For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, in a voice thick with emotion, he whispered, “Merinda…”
My chest tightened. “That was my grandmother’s name.”
His expression shattered.
“No,” he said softly. “That was my daughter’s name.”
Everything inside me went still.
“What?”
He stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching something fragile.
“My name is Charles Whitmore,” he said. “And I believe… you are my granddaughter.”
I let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh.
“That’s not possible. My grandmother raised me. My mother died when I was a baby. I don’t know any Whitmores.”
“That’s because you were never meant to disappear,” he said, his voice breaking. “But you did.”
He gestured toward the necklace.
“That piece belonged to my wife. We had two made. One was buried with her. The other was given to our daughter, Merinda, when she turned eighteen.”
I stared at the necklace, my pulse hammering.
“She wore it every day,” he continued. “Until the day she left.”
“Left where?”
