“Mr. Harrington,” she whispered, eyes huge. “Lucas says this was his mommy’s.”
The world narrowed to that small, mud-caked oval in her palm. Alexander knew it instantly—he had fastened it around Isabella’s neck on their wedding day. She had worn it every single day until the morning she went into labor. The funeral director had sworn it was buried with her.
His fingers shook so badly he nearly dropped it. The clasp still worked. Inside: two tiny photos—him and Isabella smiling in the garden—and tucked behind her picture, a fold of yellowed paper no bigger than a postage stamp.
He unfolded it with filthy nails.
Alexander, if you’re reading this, I’m already gone.
They’re poisoning me.
Trust no one.
Save our baby.
—Isa
He must have made a sound, because Lily took a step back and Lucas whispered, “Dad?”
Alexander looked at the mansion that had been his castle and suddenly saw only prison bars. “Lily, where exactly did you find this?”
She pointed to a patch of churned earth. “There’s more down there, sir. I felt a box.”