Lucy Hale made it twelve steps into the Grand Marlowe ballroom before security caught her.
The room glittered with chandeliers, crystal glasses, and people wearing clothes that cost more than Lucy had seen in one place in her entire life. She was nine years old, soaked from the November rain, and wearing a gray coat with one torn sleeve.
"Miss, you can't be in here," a guard said, reaching for her shoulder.
Lucy twisted away. "I just need to see Mrs. Whitmore."
Several guests turned.
At the far end of the ballroom, Evelyn Whitmore stood beside a podium beneath a banner for the Whitmore Children's Foundation. At seventy-one, she was one of Manhattan's best-known philanthropists. Tonight was supposed to celebrate the foundation's twentieth anniversary.
Lucy had learned her name only two hours earlier.
"Please," Lucy said. "My mom said if I ever got in real trouble, I should find the woman in the picture."
The guard softened slightly. "What picture?"
Lucy reached beneath her sweater and pulled out a thin gold chain. A blue-stone locket swung from it.
Before she could open it, another security officer approached. Lucy backed away, slipped on the polished marble, and fell hard.
The chain snapped.
The locket skittered across the floor.
It stopped beside a pair of emerald heels.
The ballroom went strangely quiet.
Evelyn Whitmore bent down and picked it up.
"Where did you get this?" she asked.
Lucy pushed herself upright. "It was my mother's."
Evelyn's fingers trembled as she opened the locket.
Inside was a faded photograph of a young woman holding a baby.
The color drained from Evelyn's face.
"What's your mother's name?"
"Anna Hale."
Evelyn stared at Lucy as if the crowded ballroom had disappeared.
Then she whispered, "Anna didn't have a daughter."
Lucy swallowed.
"She did," she said. "Me."
Evelyn looked again at the photograph—and this time she noticed the tiny inscription scratched beneath it.
For my Evie. Bring us home.
Evelyn's eyes filled with tears.
She looked at Lucy and said, "Anna was my daughter."