Chapter 3 - The House With the Yellow Light
May Bennett lived over a laundromat on the east side of town. She opened her door only after Leah identified herself through the intercom. The woman was forty-three, with close-cut curls and a faded blue cardigan, and she looked as if she had been expecting an accusation.
"If Grant sent you, I don't have the laptop," May said.
"He didn't send me."
May opened the door wider. "I'm sorry about Ivy. I wanted to come to the service, but I thought your family would throw me out."
"The service was a mess. You might've improved it."
A tiny smile crossed May's face. She invited Leah and Ray inside. School papers covered the table; May's teenage son had a math test next week. There were no expensive computers, just a battered notebook and a folder held shut with a rubber band.
"I kept my own work notes," May said. "Not donor information. Dates. Questions I asked. Answers I got. I don't want to break anyone's privacy trying to prove I didn't steal."
Leah nodded. "Show me what you can."
For six months, the charity had paid a company called North Pier Mobility for patient transportation. The invoices listed dozens of rides. May had tried matching them to trip confirmations. No confirmations arrived. When she questioned Grant, he said the company handled overflow work and that Leah had approved it.
"I would've remembered approving six figures," Leah said.
"That's what I told him. He said you were grieving and confused."
Ray exhaled sharply. Leah held up a hand; she wanted to hear May finish.
"Then money started leaving the emergency lodging account, too. I told the board chair. He called Grant while I was in the room. The next day I lost my job."
"Who chairs the board?"
"Dennis Vale. He owns the event company that books your galas."
Leah thought of the printed brochure. Dennis had introduced Grant and Celeste two years earlier, calling Celeste a public-relations genius. Leah had disliked her habit of photographing families before asking whether they wanted their pain displayed online.
"Do you have proof the rides didn't happen?" she asked.
"Not proof of every one. I have invoices for dates when the provider's listed address was an empty storefront. And a former driver who said he hadn't worked for them in months."
Hannah Price reviewed the material that afternoon. She arranged for an independent forensic accountant, on behalf of those entitled to investigate the charity's records, and advised Leah not to accuse anyone publicly until documents could be authenticated.
"I want to call every donor," Leah said.
"You may need to tell them something soon," Hannah replied. "But first, preserve what you know. The families need transportation now, regardless of who is responsible."
That was the part Leah had almost forgotten. She had helped create Porchlight when Ivy was two, after sleeping in a hospital chair beside a woman who could not afford the bus ride home. A man had given that woman his last ten dollars, and the woman had tried to refuse because he needed lunch. Leah had gone home and told Grant she wanted a fund that meant nobody had to make that choice.
At first he had been proud of her. He had driven donation boxes around town in his truck. He had let Ivy stamp thank-you cards at the kitchen table. Somewhere along the way, he had begun treating the money as an audience he could command.
Leah returned to the Porchlight office, a former insurance storefront with yellow paint around its front door. The sign above it was based on Ivy's drawing. A young father stood outside holding a folded bus schedule.
"They're closed?" he asked.
"Temporarily," Leah said. "Do you need a ride?"
"My son's getting transferred tonight. I don't have a car."
Leah could have given him cash. Instead she called the hospital social worker and verified the approved process for emergency transportation. Ray offered to drive when they learned the established volunteer roster was short. The man thanked him twice, embarrassed.
"Don't be embarrassed," Ray said. "I had somebody give me a ride when my truck died. This is what people are for."
Leah stood beneath the yellow sign and realized Ivy had given the whole project its name, but the families had kept it alive. Saving it would require more than punishing Grant.
Before closing the office, Leah called the young father back. His ride for the following day was approved through the hospital's temporary voucher arrangement, and the social worker had confirmed the pickup time. He asked whether Leah was sure.
"I'm sure about tomorrow's ride," she told him. "I can't promise the whole week yet. I'll call before you have to start worrying about it."
"That's more than anyone told me yesterday," he said.
She wrote his pickup time on the whiteboard, then erased an old note in Grant's handwriting: LET ME HANDLE THE DETAILS. For years she had mistaken that sentence for kindness. Now she wrote underneath the schedule: TWO PEOPLE VERIFY EVERY RIDE.
At six, she phoned Dennis Vale. He answered with the warm voice he used at fundraising dinners.
"Leah, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. Grant tells me you're having a rough time."
"I am. I need the board to meet."
"That's not wise right now."
"We have families whose rides aren't being paid."
"Grant says you're misunderstanding an accounting transition."
"Then he can explain it at the meeting."
Dennis's voice cooled. "We have to consider your fitness to lead, given recent events."
Leah looked at Ivy's painted light through the glass. "You mean my daughter dying?"
"I mean you're under enormous stress."
"So are the people standing outside my office wondering how they'll reach their children. I'm calling an emergency meeting. If you won't schedule it, Hannah will help me use the procedures in the bylaws."
Dennis hung up.
May you like
Ten minutes later, Grant posted a video announcing that he and Celeste would lead the Ivy Morgan Legacy Gala to save Porchlight from financial instability. In the caption, he thanked his wife for inspiring him "despite her current inability to participate."
Underneath, donors were already asking where to send money.
