That photograph lit the next media fire. Some called Emma an angel. Others called her an opportunist climbing into a richer life. She refused to answer any of it. Back in the house, Riley practiced piano again, her small hand moving over the keys while Emma encouraged her.
In the kitchen, Michael clumsily baked a cake in an apron, covered in flour, and joked that if the foundation ever went broke, he could at least cook for “his two girls.” Mrs. Evelyn laughed that she had never seen a billionaire knead dough so badly.
The house, once frozen with fear, slowly filled with warmth. Then another anonymous letter arrived, warning that if they believed they could hide, the world would soon see who they really were. Mrs. Evelyn suggested they take Riley away for a while. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with sun instead of newspapers. Michael agreed.
They drove to the coast at dawn. Riley leaned toward the car window in delight, pointing at the waves.
On the beach Emma took off her shoes and asked Riley to draw what made her happy. The child crouched in the sand and drew three people—one tall, one medium, one small—and underneath wrote, “My home.”