The Little Girl Accused of Theft at Mrs. Grant's Banquet

CHAPTER 1 - THE SECOND NECKLACE

"We caught her with your necklace, Mrs. Grant."

The guard's voice cut through the soft music and polite laughter of the banquet hall.

Eleanor Grant looked up from her untouched salad and saw a little girl being pulled toward her table. The child could not have been older than seven. Her hair was tangled. The sleeves of her gray coat were worn through at the cuffs. She held both hands tight against her chest as if she were protecting something alive.

"I didn't steal it," the girl said, her voice shaking. "It's mine!"

Eleanor's first reaction was confusion. Then alarm.

She touched the fine gold chain at her own throat and felt the oval sapphire pendant resting where it had always rested, cool against her skin.

"No," she said quietly. "Mine is right here."

The guard stopped. His grip loosened.

The girl slowly opened her hand.

A second necklace lay in her palm.

Fine gold chain. Oval sapphire pendant. A twin to Eleanor's in every detail, except for a little gray dust along the edge where the child had clenched it too hard.

Eleanor pushed back her chair so quickly it scraped the floor. She bent close, not touching it, only staring.

"Where did you get that?" she whispered. "There are only two like it."

Her own voice sounded strange to her.

She looked from the pendant in the child's hand to the one at her throat. Forty years vanished in an instant. A jeweler in Boston. A rainy afternoon. Two sisters in blue velvet boxes. One for her. One for Caroline.

"I gave the other one to my daughter."

The girl's eyes stayed wary. She closed her fingers over the necklace again.

"Mom left it for me," she said, almost crying now. "It's all I have."

Eleanor felt her knees weaken. She crouched in front of the child, her hand trembling in midair.

"What is your mother's name?"

The girl hesitated.

Then she said, very softly, "Caroline."

Eleanor's breath caught.

"Caroline," she said, and her voice broke. "Caroline is my daughter."

Before the guard could apologize, before the nearest guests could turn away and pretend not to listen, a man at the edge of the room stepped forward and said, "Then you should know your daughter died three weeks ago."