CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“Good morning, Amy. Mr. Sheffield would like to see you,” said Tina, the receptionist.

“Of course,” she smiled.

The non-profit she worked for was her baby. When she’d started there six years before, they were barely making ends meet. Now, they had three offices, ten branches that offered support for single mothers and their children. They’d recently completed a shelter for battered women and children and were working on a resource center to help the unemployed find work.

“Knock, knock,” she smiled, standing in the doorway.

“Oh, Amy. Come in,” he said with a somber face.

“Is something wrong? Did something happen at the construction site? I can go out there if you need me to,” she said.

“No. No, that’s not it,” he said, shaking his head. “Amy. Amy, I just don’t know how to say this.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Amy, the account that held our funds from the Mardi Gras fundraiser is empty.”

“Empty? That’s not possible,” she laughed. “There was more than two million dollars in there. How is it empty?”

“We don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me,” he said, staring at her.

“Me? I don’t have access to that money. I’m not the accountant. I just do fundraising and then put that money to good use.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. But the bank says that someone transferred that money to an account with your name on it, then transferred it to another account, and now it’s gone.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, grabbing her stomach. “You can’t possibly think…”

“I don’t. I don’t, trust me. It’s just that the board, well, the board, thinks we should place you on leave for the time being.”

“But I’ve done nothing wrong,” she said, shaking her head.

“Amy, I know. I just think you need to take some time. Maybe. Maybe get a lawyer, Amy. Just in case.” She stood from the chair, shaking her head.

“I don’t need a lawyer! I’ve done nothing wrong,” she exclaimed.

“Amy, the attorneys may file charges against you. I think you need to get a lawyer.”

That was yesterday. Today, she was floating in an old fishing boat with her father’s pistol on her lap, fully loaded. She would not bring shame to her family or to the foundation. She would not. She’d done nothing wrong, and yet no one would believe her.

She lifted the pistol, the end of the barrel coming straight toward her mouth.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the deep, rich voice. “A beautiful woman such as yourself deserves to live.”