“Mother?”
“No.”
“Who is he?”
Cordelia’s lips trembled.
“Flynn, go inside.”
“What is going on?”
Henry pointed toward the emerald.
“Your mother knows.”
Flynn turned to her.
“Knows what?”
Cordelia’s eyes remained fixed on Phoebe’s velvet case.
I understood then.
She had lived almost thirty years believing that pendant might someday destroy her.
Every holiday.
Every charity dinner.
Every photograph.
Every time she saw it around my grandmother’s neck, then mine.
Fear had been sitting inches from her face.
No wonder she hated my family.
No wonder she hated me.
Phoebe spoke quietly.
“The original financial records were preserved.”
Flynn stared.
“What records?”
Cordelia snapped, “Don’t say anything.”
That did it.
Flynn looked at her.
Really looked.
“What records?”
I answered.
“The records showing where your family money came from.”
He laughed once.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your father’s investment fund.”
“My father died when I was a child.”
