The White Fur Coat Off His Back

Chapter 2 The Prodigy

The story broke the next morning.

I was on the treadmill when my phone started buzzing. By the time I got off, there were forty-seven messages from people I had not spoken to in years, and a headline on the foundation's news feed that read: AVALON HEIRESS ASSAULTS BROTHER AT GALA.

I read it twice. Then I went back to the treadmill.

The article was short. It said that Margot Tenner, daughter of the late Eleanor Tenner and stepdaughter of Richard Avalon, had been involved in an altercation with her stepbrother, Julian Avalon, at last night's foundation gala. It said that witnesses had seen her tear his clothing in front of guests. It said that the foundation's board would be meeting to discuss the incident.

It did not say why.

I finished my run. I showered. I put on a gray suit and drove to the office.

The Avalon Foundation occupied the top three floors of the building on the waterfront, but I did not work there. I worked in a small office on the other side of town, in a converted warehouse, for a company called Kestrel Logistics. I had started as an analyst four years ago and had worked my way up to director of operations. I ran the supply chain. I negotiated contracts. I was good at it.

I had not taken a single dollar from the Avalon family trust since I was twenty-two.

That was the part the articles never mentioned.

Marisol was already at her desk when I walked in. She was sixty-two, had been my mother's assistant before she was mine, and had a way of looking at me that suggested she knew exactly what I had done and exactly why.

"You're in the news," she said.

"I know."

"There are reporters downstairs."

"Tell them I'm in a meeting."

"You are in a meeting." She handed me a coffee. "With the compliance team. About the Rennick contract."

"Am I?"

"You are now."

I took the coffee and went into my office and closed the door.

The Rennick contract was real. It had been sitting on my desk for two weeks, waiting for legal review, and I had been avoiding it because the client, a shipping company out of Charleston, had a reputation for late payments and lost cargo. But I opened it now, because I needed something to do with my hands.

At eleven o'clock, my phone rang. The caller ID said Avalon Foundation.

I let it ring.

At eleven-thirty, it rang again.

I let it ring.

At noon, Marisol knocked on my door. "Your father's on line two."

I picked up.

"Margot," he said.

"Father."

There was a pause. I could hear him breathing, the way he did when he was trying to decide how to say something he did not want to say.

"The board is concerned," he said.

"Which board?"

"The foundation board. They've asked for a meeting. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock."

"About the gala."

"About your behavior at the gala."

I leaned back in my chair. Outside my window, the harbor was gray and choppy, and a pair of cormorants were fighting over a piece of bread on the dock.

"I didn't start it," I said.

"I know."

"Do you?"

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Julian told them you attacked him," my father said. "Cecilia told them you've been unstable for months. They want to discuss your position on the family council."

I had a seat on the family council because my mother's will had stipulated it. I had never used it for anything. I had never needed to.

"What position?" I asked.

"Your seat, Margot."

I looked at the cormorants. One of them had won. The other was flying away, empty-beaked.

"I'll be there," I said.

The family council met in the Avalon Foundation's boardroom, which was on the top floor and had windows on three sides. There were eleven people at the table. Ten of them were Avalons. One of them was me.

Cecilia sat at the head, because my father had given her his proxy. Julian sat to her right, in a new shirt, his face carefully blank. The other board members were various cousins and uncles, most of whom I had met twice in my life, all of whom had voted the way Cecilia told them to for as long as I could remember.

"Margot," Cecilia said. "Thank you for coming."

"Did I have a choice?"

"There's always a choice." She folded her hands on the table. "We've asked you here to discuss the incident at the gala. Several guests have filed complaints. The foundation's reputation has been damaged. We need to understand what happened."

"I took off my coat," I said. "Julian tried to take it. I took his clothes instead."

A cousin at the far end of the table coughed.

"The coat in question," Cecilia said, "belonged to Eleanor Tenner. It is a significant piece of the family's history. Julian was concerned that it was being worn improperly. He was trying to protect it."

"He was trying to take it from me."

"He was trying to preserve it."

"He was trying to humiliate me in front of the board so I would give up my seat."

The room went quiet. Cecilia's expression did not change, but something behind her eyes flickered, the way a candle flickers when a door opens.

"That is a serious accusation," she said.

"It's not an accusation. It's what happened."

"Do you have proof?"

I looked at Julian. He was staring at the table, his jaw tight. I had known him since I was eight years old. I had watched him learn to lie.

"No," I said. "I don't have proof."

"Then I'm afraid we have to rely on the accounts of the guests, most of whom saw you tear your brother's clothing and walk out of the gala without a word of explanation." Cecilia picked up a pen. "The council has voted to suspend your seat pending an investigation. You will be welcome to return once the matter is resolved."

"For how long?"

"That depends on you."

I stood up.

"Then I'll save you the trouble," I said. "I resign."

Cecilia's pen stopped moving.

"I resign from the family council," I said. "I resign from the foundation. I'll keep my shares, because my mother left them to me and I'm not giving them up. But you can have the seat. You can have the title. You can have everything else."

"You're making a mistake," Cecilia said.

"I've been making mistakes for twenty-four years," I said. "This is the first one that feels right."

I walked out.

The elevator took a long time to come. While I was waiting, my phone buzzed.

Marisol: There's a man in the lobby asking for you. Says his name is Theo Vance. Says he knew your mother.

I read it twice.

The elevator arrived. I got in. I pressed the button for the lobby.

The doors opened on a man in a dark coat, standing near the reception desk, looking at a photograph on the wall. It was a photograph of my mother, taken the year she died, standing in front of the house on the cliff.

"Ms. Tenner," he said, turning.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Theo Vance." He held out a hand. "I was your mother's attorney. I handled her estate."

"I know who handled her estate. It was a firm called Carrington and Poole."

"That's right. I was Carrington." He smiled, a little. "I left the firm six years ago. I've been trying to reach you ever since."

"About what?"

He looked past me, at the elevator, at the people getting off, at the security guard watching us from his desk.

"Not here," he said. "There's a coffee shop on the corner. Can we talk?"

I hesitated. The words appeared again, faint and silver, at the edge of my vision.

He is telling the truth. Listen.

I looked at Theo Vance. He was in his sixties, gray-haired, tired around the eyes. He did not look like a man who lied for a living.

"Five minutes," I said.