I brought the envelope to the board meeting on Friday.
The Playhouse's conference room was packed. Marjorie sat at the head of the table. Celia's father, Grant Wynn, occupied the chair beside her, his silver hair carefully combed back. Julian sat across from me. His scarf was gone. The scar had faded to a dark line.
I felt the old reflex to look away, as if my attention might hurt him.
I didn't.
Theo sat beside Daniel, with the roof plan open in front of him. My brother squeezed my shoulder once before the meeting began.
Marjorie called us to order. She explained the suspended donation and the risk to the project. Grant Wynn sat with his hands folded on the table.
"We're prepared to reconsider the pledge," he said, "if the trust issues a clear statement that no one intended harm and
