I stepped back. “Who are you calling?”
He covered the receiver. In his eyes I saw something beyond surprise—fear, almost reverence.
“The owner has been searching for you for twenty years.”
Before I could respond, a heavy click echoed from the back of the store. A door opened.
A tall man in a dark suit entered, silver hair perfectly combed. Two security guards followed. The atmosphere shifted instantly.
He looked only at me.
“Close the store,” he instructed calmly.
The metal shutter rolled down.
I clutched my purse. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He stopped a few steps away, hands visible.
“My name is Charles Whitaker,” he said. “That necklace belongs to my family.”
“It belonged to my mother,” I shot back.
“I know. It was designed in our workshop. There’s a hidden mark beneath the clasp. Only three were made. One was crafted for my daughter. She used to fasten it around her baby’s neck before bringing her downstairs. My granddaughter.”
The room tilted.
“I’m twenty-six,” I said slowly. “My mom found me at a shelter when I was about three. I had the necklace. It was the only thing with me.”
Something fragile flickered in his eyes.