Joyce backed away from the bedroom door.

“Grandma?”

The voice outside answered immediately.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Joyce gripped her phone.

“What’s the name of the dog I had when I was seven?”

Silence.

Then a small laugh.

“Oh, Joyce. Don’t be silly.”

Her stomach dropped.

Her childhood dog had been named Pickles.

Grandma Ruth had chosen the name herself.

Gabriel spoke urgently through the phone.

“Get away from the door.”

The handle turned again.

“Joyce, open it.”

She looked toward the window.

Her bedroom was on the second floor.

There was a narrow porch roof beneath it.

She had climbed onto that roof dozens of times as a teenager.

But never while someone was trying to get into her room.

The voice changed.

Lower.

Colder.

“Miss Whitmore, this doesn’t need to become unpleasant.”

Joyce grabbed her handbag.

Then she heard a metallic click.

The lock was being picked.

She rushed to the window.

“Gabriel, somebody’s breaking in.”

“I’m coming.”

“Where are you?”

“Three minutes away.”

“I don’t think I have three minutes.”

“Open the window. Get onto the porch roof. Stay low.”

Joyce pushed the window upward.

Cold night air rushed inside.

Behind her, the bedroom lock snapped.

The door opened.

A woman wearing a dark coat stepped inside.

She was perhaps fifty, with carefully styled blonde hair and an expression of absolute calm.

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Joyce had never seen her before.

The woman looked at the open window.

“Don’t do anything foolish.”

Joyce climbed outside.

The woman rushed toward her.

Joyce dropped onto the porch roof.

Her shoes slipped against the shingles.

She caught the gutter with one hand.

Pain shot through her wrist.

“Joyce!”

Gabriel’s voice came from below.

She looked down.

He stood in the driveway.

“Jump!”

“Are you insane?”

“Probably. We’ve established that.”

Even terrified, Joyce almost laughed.

Then the woman appeared at the window.

Joyce jumped.

Gabriel caught her awkwardly, and they both collapsed onto the grass.

For a moment neither moved.

Then he wrapped his arms around her.

“Are you hurt?”

“My wrist.”

“Can you move it?”

“Yes.”

He looked toward the window.

The woman had disappeared.

Gabriel pulled Joyce to her feet.

“Come on.”

They ran to his car.

He locked the doors.

Joyce was shaking so badly she could barely fasten her seat belt.

“Who was that?”

Gabriel started the engine.

“Bellamy’s private investigator.”

“She pretended to be my grandmother.”

“Her name is Vanessa Price.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s been following me for six months.”

Joyce stared at him.

“You knew people were after you, and you came into my family’s house?”

Gabriel flinched.

“I thought I could find the documents before Bellamy realized you were involved.”

“You thought wrong.”

“I know.”

He drove toward the hospital.

Grandma Ruth had collapsed shortly after Joyce went upstairs.

Her blood pressure had dropped, and Margaret had called an ambulance.

But in the confusion, nobody had noticed Vanessa enter the house.

By the time they reached the hospital, Ruth was awake.

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Margaret was sitting beside her.

Joyce rushed into the room.

“Grandma!”

Ruth opened her arms.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Joyce hugged her carefully.

Then she stepped back.

“Someone broke into the house.”

Margaret stood.

“What?”

Gabriel explained.

Ruth listened without interrupting.

When he finished, she closed her eyes.

“I was afraid this would happen.”

Joyce stared at her.

“You knew?”

Ruth looked toward the window.

“Your grandfather didn’t just keep a key.”

She reached beneath her hospital pillow and removed a small velvet pouch.

Inside was an old silver locket.

Joyce recognized it immediately.

Her grandmother had worn it every Christmas.

Ruth opened the locket.

There was no photograph inside.

Only a tiny folded piece of paper.

Gabriel leaned closer.

Ruth handed it to Joyce.

On the paper were six numbers.

14 – 08 – 27 – 05 – 19 – 97.

Joyce frowned.

“What is this?”

“Your grandfather’s last message.”

“To whom?”

“To your father.”

Gabriel studied the numbers.

“A code?”

Ruth nodded.

“He said that if anyone ever came asking about Eleanor Hayes, I should give this to Joyce.”

“Why me?”

“Because your father trusted you with something before he died.”

Joyce shook her head.

“I was sixteen.”

Ruth’s expression softened.

“Exactly.”

Joyce stared at the numbers.

Then a memory surfaced.

Her sixteenth birthday.

Her father had given her a small wooden music box.

It played a melody she couldn’t remember the name of.

He had told her never to throw it away.

She still had it.

In her apartment in Boston.

“Gabriel.”

He turned.

“I think I know where the documents are.”

Two hours later, they were on the road toward Boston.

Joyce had insisted on going.

Gabriel had insisted on calling the police.

Together, they contacted a detective, provided Bellamy’s threatening call, and reported the break-in.

The detective warned them not to confront anyone and arranged for local officers to check Joyce’s apartment.

But Joyce refused to leave the music box untouched.

“It belongs to me,” she said. “And if it contains evidence, I’m handing it over myself.”

Gabriel glanced at her.

“You’re very stubborn.”

“You knew that when you volunteered to be my fake boyfriend.”

He smiled faintly.

“Best terrible decision I’ve ever made.”

She looked away.

Because she was beginning to believe him.

They arrived in Boston shortly before sunrise.

Two officers met them outside Joyce’s building.

Her apartment showed no signs of forced entry.

Joyce went directly to her bedroom closet.

The music box sat on the highest shelf.

Small.

Walnut-colored.

A tiny brass ballerina inside.

She carried it to the kitchen table.

Gabriel stood beside her.

“Do you remember how it opens?”

“Of course.”

She lifted the lid.

The familiar melody began playing.

Then she noticed something.

Six tiny brass buttons were hidden beneath the velvet lining.

She pressed them in the order of the numbers.

Fourteen.

Eight.

Twenty-seven.

Five.

Nineteen.

Ninety-seven.

Nothing happened.

Gabriel frowned.

“Maybe it’s a date.”

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Joyce looked again.

Then she realized the numbers weren’t meant to be pressed.

They were a reference.

A page.

A line.

A word.

Her father had loved puzzles.

Especially books.

She turned the music box upside down.

Engraved beneath it were four words.

The Story We Started.

Joyce gasped.

Her father’s favorite novel.

The one he read to her every summer.

She still owned his original copy.

She retrieved it from her bookshelf.

Page fourteen.

Line eight.

Word twenty-seven.

She began reading.

Then page five.

Line nineteen.

Word ninety-seven.

The selected words formed a sentence.

“Look beneath the place where she dances.”

Joyce looked at the ballerina.

Gabriel carefully lifted the small platform beneath it.

A hidden compartment opened.

Inside was a flash drive.

And a photograph.

Joyce picked up the photograph first.

It showed her father standing beside a little girl.

The girl looked about four.

She had dark curls and a yellow dress.

Joyce had never seen her before.

On the back, in her father’s handwriting, were five words.

My first daughter. My greatest regret.

Joyce felt the room tilt.

“Gabriel.”

He looked at the photograph.

His face drained of color.

“Oh, God.”

Joyce turned toward him.

“What?”

Gabriel whispered something she almost didn’t hear.

“I know that little girl.”

Joyce grabbed his arm.

“Who is she?”

He looked at Joyce with a mixture of shock and grief.

“Her name is Claire.”

Joyce stared.

“Your sister Claire?”

Gabriel nodded.

“The woman whose anniversary party we’re supposed to attend tonight.”

Joyce looked down at the photograph again.

Then back at Gabriel.

And finally understood why he had been so desperate to find her.

Claire wasn’t simply his sister.

She was Joyce’s sister, too.