Chapter 1: The Girl With My Pendant
“Your mother told me that if I ever saw you again, I should run.””
The woman in the beige coat stood ten feet away from me on Madison Avenue, trembling so violently that she could barely keep her hands at her sides.
I had not seen her in thirty years.
Yet I knew her face.
I knew the small scar above her left eyebrow. I knew the way her dark hair curled against her cheeks when it rained. I even remembered the faint scent of lavender that used to cling to her sweaters.
Her name was Eleanor.
And the last time I had seen her, I was eight years old, standing barefoot in our kitchen while she argued with my mother behind a locked door.
Now she was staring at my seven-year-old daughter.
“Get away from that man, Amara!”” Eleanor screamed.
The little girl immediately grabbed Sophie’s hand.
Sophie looked up at me, confused and frightened.
“Dad, why is that lady yelling?””
I couldn't answer.
Because Eleanor had just said something that made the entire world tilt beneath my feet.
Your mother told me.
Not my mother.
Your mother.
The woman who had disappeared from my life when I was eight.
The woman whose face I had searched for in every crowded street for three decades.
The woman who had left me with nothing but a silver pendant and a promise that she would come back.
I looked down at the two matching pendants in my palm.
Then I looked at Amara.
“Eleanor,” I whispered.
“Where have you been?””
Her eyes filled with tears.
She shook her head.
“Not here. Not in front of the children.””
“Then tell me why this girl has a pendant identical to mine.””
Eleanor glanced toward the street.
A black sedan had stopped illegally beside the curb. Its rear window was tinted, but I could see a man sitting inside, watching us.
Eleanor saw him, too.
All the color drained from her face.
“Oh, God,” she breathed.
She rushed forward, grabbed Amara by the shoulders, and pulled her close.
“We have to leave. Now.””
I stepped between them and the sedan.
“Not until you explain what is happening.””
Eleanor looked at me as though she were watching a building collapse.
“You don't understand,” she said.
“If they know you've found her, they'll come for Sophie, too.””
My daughter tightened her grip on my hand.
And suddenly, the birthday flowers, the bakery box, and the ordinary plans I had made that morning felt like relics from another man's life.
Because whatever was happening, it had already reached my family.
And the woman who knew why had spent thirty years hiding from me.
An hour earlier, my biggest concern had been whether Sophie would ruin her birthday dress with chocolate frosting.
“Dad, do you think seven is too old to have a unicorn cake?”” she asked from the back seat of our SUV.
I glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“Absolutely not.””
“Because Emma says unicorns are for babies.””
“Emma also thinks putting ketchup on macaroni is a good idea. We don't have to listen to everything Emma says.””
Sophie giggled.
Rain clouds gathered above Manhattan as I pulled up outside the luxury shops on Madison Avenue. I had promised her one birthday present of her choosing, and she had spent the entire morning debating between a pair of pink roller skates and a stuffed elephant.
The elephant had won.
Naturally, she had named it Sir Trunks.
I shut the driver's door and reached for the shopping bags.
Then Sophie screamed.
“Dad! Look!””
I turned just in time to see her dart toward a large stone flower planter.
“Sophie, wait!””
She ignored me.
A little girl was crouched beside the planter, hugging an old stuffed rabbit against her chest. She looked about Sophie's age, perhaps a little younger. Her burgundy dress was faded at the elbows, and her shoes were visibly too small.
Her hair was tangled. Her cheeks were pale.
People walked past without slowing down.
One businessman stepped around her as though she were a discarded newspaper. A woman carrying designer shopping bags glanced at the rabbit, frowned, and hurried toward the nearest store.
Sophie stopped in front of the girl and crouched.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“Are you lost?””
The girl pulled her rabbit closer.
“I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.””
“That's okay. My dad says the same thing.””
I caught up with Sophie and lowered myself beside her.
“What's your name?”” I asked.
The girl looked at me.
Her eyes were gray, almost silver.
Something about them unsettled me, though I couldn't have explained why.
She stared at my face for a long moment, then lowered her gaze to my chest.
Her expression changed.
“Where did you get that?””
I followed her eyes to the pendant hanging beneath my open collar.
It was an old piece of dark silver, shaped like a narrow oval. A crescent moon had been carved into its surface, split down the middle by a thin vertical line.
I had worn it every day since my mother disappeared.
“My mother gave it to me,” I answered.
The girl went completely still.
Then she reached beneath the collar of her dress.
“No,” I murmured before I understood why I was saying it.
She pulled out a second pendant.
Identical.
Same crescent moon. Same dividing line. Same dark silver, worn smooth at the edges.
For a moment, the sounds of Manhattan faded into a distant hum.
I took mine off and held it beside hers.
The edges aligned perfectly.
There was even a tiny notch at the bottom of each pendant. Together, the two pieces formed a single unbroken oval.
My hands began to shake.
“Where did you get this?””
The girl clutched her rabbit.
“My mama gave it to me.””
“What is your name?””
“Amara.””
I swallowed.
“Amara, how old are you?””
“Seven.””
Seven.
The number struck me with the force of a physical blow.
She looked at Sophie, then back at me.
“My mama said my real daddy has one just like mine.””
I stared at her.
I had been married once, briefly, in my twenties. The marriage had ended before it truly began. My ex-wife and I had no children together.
Sophie was my only child.
I had never knowingly fathered another.
“Amara,” I said carefully, “what is your mother's name?””
She hesitated.
“She says I mustn't tell people.””
“Why not?””
“Because people might take me away.””
Sophie reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small packet of birthday cookies.
“You can have these,” she said.
“They're vanilla. My favorite.””
Amara stared at the packet.
“Why?””
“Because you're hungry.””
The simplicity of my daughter's answer nearly broke me.
Amara accepted the cookies with shaking fingers.
She opened the packet, but before she could eat one, a woman screamed from across the street.
“AMARA!””
The girl dropped the packet.
She scrambled behind Sophie, gripping the back of my daughter's coat.
A woman in a beige coat was running toward us.
And the moment I saw her face, thirty years of buried memories came crashing back.
Eleanor.
My mother's closest friend.
The woman who had vanished from our neighborhood the same week my mother disappeared.
The woman my father had accused of stealing something precious from our family.
She stopped in front of us.
Her eyes moved from Amara to the pendants in my hand.
Then she looked at me.
“Daniel?””
My name sounded strange coming from her mouth.
I stood slowly.
“Where is my mother?””
Eleanor's lips parted.
For several seconds, she seemed incapable of breathing.
Then she looked past me toward the black sedan.
The passenger door opened.
A man stepped onto the sidewalk.
Eleanor grabbed Amara and whispered, “Please, Daniel. If you ever loved your mother, don't let that man see your daughter's face.””
But it was too late.
May you like
The man was already walking toward us.
And he was smiling.
