It never did.
The phone rang. “Mrs. Harrington, Mr. Grant is waiting at the restaurant,” her assistant informed her.
Her son, Daniel Grant—twenty-six, ambitious, disciplined—was all the family she had left. Their relationship, like so much else, had been reshaped by Isabella’s disappearance.
Victoria arrived at an elegant restaurant in the Upper East Side, a place where deals were made over wine and quiet discretion. Daniel stood as she approached.
“We should accept the construction proposal,” he said immediately.
“We’ll discuss it after we order,” she replied, businesslike as always.
They spoke of contracts and expansion, carefully avoiding the ghost between them.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
Whispers near the entrance. A few uneasy glances. Security guards moving quickly.
A little girl had slipped inside.
She was thin, dressed in stained, torn clothing. Her brown hair was tangled, her face smudged with dirt. But her eyes—large, dark, alert—were impossible to ignore. She moved slowly between tables, not reaching for food, just looking.
The guards approached to escort her out.
As she passed Victoria’s table, she stopped.
She wasn’t staring at the food.
She was staring at Victoria’s right hand.