Chapter 3 - THE FATHER WHO SIGNED HER OUT
James Morgan had not disappeared.
Not technically.
He had relocated.
Three addresses in fourteen months.
One in Indiana.
One in Ohio.
Current registration:
Nevada.
Bar status:
Inactive.
No public disciplinary action.
That last part mattered.
I hired no private investigator.
Not yet.
I asked Martin directly.
He sat across from me Monday morning in the glass conference room of Harrison Capital.
“Why was James Morgan advising Eleanor’s scholarship fund?”
Martin barely reacted.
“He helped establish the legal structure.”
“Why?”
“Eleanor knew his wife through Westbridge.”
That was possible.
Eleanor volunteered there long before Sophie enrolled.
“And when Laura Morgan died?”
Martin looked down.
“He resigned.”
“Before or after Ava lost funding?”
Silence.
“Martin.”
“After.”
That made no sense.
“Ava’s own father was counsel to the committee reviewing her eligibility?”
“He recused from formal votes.”
“Did he supply the financial information?”
Martin’s face tightened.
“Yes.”
There.
“What information?”
“James disclosed accounts suggesting family assets exceeded aid limits.”
“How much?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You chaired the meeting.”
“Daniel, this was two years ago.”
Two years.
The same season Eleanor died.
No wonder I missed it.
I had barely been functioning.
Martin continued:
“There was a brokerage statement.”
“In Ava’s name?”
“Family trust.”
“How much?”
“Roughly nine hundred thousand.”
That changed things.
If Ava had access to nearly a million dollars, scholarship suspension might have been reasonable.
Then I asked:
“Where is the trust now?”
Martin looked at me.
“I have no idea.”
Neither did Ava, apparently.
I called Whitaker.
He confirmed the school had never received money from Ava after scholarship suspension.
She simply vanished.
No transfer records.
No new school.
Nothing.
That afternoon, I went back to the sidewalk.
Alone.
Ava was there.
Sitting behind the bus shelter.
She stood when she saw me.
“I’m not taking money.”
“I didn’t offer any.”
“You’re going to.”
“Probably eventually.”
She almost smiled.
I sat on the curb.
Expensive coat.
Italian shoes.
Cold concrete.
My driver pretended not to watch.
“I know your father was involved with the scholarship fund.”
Her face changed immediately.
“Who told you?”
“The school.”
She zipped her backpack.
“I’m leaving.”
“Did you know about a trust?”
She froze.
That was answer enough.
“Approximately nine hundred thousand dollars.”
Her face went pale.
“No.”
“Ava.”
“No.”
She backed away.
“He said there was nothing.”
“Who?”
“My dad.”
Her voice cracked.
“After Mom died, he said the medical bills took everything.”
I stood slowly.
“Did he tell you why Westbridge removed your scholarship?”
“He said your foundation changed the rules.”
My anger sharpened.
“What else?”
“That the rich people running it didn’t want a charity case whose family got messy.”
I closed my eyes.
That did not sound like Eleanor’s fund.
Not the one I remembered approving.
Then Ava said:
“I slept in our car for four months because he said we had nothing.”
The trust.
Nine hundred thousand.
Where had it gone?
“When did you last see your father?”
“Seven months ago.”
“He left you?”
“He said he was going to find work.”
“And?”
She laughed bitterly.
“He found Nevada.”
I said nothing.
Then Ava reached into her backpack.
She removed a battered notebook.
“Mom gave me this before she died.”
Inside were pages of equations.
Not schoolwork.
Columns.
Numbers.
Dates.
Account codes.
Transfers.
At first I did not understand.
Then I recognized one heading.
E.H.M.F.
Eleanor Harrison Memorial Fund.
Ava looked at me.
May you like
“My mom said if anything happened to her, I should never let my dad see this book.”
Her mother had been tracking the scholarship fund before she died.
