Sophie turned to her captain. “Can I take a break?”
“Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you.”
The three women walked toward the rear of the ballroom. The crowd made a path for them. Their silence followed.
Behind the stage, the room was plain compared with the ballroom. A round table stood beside a window. Three upholstered chairs, a coat rack, and a stack of gala programs filled the space.
Claire closed the door. “Would you like me to stay?”
Margaret looked at Sophie. “That’s her decision.”
“Stay,” Sophie said.
Claire took the chair closest to the door.
Margaret chose the one opposite Sophie, leaving a full arm’s length between them.
Sophie held the pendant in her palm. “My mother gave it to me when I turned twelve.”
“Did she tell you it was your grandmother’s?”
“She told me her mother gave it to her. She said it was the one thing she’d kept from her old life.”
“What was her old life?”
Sophie studied Margaret. “Why do you need to know?”
“I don’t.”
“Then why ask?”
“To understand why she kept the necklace.”
“She kept it because it mattered to her.”
Margaret nodded. “That’s enough.”
Sophie looked surprised. “You’re not going to ask where she lived?”
“I can ask. You don’t have to tell me.”
“She moved a lot.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t like talking about it.”
“Did she ever mention New York?”
“No.”
“Any other name? A place? A date?”
Sophie’s expression tightened. “You keep asking questions like you know her.”
“I don’t.”
“Then stop making it sound like you do.”
Margaret looked down at her hands. She had made a life out of questions. She knew how to ask them until people gave her answers.
For once, she tried to sit with what she didn’t know.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Sophie rubbed the pendant with her thumb. “I have a photograph of my mother wearing it. That’s all I know.”
“Would you show me?”
“Not here.”
“All right.”
“Why do you think it’s your daughter’s?”
“Because I gave it to her.”
“Could there be another one?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The shape, the scratch, the dent by the clasp. I remember every mark.”
“Then how did it end up with my mother?”
“That’s what I’m trying to understand.”
Sophie looked at Claire. “Do you know about Evelyn Whitmore?”
“I know the story the foundation tells,” Claire replied. “Evelyn died in a car accident twenty years ago.”
“Was there a funeral?”
“Yes. There was a service at St. Thomas and a private burial.”
“Did people see her body?”
Claire’s eyes moved toward Margaret. “The accident was severe. The family requested a closed service.”
Sophie looked at Margaret. “Is that true?”
“It is.”
“Did you see her?”
Margaret held her gaze. “Yes.”
“Then my mother can’t be her.”
The statement was firm, but Sophie’s fingers had tightened around the necklace.
“I don’t know,” Margaret said.
Sophie blinked. “You don’t know?”
“I know what I believed.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No.”
Margaret had never said those words about Evelyn’s death. Not once. The question of identity had been settled by the police and medical examiner.
She remembered the hospital corridor, the closed room, the official report. She remembered a funeral so crowded that she could not hear the priest.
She also remembered how little she had seen.
A doctor brought a glass of water into the room. Claire thanked him and shut the door after he left.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” Claire said, “we should verify what we can before we make assumptions.”
“Agreed.”
“Do you have any records?”
“Not with me.”
“Could you contact someone who has them?”
Margaret reached for her phone. “I can call my attorney.”
Sophie stood. “No.”
Margaret stopped. “No?”
“I’m not signing anything. I’m not giving up my necklace. I’m not getting pulled into some rich person’s family story.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You were about to call a lawyer.”
“To ask for help finding the records.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t have to. Not yet.”
Sophie looked toward the door. “I want to go back to work.”
“You may.”
“You can’t stop me?”
“No.”
“Then I’m going.”
She reached for the handle.
Margaret rose but stayed where she was. “Would you allow me to speak with you again?”
“Why?”
“Because your mother may have been connected to my daughter.”
“May have been.”
“Yes.”
“And if she was?”
“Then I’d want to know who you are.”
Sophie’s mouth tightened. “You want to know who I am because I might be related to you.”
“I want to know who you are because you’re wearing something I gave my daughter.”
“That’s not the same answer.”
“No,” Margaret said. “It isn’t.”
Sophie opened the door.
