I laid the file on the podium and looked straight at my brother. “Tonight, Daniel Hartwell is listed as a corresponding gift partner for three hundred thousand dollars,” I said. “I have the donation records here, and there is no gift.” The room went still. Daniel laughed, too loudly. “Vivian is exhausted,” he told the guests. I raised the first page. “This is a bank statement showing where our parents’ money went.”

A murmur swept the tables. Marissa Cole stepped forward, pale. Then the ballroom doors opened, and two men in dark suits walked in, followed by the hospital’s chief of compliance, Dr. Okafor, holding a tablet. “Daniel,” she said quietly, “we need to speak with you about the gala program, and about something far more serious.” My mother gripped my father’s arm. Daniel’s glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.