Chapter 8 - The Trust Fund
Marcus Miller had never felt more alive. The back office of his shoe store had been converted into a makeshift broadcast studio. Ring lights reflected off his polished desk, where three different phones sat on tripods, chiming continuously with alerts, donations, and media inquiries from national morning shows.
His legal advisor, a sharp-featured man named Greg, leaned over the edge of the desk, pointing at a freshly printed contract. “Under the terms of the platform’s creator payout, thirty-five percent of the net proceeds from the campaign go to the organizing entity to cover administrative, promotional, and logistical expenses. That’s your store, Marcus. Legally, it’s airtight.”
Marcus traced the numbers with his finger. Seventy-eight thousand had ballooned to one hundred and forty-two thousand overnight. “And the rest?”
“The rest goes into a restricted trust for Evelyn Vance-Miller’s legal defense and medical care, contingent on her release into approved guardianship,” Greg smiled thinly. “Which means as long as she’s in custody or the hospital, you control the disbursement schedule. You’re the hero who exposed the bureaucratic kidnapping of a loving grandmother.”
Marcus leaned back in his leather executive chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “The news anchor this morning called it ‘The Modern Miracle on Main Street.’ Footwear sales are up three hundred percent since yesterday. People are buying work boots just to say they walked into the store that saved Toby.”
The front chime of the store rang. Marcus frowned, checking his security monitor. It was late; the store was closed to the public.
Standing in the vestibule was Arthur, the DCF investigator, still wearing his rumpled trench coat, his eyes dark with exhaustion. Beside him stood a woman in a tailored navy suit carrying a leather briefcase.
Marcus waved Greg toward the door. “Let them in. Let’s see what the state wants to settle for.”
Arthur stepped inside, not waiting for Marcus to invite him to sit. He dropped a thick legal binder onto the glass counter with a heavy thud that rattled the display trays.
“Mr. Miller,” the woman in the suit said, stepping forward. “I am Clara Reyes, county prosecutor. We’ve reviewed the crowdfunding terms, your business filings, and the surveillance footage from yesterday afternoon.”
Marcus kept his smile steady. “I assume you’re here to coordinate the transfer of Evelyn’s bail bond from the public fund?”
“No, Mr. Miller,” Prosecutor Reyes said coldly. “We’re here to serve a freeze order on all accounts associated with the campaign. And we have questions about what you said to Toby before the camera started rolling.”
May you like
Marcus’s smile vanished. “What are you talking about? I helped that kid.”
Arthur leaned down, resting both hands on Marcus’s desk, his face inches from the salesman’s. “We pulled the high-resolution traffic camera from the intersection, Marcus. The audio picked up your conversation with the boy five minutes before the live-stream started. You want to tell the prosecutor why you kicked Evelyn’s broken shoe into the sewer grate yourself?”
