Two weeks later, the Elaine Beckett Coastal Hope Fund held its annual fundraiser at a waterfront venue downtown. It wasn’t the kind of gala Victoria used to dominate. There were no social-climbing speeches, no forced laughter that sounded like currency. It was a room full of survivors, researchers, nurses, donors who asked real questions and wanted real impact.
Dela Fairchild was there, older now but still sharp, still watching the room like she could smell a lie from across the city.
Paige was there too, running the transparency booth with a small team, handing out easy-to-read reports that showed exactly where every dollar went. She’d insisted on it from the start.
“If we don’t show people the truth,” she’d told me once, “someone else will try to hide it again.”
I was speaking to a doctor about expanding screening access to rural clinics when the air shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic. No music stopped. No spotlight turned. But I felt it the way you feel a storm change direction.
I turned.
Victoria stood at the entrance.