Chapter 1 - The Girl on Fifth AvenueThe rain had stopped, but Fifth Avenue still smelled like wet stone, expensive perfume, and secrets.
Clara Whitmore stepped out of the boutique beneath a black umbrella held by an assistant.
At thirty-eight, Clara had perfected the art of looking untouchable.
Her cream-colored coat was tailored in Milan.
Her diamond necklace had belonged to her grandmother.
Her heels cost more than some people's monthly rent.
And her name appeared regularly in business magazines as the woman who had transformed her father's failing investment company into one of Manhattan's most successful private firms.
People saw confidence when they looked at Clara.
They did not see the little girl she had once been.
They did not see the hospital room seven years earlier.
They did not hear the doctor saying, I'm sorry.
They did not see the tiny white blanket.
They did not know that Clara had held her newborn daughter for exactly seventeen seconds before someone told her the baby had died.
And they certainly did not know that Clara had spent seven years secretly blaming herself for not being strong enough to survive the loss.
She had built an empire over that grief.
But grief had never left.
It simply learned how to dress well.
Clara paused outside the boutique and checked her phone.
Three missed calls.
Her assistant stood nearby.
“Should I call Mr. Bennett back?”
“No.”
“It's about the board meeting.”
“Then he'll call again.”
She slipped the phone into her handbag.
That was when she noticed the little girl.
At first, Clara saw only a flash of blue eyes behind a parked Mercedes.
The child was tiny.
Maybe seven.
Her dress was dirty and several sizes too large.
Her dark hair was tangled.
Her shoes looked like they had been worn through several winters.
Clara looked away.
New York was full of children who needed help.
She couldn't save all of them.
She had learned that lesson years ago.
But the child didn't leave.
She watched Clara.
Not the boutique.
Not the necklace.
Clara.
Then the girl stepped forward.
Her hand disappeared into Clara's open handbag.
Clara felt the tug.
She turned.
“Hey!”
The girl ran.
“Stop!”
Clara chased her.
Her assistant shouted something behind her, but Clara barely heard it.
The child sprinted between pedestrians.
Clara's heels struck the pavement.
“Give me my bag!”
The girl didn't turn around.
She ran harder.
Then her foot caught on a broken section of pavement.
She fell.
The handbag flew open.
Lipstick rolled across the sidewalk.
A compact mirror shattered.
And one old photograph landed face up.
Clara stopped.
The world stopped with her.
The photograph showed a young woman.
A woman Clara knew better than anyone.
Her own younger sister, Emily.
Emily had died seven years ago.
Or at least that was what Clara had been told.
The little girl scrambled toward the photograph.
Clara reached it first.
Her hands began to shake.
“Where did you get this?”
The child stared at her.
“Give it back.”
“Where?”
“My sister.”
Clara's heart slammed against her ribs.
“What did you say?”
The girl pointed at the photograph.
“That's my sister.”
Clara looked from the photograph to the child.
“What's your name?”
“Lily.”
“Lily what?”
The child hesitated.
“Lily Hart.”
Clara's breathing changed.
Seven years ago, Emily had disappeared after a terrible argument.
The next morning, police found her car abandoned.
Two days later, Emily's body was supposedly discovered near the Hudson.
Clara had never been allowed to see it.
Her father had arranged the funeral.
Everything had been sealed.
Clara had believed Emily was dead.
But the photograph was real.
She had taken it herself.
Emily had been holding a newborn baby in that picture.
Clara's baby.
Her daughter.
The child doctors said had died.
Clara looked at Lily.
“Where is your mother?”
Lily's face crumpled.
“She can't come.”
“Why?”
“She died.”
Clara felt the ground disappear.
“Who was your mother?”
The girl looked confused.
“Emily.”
Clara stopped breathing.
“Emily Whitmore?”
Lily nodded.
Clara's knees weakened.
“That isn't possible.”
Lily pulled something from beneath her collar.
A tiny silver ring hung around her neck.
Clara recognized it instantly.
It was her father's family crest.
The same crest engraved on the ring her father had given to the man who worked beside him.
Daniel Cross.
The man who had supposedly disappeared after Emily's death.
Clara grabbed Lily's wrist.
“Where did you get that?”
“He gave it to me.”
“Who?”
Lily's eyes filled with fear.
“The man who stole me.”
A cold silence settled over Clara.
“Who stole you?”
Lily looked around.
Then whispered:
“Daniel.”
Clara's blood turned cold.
Daniel Cross had been her father's most trusted employee.
He had disappeared seven years ago.
And Clara suddenly remembered something.
The night her baby was supposedly born dead, Daniel had been at the hospital.
He had stood outside her room.
He had told her father everything would be taken care of.
Clara had never questioned him.
Until now.
She looked at Lily again.
Seven years old.
Blue eyes.
Dark hair.
A tiny birthmark beneath her left ear.
Clara's breath caught.
Her daughter had the same birthmark.
She remembered it.
She had kissed it before the nurses took the baby away.
“No,” Clara whispered.
Lily stepped closer.
“You know her?”
Clara couldn't answer.
“You know my sister?”
Clara looked at the photograph.
Then at the child.
The girl she had mourned for seven years.
The girl she had been told was dead.
Her daughter.
Still alive.
Still standing in front of her.
Clara fell to her knees.
Tears destroyed the perfect makeup she had spent forty minutes applying.
“What did they call you when you were little?”
Lily frowned.
“Baby Hope.”
Clara's heart broke.
That was the name she had secretly given her unborn child.
No one knew it.
No one except Emily.
And Clara's father.
Lily reached into her pocket.
She pulled out another folded piece of paper.
“This is why I found you.”
Clara opened it.
There was one sentence written in a man's handwriting.
IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO YOUR DAUGHTER REALLY IS, ASK CLARA WHITMORE ABOUT THE NIGHT SHE WAS BORN.
Clara stared at the words.
Then she heard tires screech.
A black SUV stopped at the curb.
Two men stepped out.
Lily grabbed Clara's coat.
“Don't let them take me.”
Clara looked up.
The men were coming toward them.
And for the first time in seven years, Clara Whitmore felt something stronger than grief.
She felt rage.
She stood.
She pulled Lily behind her.
May you like
And she whispered:
“Run with me.”
Related Stories
