“What is it, sweetheart?” Eleanor asked gently. “Are you hungry?”
The girl shook her head and pointed at the ring.
“It’s really pretty. My mom has one just like it. She keeps it under her pillow because she says it’s very special.”
Eleanor’s breath caught. Her fork slipped from her fingers and tapped against the plate.
“What… did you say?”
“My mom says I’m not allowed to wear it,” the girl continued innocently. “But it looks exactly the same.”
Impossible.
That ring had been custom-designed years ago. Only two existed. One Eleanor wore. The other had been transformed into a pendant the day her daughter, Isabella Whitmore, was born.
Eleanor stood so quickly her chair scraped against the patio tiles.
“Take me to your mother. Now.”
Minutes later, her sleek black SUV left behind the manicured streets of La Jolla and headed toward a struggling neighborhood on the city’s outskirts. The pavement turned cracked. The houses grew smaller.
They stopped in front of a fragile structure made of tin and plywood.
“This is my house,” the girl said softly. “Mom? We have a visitor!”
Eleanor stepped inside. The floor was bare dirt. In one corner, a frail woman lay coughing on a thin mattress.