Bloom

Ivy turns to look at Linny. “How long ago?”

I answer because I don’t want Linny to have to lie for me. “My mom got the locket twenty-four years ago.”

That sets Ivy back a step. Her hand darts to her chest. “Do you know where she got it?”

Linny clears her throat. Whatever she’s about to say won’t be based in truth. I’ve held onto this gold chain and locket for dear life for years. I’ve avoided every question about where it came from or who is inside.

I’ve never owned its truth because I’ve tried to bury mine.

I can’t anymore. I won’t anymore.

“She got it from my father.” I swallow hard. “They had just met. It was a one-night thing.”

Ivy reaches forward to take my hand. “That locket was stolen from Finola Lera’s gallery twenty-four years ago. She handmade it for her mother.”

My free hand instinctively reaches up to grab the locket. I close my fist around it. “Who?”

“Finola Lera,” Ivy repeats. “She’s an incredible jewelry designer. My hero.”

Is my father related to Finola Lera? Is that where my creativity comes from?

“She made two identical lockets for her parents.” She points at my closed fist. “A gold one for her mother and a silver one for her father. His hung on a pocket chain.”

“Did they have a son?” I blurt out the question without thinking.

Her head shakes slowly. “No children.”

I try to piece together everything she’s saying. She can’t be right. The people inside are my grandparents. I’ve never vocalized that to anyone, but my heart has always believed it.

“They caught the man who stole the pieces when he tried to pawn the silver locket.” Ivy looks to Linny. “Her parents’ pictures were in both.”

Linny’s voice comes out in barely more than a whisper. “What do her parents look like?”

Linny has looked at the pictures in the locket at least a dozen times since we met. She’s always hatching a plan to find them. For a time, she wanted to post their images on Facebook to ask for clues. I told her no. I wasn’t ready.

Tears well in my eyes as I loosen my hand and open the locket.

Ivy leans forward. Her gaze narrows as she studies the images. When her hand leaps to her mouth, I know before she even says a word.

“I can’t believe it.” She squeezes my hand. “This is it. Athena, you have Finola Lera’s locket.”

Chapter 45

Athena

My father died in prison seven years ago.

He was locked up four different times. His last sentence was for attempted murder. Retaliation killed him. He was stabbed in the shower at a prison in Pennsylvania.

No one mourned his loss. He was buried in an unmarked grave.

Yesterday, after I found out about Finola Lera, I went to her gallery in midtown Manhattan.

I gave her the locket along with my heartfelt apologies.

She wanted to give me something in return, but I only asked for one thing. I needed the name of the man who had been convicted of the theft of the matching silver locket.

Antero Willman.