Chapter 1
“How many girls have you called Emily?”
Isadora’s eyes moved toward Rupert.
He stopped moving.
That was my answer.
Not a number.
Something worse.
Recognition.
Ottilie remained in my bodyguard’s arms behind me, both fists buried in the oversized dress. The pendant at her throat caught the ballroom light.
The same pendant worn by the girl in the portrait.
Emily Hawthorne.
Dead at six.
Three years ago.
I had attended the funeral.
I remembered Isadora standing beside the coffin with that necklace clenched in her hand.
Yet here it was around my granddaughter’s neck.
I looked at Rupert.
“How many?”
He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth.
“You’re being obscene.”
“No.”
My voice stayed low.
“You made a three-year-old wear your dead child’s clothes and answer to her name.”
Silence.
I pointed toward the portrait.
“That is obscene.”
Isadora suddenly said:
“It was only Ottilie.”
Too fast.
Rupert turned toward her.
There.
Contradiction.
I stepped closer.
“Only Ottilie?”
She nodded.
Rupert closed his eyes.
I smiled without humor.
“Then why did he just tell you to stop talking with his face?”
No answer.
One of the guests lowered her champagne glass.
An elderly woman near the back whispered something to her husband.
I caught only two words.
“Not again.”
My attention shifted.
The woman saw me looking and immediately turned away.
Interesting.
I pointed toward her.
“You.”
She froze.
“What does ‘not again’ mean?”
Isadora snapped:
“Ambrose, leave the guests out of this.”
Wrong sentence.
I walked toward the woman.
She started crying before I reached her.
Her name was Margaret Vale.
Old family friend.
She whispered:
“There was another child last winter.”
The ballroom went silent.
I looked at Isadora.
Then Rupert.
Margaret continued.
“A little blonde girl. Maybe four.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened to her?”
Margaret shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Rupert finally moved.
Toward the ballroom exit.
My guards closed it.
Good.
May you like
Apparently I had not walked into grief.
I had walked into a pattern.
