Evelyn took Lucy upstairs to a private hotel suite while the gala continued without her.
Lucy sat on the edge of a velvet chair, suspicious of everything placed in front of her, including the hot chocolate.
Evelyn stayed across the room.
"Anna left home ten years ago," she said. "We argued. She was twenty-two. She told me she was leaving New York and never wanted my money again."
Lucy stared into the cup. "She didn't like talking about before me."
"Where is she now?"
Lucy did not answer.
Evelyn understood before the child spoke.
"She died six weeks ago."
The words seemed to take the air out of the room.
Lucy explained that she and Anna had lived in small apartments, motel rooms, and once in a borrowed camper outside Harrisburg. Anna worked wherever she could. After she became sick, bills swallowed everything. Lucy spent the final weeks beside her mother's hospital bed.
"And no one called me?" Evelyn asked.
"Mom said not to."
That hurt more than Evelyn expected.
Lucy removed a folded envelope from inside her coat. Anna had written one sentence on the front:
For Lucy, when there is nowhere else.
Inside was no letter—only a bus ticket receipt to New York and an address for the Whitmore Foundation.
Evelyn pressed her fingers to her mouth.
The suite door opened.
A tall man in a tuxedo entered without knocking.
"Mother, what on earth is happening downstairs?"
Evelyn stiffened.
"This is my son, Richard."
Richard Whitmore looked at Lucy, then at the locket in Evelyn's hand.
His expression changed for only a second.
But Lucy saw it.
"You know this," she said.
Richard recovered quickly. "I know my sister owned jewelry."
"No," Lucy said. "You know this locket."
Evelyn turned toward him.
Richard gave a humorless laugh. "Mother, a child appears at your fundraiser with an old photograph and suddenly we're rewriting the family tree?"
Lucy stood.
"My mom said there was one person I should never trust."
Richard's jaw tightened.
Evelyn asked, "Who?"
Lucy looked directly at him.
"Uncle Richard."