headset and perfect nails.
"Hi," I said. "I'm Maya Hart. I need to see the donor records from last quarter. For the gala accounting."
She smiled, but her eyes went to my stomach and back up. "Do you have an appointment? Records aren't public. You'd need authorization from Mrs. Hart or Mr. Hart."
"Carol's my mother-in-law," I said. "Daniel's my husband."
"I understand," she said, and her voice stayed polite in that practiced way. "But without their approval I can't release anything. Policy. You could email the request and we can schedule —"
"I drove across town," I said. "I just need five minutes."
She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I could get in trouble."
I believed her. She wasn't being cruel. She was doing her job, and someone had probably told her exactly who not to let back there. I stepped aside to the waiting chairs so I wouldn't block the desk, and sat down because my feet were already swelling. The magazines on the side table were all about charity work. Carol's face again.
I was trying to figure out what to say next when a woman came out from the back hallway with a stack of folders. She was around my age, Black, her hair in short twists, wearing a navy cardigan with a foundation badge that said Tanya – Program Coordinator.
She glanced at me, then at the receptionist, then back at me. "Maya?" she said quietly.
I stood up. "Yes."
"I saw you last night," she said. She didn't say it mean. She said it like she hadn't slept either. "Are you okay?"
I nodded because I didn't trust my voice. "I just needed to check something about the transfers. For the vendors."
Tanya hesitated. She shifted the folders higher against her chest. "Come get some water," she said. "The cooler’s down the hall."
I followed her. It wasn't a question from the receptionist's point of view, just kindness. Down the hallway the offices were small and bright, boxes of auction programs stacked by doors. The break room was empty – a sink, a microwave, a water cooler that gurgled.
Tanya shut the door halfway. "I can't pull files for you," she whispered. "They track logins. Carol had IT lock the gala folder this morning."
My stomach dropped. "She locked it?"
"She said to protect donor privacy after… after what happened." She looked down. "But I processed the vendor checks last month. I saw the ledger."
I held my breath. The cooler bubbled behind us.
"There were three transfers out of the gala account," she said fast and low. "Forty thousand total. Moved to a holding account. The memo said short-term loan. The initials on the authorization were D.H."
Daniel Hart. My hand tightened on the edge of the counter.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
She nodded. "I flagged it because we were short for the caterer. Carol told me she'd handle it privately. She said Daniel was fixing a cash flow issue."
The baby kicked, sharp. I pressed my palm flat against my sweater.
"Can you prove that?" I said. "If I ask Carol, she'll say I'm confused. She'll say I'm hormonal."
Tanya looked toward the door. Someone walked past, heels clicking on tile. We both went still until the sound faded.
She opened the top folder she was carrying. Inside were printed seating charts and invoices. Slipped between them was a photocopy – a single page with rows of numbers, account codes, and in the margin, handwritten initials in blue ink.
"I can't give you system access," she said. "But this was in my print tray yesterday. I made an extra copy before everything got locked."
She slid it across the counter to me. My fingers shook when I took it. There it was: three lines, dates in October, amounts, and those initials. D.H. Next to one line, in different handwriting, C.H. – reviewed.
"Why are you helping me?" I asked.
She glanced at my belly. "Because last year I asked about a missing five thousand and they told me I misunderstood the software. I didn't. And because nobody stood up for you last night." She paused. "Don't tell them I gave you that."
"I won't," I said. "I promise."
She opened the door and raised her voice back to normal. "Water's cold today, right? Let me walk you out."
At the reception desk she smiled like nothing had happened. I folded the copy in half and slipped it into my back pocket, my heart hammering so loud I was sure the receptionist could hear it.
May you like
In the elevator down, I stared at my reflection in the metal doors. Tired face, gray sweater, jeans. But in my pocket I had proof that Daniel had signed money out, and that Carol had seen it.
I didn't have her confirmation yet. I needed her to say it herself. But I wasn't walking in empty-handed anymore.
