The Whitmore Hope Fund had always been my mother’s greatest source of pride. Every holiday season, our family smiled beside oversized scholarship checks supposedly awarded to foster children. Dad adored those photo opportunities. He always stood in the middle with one hand resting on my shoulder, smiling as though generosity itself belonged to him.
Marcus Bell stepped forward, his voice remaining composed.
“Ethan noticed that several scholarship recipients listed by the foundation did not exist. Their addresses were empty lots, closed businesses, or homes belonging to Whitmore employees.”
My mother slowly raised her head.
The color had drained from her face.
Dad pointed an accusing finger toward Marcus.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A woman wearing the same gray suit stepped out from the group.
“We know enough.”
She displayed her badge.
“Assistant Attorney General Denise Walker. Mr. Whitmore, we have a warrant.”
Whispers immediately spread through the chapel.
