While federal investigators combed through the Rochefort estates, Damon returned to the penthouse.
The top floor of the Cross Tower was warm and quiet, filled with the golden glow of late afternoon sun.
In the southern wing, a set of double walnut doors had remained locked for five long years.
It was Evelyn’s private suite, left exactly as she had decorated it before she disappeared.
Damon pulled a silver key from his pocket and unlocked the heavy brass cylinder.
The door swung inward with a faint, smooth hum.
The room smelled faintly of lavender and old paper.
Maya stood beside him, clutching his hand with her small fingers, wearing soft denim overalls and white sneakers.
She stepped into the room cautiously, her wide hazel eyes scanning the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the velvet reading chaise, and the framed landscape paintings on the walls.
"This was Mama's room?" Maya asked in a hushed whisper.
"It was," Damon said gently, crouching down beside her.
Maya walked toward a small oak desk near the terrace windows.
Sitting on the desk was a silver-framed photograph of a teenage Evelyn laughing on a sailboat, her dark brown curls whipping wildly in the sea spray.
Maya reached out a tiny hand and pressed her fingertips against the glass.
"She looks like me," Maya murmured, a soft smile touching her lips.
"You look like her, sweetheart," Damon answered, his voice thick with emotion.
He opened the center desk drawer, pulling out a small velvet box wrapped with a faded white satin ribbon.
Inside lay a silver chain holding a delicate pendant shaped like a wild magnolia blossom.
"Your mother wore this every day she worked in our laboratories," Damon whispered, fastening the chain gently around Maya's neck.
Maya touched the cool silver flower resting against her chest, then turned and threw her arms tightly around Damon's neck.
"Thank you, Uncle Damon."
"You belong here, Maya," Damon said, holding her close against his heart. "This whole place belongs to you."
