The noose around her neck tightened. “What did they say?”
“They were complimentary. But it isn’t the last we’ll hear of it.”
She sat down across from him. “Have you talked to Dad?”
Trevor regarded her frankly. “A few minutes ago. He isn’t happy. He thinks the media is overplaying the story. It’s not like you said anything damaging.” He paused, looking conflicted. “I’m sorry. This has put me in an awkward position.”
“I know,” Zoe said apologetically. “Look, it’s simple. He should just let it go. It’ll blow over in a week, and the press will find something else to talk about.”
“It’s not simple,” Trevor disagreed. “You opposed him in a very public way. It doesn’t look good to the voter on the street.”
Zoe allowed her pain to show. “He should have thought of that years ago.”
Trevor ran a hand through his hair. “This is such a mess.”
“Not to change the subject,” Zoe said, doing exactly that, “but I need a hundred thousand dollars.” She told him about Kuyeya and the door Atticus Spelling had slammed in her face.
Trevor shook his head slowly. “You are one complicated human being. The most I can give you is ten. I maxed out my savings to buy the M5.”
She shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking of you. I was thinking of your trust.”
He looked perplexed. “I transferred all the money to Mom’s foundation. I told you that.”
“Yes, but that puts you in the Founders’ Circle. You could talk to Monica.”
“I barely know her. You’re the one with the relationship.”
For the first time that morning Zoe smiled. “Then come with me to Manhattan.”
The Acela Express train from Washington to New York was a pale shadow of its European cousins, but Zoe preferred it to flying. After stops in Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersey, the train deposited them at Penn Station just before one in the afternoon. Zoe and Trevor navigated the crowded underground corridors and emerged on Seventh Avenue not far from the taxi stand. They climbed into a cab, and Zoe gave the driver the address.
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi pulled to the curb outside the Park Avenue headquarters of the Catherine Sorenson Foundation. Zoe introduced herself to the doorman, who ushered them to the bank of elevators. They got off on the tenth floor and entered the foundation’s elegant wood-and-glass reception area. The receptionist greeted them by name and escorted them down a hallway lined with photographs to the office of the Executive Director.
Monica Kingsley rounded her desk and shook their hands affectionately. At just under sixty years of age, she had the look of New York high society without the affectation. “It’s so good to see you again,” she said, gesturing toward a pair of leather chairs opposite her desk.
“Thanks for working us in on short notice,” Zoe replied, taking a seat.
“I always have time for you,” Monica said.
Zoe traded a glance with Trevor. “We need your help. It’s a bit unusual.” She summarized Kuyeya’s story and outlined her prognosis. “There are a number of charities in Lusaka that are assisting her, but they don’t have funding for something like this. I—we—were hoping the foundation could cover the cost of her treatment.”
Trevor chimed in: “I would have put the money up myself if I still had my trust.”
“Of course,” Monica replied. “I’ll be perfectly frank with you. If Catherine were sitting in this seat, she would call the bank and they would wire the funds. I don’t have that power. I have to take it to the board. I’ll do my best to make the case, but I don’t know how they’ll vote.”
“How long will that take?” Zoe asked, struggling to suppress her discouragement.
“I’ll need a couple of days to call a meeting.” Monica looked quizzical. “Can’t you talk to your father? Surely he would help.”
Zoe listened to the hum of traffic far below. She couldn’t believe how spectacularly her plans had backfired. In challenging her father, she had not only succeeded in damaging their relationship, likely beyond repair, but also—and far worse—she had endangered Kuyeya’s life.
“I’ll talk to him,” Trevor said suddenly. “He might listen to me.”
She regarded him in surprise. “He’ll think you’re taking sides.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’d rather be with you anyway.”
She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Please talk to the board,” she said to Monica. “We don’t have much time.”
Monica nodded. “When are you leaving the country?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll send you an email as soon as I have an answer.”
“Thank you,” Zoe said, standing up.
“Wait,” Monica said. “I have something for you.” She reached into a drawer and extracted a yellowed envelope. “This doesn’t seem like the right time, but I doubt I’ll see you again before your birthday. It’s from your mother.”