While the genetic analyzer processed the sample, Damon knelt beside Lily once more.
"Lily, tell me about Aunt Clara," Damon asked gently. "Where does she live?"
Lily pointed toward the southern terrace window.
"Down where the big fishing boats sleep," she whispered. "In the gray wooden house with the red chimney."
The old fisherman’s shanties near the southern breakwater.
A forgotten strip of land three miles from the estate, where low-income dockworkers lived in weathered cabins.
Damon stood up, turning to Arthur Vance.
"Take two security sedans. Bring Clara to this house with the utmost respect. Do not frighten her."
"Understood, sir," Arthur said, turning on his heel.
Forty minutes later, the library doors opened to reveal an elderly woman in a faded woolen shawl.
Her hair was silver, tied in a modest knot, and her hands were weathered and lined from decades of cleaning fish.
The moment she saw Lily wrapped in the cashmere blanket, Clara let out a choked gasp of terror.
"Lily! Oh, Lord, forgive me, they took you!"
Clara moved forward to shield the child, but her knees buckled under the weight of sheer exhaustion.
Damon stepped forward instantly, catching the elderly woman by the elbows and guiding her into a wooden armchair.
"No one is taking her, Clara," Damon said in a firm, steady voice. "I am Damon Sterling."
Clara looked up into his face, her breath seizing in her throat.
Her eyes moved from Damon’s sharp jawline to the child sitting beside the hearth.
"You're the husband," Clara whispered, tears spilling freely over her weathered cheeks.
"The man on the news seven years ago."
"Tell me what happened that night, Clara," Damon urged quietly. "Tell me how she survived."
