Chapter 2 - The Necklace My Father Left Behind
I had always believed there were certain moments that divided a person's life into two parts.
Before the wedding.
After the wedding.
Before the birth of a child.
After the loss of a parent.
But standing in that banquet room with Vincent Marino beside me, I discovered another kind of moment.
Before learning your father might still be alive.
And after hearing a stranger threaten your mother.
“Who are you?” I whispered into the phone.
The man chuckled.
“Someone your father disappointed.”
“Where is my mother?”
“Somewhere comfortable.”
“Put her on.”
“I'm afraid Margaret has said enough for one evening.”
Vincent held out his hand.
I shook my head.
The voice continued.
“Tomorrow evening. Eight o'clock. The old Harrington Conservatory.”
“Why?”
“Bring the necklace Daniel gave you. Come alone.”
“I don't even know where it is.”
“Then I suggest you start remembering.”
The call ended.
For several seconds, I stared at the screen.
Then I looked at Vincent.
“My mother—”
“I heard.”
He was already dialing.
His entire demeanor had changed.
The sarcastic man who shared sandwiches beneath banquet tables was gone.
In his place stood someone cold, controlled, and frighteningly focused.
“Marco,” he said when the call connected. “Lock down the hotel exits. Quietly. Find my mother and Margaret Hartwell. Now.”
I heard a man's voice respond.
Vincent continued.
“Get the camera feeds. Nobody connected to the Hartwell family leaves without being identified.”
He ended the call.
I grabbed his arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding your mother.”
“Someone has her!”
“I know.”
“You don't understand—”
“Evelyn.”
His voice was firm but not harsh.
I stopped talking.
He lowered himself slightly so our eyes were level.
“I need you to hear me. Panicking will not help Margaret. Neither will running blindly into whoever planned this.”
Tears burned behind my eyes.
“She said my father didn't die.”
“I heard that too.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Don't lie to me.”
His expression tightened.
“I'm not.”
I searched his face.
There was something almost unbearable about not knowing whom to believe.
My mother had spent seventeen years telling me the same story.
My father died in a single-car accident outside Rockford.
The funeral had been closed-casket because of the damage.
His ashes had been buried beside my grandparents.
I visited that grave every year.
I brought flowers on Father's Day.
I talked to a stone.
And now—
“Evelyn.”
Vincent gently touched my shoulder.
I realized I was trembling.
“Breathe.”
I took a shaky breath.
“Why would she lie?”
“We don't know that she did.”
“She said he didn't die!”
“She may have meant something else. Or someone may have forced her to say it.”
I wanted that explanation to be true.
I also hated him for offering it.
Because the tiny, impossible possibility that my father was alive had already taken root inside me.
A knock sounded.
Vincent moved in front of me.
“Come.”
A muscular man in a dark suit entered.
He had closely cropped brown hair and the exhausted expression of someone who spent his life cleaning up other people's disasters.
“Boss,” he said.
Vincent nodded.
“Marco Bellini. My head of security.”
Marco glanced at me.
“Miss Hartwell.”
“Where's my mother?”
His expression told me the answer before he spoke.
“We found Mrs. Marino. She's safe. Margaret disappeared through a service corridor approximately six minutes before the call.”
My stomach dropped.
“Disappeared?”
“Security footage shows her entering an elevator with a man dressed as hotel staff.”
“Did he force her?”
“Not visibly.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“She walked beside him.”
“Then why did she sound terrified?”
“We're reviewing additional footage.”
Vincent crossed his arms.
“Vehicle?”
“Black sedan. Temporary plates. Left through the loading entrance.”
“Track it.”
“Already working.”
Marco hesitated.
“There's something else.”
Vincent noticed immediately.
“What?”
“The man escorting Mrs. Hartwell used an employee access card registered to a hotel contractor.”
“And?”
Marco handed him a phone.
Vincent examined the screen.
His jaw clenched.
“Impossible.”
“What?” I demanded.
He showed me the photograph.
It was an employee identification image.
A middle-aged man with silver hair, a narrow face, and pale eyes.
I didn't recognize him.
But Vincent obviously did.
“Who is that?”
He looked at Marco.
“Confirm it.”
“Facial recognition matches.”
“Who?” I repeated.
Vincent turned toward me.
“His name is Samuel Voss.”
The name meant nothing.
“He worked for my father,” Vincent continued.
“And?”
“He disappeared seventeen years ago.”
I swallowed.
“After my father's accident?”
“Two days before.”
The room became terribly quiet.
Marco's phone rang.
He stepped away to answer.
I looked at Vincent.
“Is he the man who killed my father?”
“We don't know.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
Vincent studied me for a moment.
“Voss handled transportation and private security for my father's organization. He was clever, ambitious, and extremely good at making problems disappear.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of problems?”
“People.”
I looked away.
Vincent continued.
“My father suspected Voss was selling information to rival crews. He couldn't prove it.”
“And Daniel found the proof?”
“Possibly.”
I shook my head.
“Why wouldn't your father go to the police?”
Vincent gave me a grim look.
“Because several officers were involved.”
The words settled between us.
For the first time, I understood just how dangerous my father's secret might have been.
This wasn't a simple murder.
It was a conspiracy that had survived seventeen years.
And somehow, I had become the center of it.
Marco returned.
“We have the sedan's last location.”
Vincent straightened.
“Where?”
“Near the West Loop. Cameras lost it entering an underground parking garage.”
“Send a team.”
Marco nodded.
Then he looked at me.
“Miss Hartwell, we need to know whether you have the necklace.”
I hesitated.
Vincent noticed.
“You remember something.”
I swallowed.
“My father gave me a gold necklace when I turned seventeen.”
“What did it look like?”
“A heart-shaped pendant. Small. Plain. Nothing expensive.”
“Where is it?”
“At my condo, I think.”
“You think?”
“I stopped wearing it after college. The clasp broke.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
“Secure her building.”
I immediately objected.
“Absolutely not.”
Both men looked at me.
“You're not sending armed strangers into my home.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
“Evelyn, someone just kidnapped your mother.”
“And that means I should let your employees search my underwear drawer?”
Marco looked at the ceiling.
Vincent almost smiled.
“Fine. We'll go together.”
“I'll go alone.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“Someone knows about the necklace. They may already be waiting at your apartment.”
“I know how to take care of myself.”
“I believe you.”
“Then—”
“But knowing how to take care of yourself doesn't make you bulletproof.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Then muttered, “You're extremely irritating.”
“I've been told.”
“Frequently?”
“By my mother. Mostly.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped me.
Vincent's eyes softened.
Then Marco's phone buzzed again.
He glanced down.
And went still.
“What?” Vincent asked.
Marco held up the screen.
A security photograph showed the underground garage.
A black sedan was parked beside a concrete pillar.
Its rear door hung open.
There was no sign of my mother.
But painted across the windshield were four words.
ASK MARGARET ABOUT 2009.
I stared.
2009.
The year my father died.
The year my mother sold our family home.
The year she made me promise never to ask questions about the accident again.
I sat down heavily.
Vincent crouched beside me.
“Evelyn.”
I looked at him.
“Please tell me you can find her.”
His expression was unguarded for one brief moment.
“I will do everything I can.”
I wanted a promise.
Instead, he gave me the truth.
And somehow that meant more.
An hour later, I rode through Chicago in the back of a black armored SUV.
Vincent sat beside me.
Marco drove.
Another vehicle followed.
I kept looking at my phone, willing it to ring.
It didn't.
My condo occupied the ninth floor of a renovated brick building overlooking a quiet side street.
I'd bought it myself six years earlier, after my interior design firm landed its first major commercial contract.
I loved that place.
Every painting, every lamp, every chipped coffee mug belonged to me.
It was proof that I had built something without my mother's help.
Now I watched two security guards enter ahead of us, and my home suddenly felt like enemy territory.
“Clear,” one called from inside.
Vincent motioned for me to enter.
The living room was untouched.
My blue velvet sofa sat beneath the windows.
Fresh flowers decorated the kitchen island.
My shoes were still scattered near the entrance.
For one foolish second, I felt relieved.
Then I saw my bedroom.
The drawers were open.
Clothes covered the floor.
My jewelry box lay broken beside the bed.
Someone had already searched the apartment.
I stood frozen.
“No,” I whispered.
Vincent came up beside me.
“Don't touch anything.”
I barely heard him.
My mother's antique pearl earrings were scattered across the carpet.
A photograph of my father had been knocked from the dresser.
The glass was shattered.
I knelt beside it.
His smiling face stared up at me.
I picked up the photograph carefully.
It showed us at Lake Michigan when I was twelve.
My father had one arm around me.
We were both laughing.
He'd been alive then.
Real.
Warm.
Mine.
Tears blurred the picture.
Vincent crouched beside me.
“I'm sorry.”
I shook my head.
“Whoever did this wasn't looking for money.”
“I know.”
“They left my watches.”
“Yes.”
“They even left my grandmother's ring.”
Vincent gently took the broken frame from my hands.
“Where did you keep the necklace?”
I stood.
“Usually in a small wooden box.”
“Where?”
I pointed toward my closet.
The shelves had been emptied.
The box lay on the floor.
Its lid was broken.
Inside were old birthday cards, a silver bracelet, and several photographs.
No necklace.
I stared into the box.
“Oh, God.”
Vincent looked over my shoulder.
“It's gone?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“No?”
“I remember now.”
I turned toward him.
“I gave it to someone.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Who?”
“My best friend, Rachel.”
“When?”
“About four years ago. She owns a jewelry restoration studio. I asked her to repair the clasp.”
“Did she return it?”
I tried to remember.
Then my stomach sank.
“No.”
Vincent studied my face.
“Why not?”
“Because Rachel disappeared.”
The room went silent.
Marco stepped closer.
“Disappeared how?”
I swallowed.
“She closed her business overnight. Her landlord said she'd moved out of state. She stopped answering my calls.”
“Did you report her missing?”
“Yes. The police found a forwarding address in Oregon. They said she'd left voluntarily.”
Vincent exchanged a look with Marco.
I didn't like it.
“What?”
Vincent spoke carefully.
“Evelyn, what's Rachel's last name?”
“Donovan.”
Marco immediately took out his phone.
Vincent went completely still.
I looked between them.
“What is it?”
May you like
Vincent's voice was low.
“Rachel Donovan is Samuel Voss's daughter.”
