Chapter 2

The anteroom smelled of coffee and cut flowers. I shut the door on two security men and a photographer’s flashing lens. Poppy Pike sat in a leather chair too big for her, eating a roll in small, furious bites. I had sent for milk. She drank half of it without stopping.

“Your name is Poppy Pike,” I said.

She nodded.

“Your mother is Nadia Pike.”

Her jaw tightened. “She’s in prison because of him.”

“Because of the guard?”

“Because of the man who hurt us.” Poppy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Mom said don’t trust the guard. She said find the blue-star lady. She said give her the compass and she would remember.”

I sat across from her, my cane across my knees. For twelve years I had believed Nadia Pike manipulated my son into fraud and then caused his death. I had written letters to the parole board. I had called her a parasite in a statement read to the court. I had never once wondered why a woman with everything to lose would leave a paper trail straight to her own door.

“What is your mother to Elias?” I asked.

Poppy’s eyes filled. “She said he was a storm. She said he left us in it.”

The door opened. Dolan stepped inside, earpiece still in, badge still clipped to his chest. “Ma’am, we have a situation. The guests are asking questions. I can take the child to county intake.”

“No,” I said.

“She stole from the gala.”

“She was hungry.”

“She also has a stolen heirloom in your hand.”

I looked at him. The crescent scar. The way he held his right wrist against his belt when he lied. He had done that as a boy, too, whenever he broke a window and blamed the neighbor’s son.

“Eli,” I said softly.

His face didn’t change. That was how I knew. Elias had always been a good liar. He had learned to lie to me before he learned to shave.

“You have the wrong man,” he said.

Poppy slid off the chair and stood behind me, one small hand gripping the silk of my gown. “Don’t let him take me,” she whispered. “He said if I told, my mom would never come home.”

I had spent twelve years mourning a son who was standing in front of me. I had spent twelve years punishing a woman my son had destroyed. Poppy was not a thief. She was a message.

“You won’t touch her,” I said.

Dolan’s jaw worked. “Mother.”

The word hit me like a slap.

“I am choosing her,” I said. “Do you understand me? I am choosing this child over the son I buried.”

His eyes went cold. The door behind him clicked. He had locked it.