Charitable Trust

Sheila rushed through the curtains into our office. “I delivered the money. The Charlestons made rent, and the kids will be fed.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Did you get good footage?”

I felt sick asking. Why did we need TikToks to raise money? Billy Charleston was an eight-year-old with a scar running from his wide eyes down his cheek. It felt like taking advantage, but our charity had a quota. Now I was eager for more.

“Sure did, Mary,” Sheila said. “Look at this close up of Mr. Charleston kissing Billy on the cheek.”

“That looks great,” Deborah said. “I’ll add music and fade to images of empty plates. People donate to hunger.”

Sheila plopped into her chair and smiled. “Such a loving family.”

Poor Sheila hid her scars. She started volunteering last year, after her parents passed. We didn’t ask questions.

Deborah creaked open the desk drawer, producing three gourmet cupcakes. “You know you can trust us not to forget your birthday, Sheila?” Twenty-five. We even got the carrot cake one Sheila liked.

Sheila clasped her cheeks, trying to act surprised. “Guys, you shouldn’t have.” She grabbed the cream-cheese-laden cupcake as if we were going to fight over it.

The light bulb above us flickered. “I wish we could do more for you,” I said.

Sheila stared down at the cupcake, turning it slowly in her hands. Her phone buzzed.

“Mr. Whitmore … yes, I know the trust vests today … transfer two million … directly to the charity.”

She looked at us and smiled—a real smile, not something practiced. My cupcake hit the floor.

Sheila hung up. “What we do is important. This charity’s not going anywhere.”

Deborah and I looked at each other.

Sheila bit into her cupcake. “Thanks for getting my favorite.”

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