“My mom… my mom has one exactly like that, sir,” the girl said softly, pointing with trembling fingers.
The noise of the city seemed to vanish. Harrison’s breath caught. That brooch wasn’t just jewelry. He had commissioned the pair twelve years earlier for his daughter Isabella’s sixteenth birthday.
He had kept one. The other disappeared the night Isabella walked out of his life and never returned.
“What did you say?” Harrison asked, ignoring the pill Grant was trying to press into his hand. “Say that again.”
The girl swallowed. “My mom says it’s the most important thing she owns. She says her dad gave it to her. And that there are only two in the world.”
Harrison’s vision blurred. Tears—foreign, unwelcome—rose in his eyes. “What’s your mother’s name?”
“Isabella Whitmore,” she answered.
The world tilted.
For over a decade he had hired investigators, offered rewards, plastered her face across newspapers. Nothing. And now his granddaughter was standing in front of him, begging on the very street where he had built his empire.
“Where is she?” Harrison demanded, gripping the arms of his wheelchair. “Take me to her.”