The command was so sharp, so raw, that the guard released the girl instantly. No one had ever seen Evelyn Hartman lose control like that. Michael went pale.
“Mom, what are you doing? She’s just a beggar making things up—”
“Be quiet, Michael,” Evelyn snapped, never taking her eyes off the child. “Say it again. What did you say about the ring?”
The girl swallowed, scared—but she didn’t run.
“My mom wears one just like it,” she said softly. “She says it’s the only thing she has left from when she had a family. She says it protects her.”
Evelyn felt tears burn her throat—tears she hadn’t allowed herself in years.
She stood up, ignored the napkin falling to the floor, and dropped to her knees in front of the child, right there in the restaurant.
“What’s your name?” she asked, voice shaking.
“Lily.”
Evelyn closed her eyes.
Lily.
The name Claire had always said she’d choose if she ever had a daughter.
“Lily… look at me,” Evelyn whispered. “Did your mom send you here?”
The girl shook her head and reached into the deep pocket of her coat. She pulled out a small photograph, folded so many times the creases were nearly white.