Chapter 1: The Bracelet

"Nobody picks the difficult ones," the little girl said.

She was standing behind a cardboard snowman in the lobby of the Westmore Family Center, speaking to a stuffed rabbit whose left ear hung by a thread. Grant Whitaker had come to deliver a check. He had not meant to overhear her.

"But you can sit with me," she told the rabbit. "I don't mind."

Across the room, prospective parents knelt beside children at craft tables. A volunteer offered cocoa. Paper stars swung from the ceiling whenever the front doors opened. Grant could still turn around, hand the envelope to the receptionist, and return to a meeting where every problem came with a figure attached.

Then the girl pushed up her coat sleeve. On her wrist was a thin silver medical bracelet. Its clasp had been repaired with a short length of blue thread.

MAISIE REED.

Grant stopped so abruptly a woman carrying two cups of cocoa nearly walked into him.

His sister had been Anna Reed. Dead for six years.

He knew the surname meant nothing by itself. He also knew Anna used to repair broken clasps with blue thread because she never remembered to buy the proper parts.

"Excuse me," he said to the receptionist. "Who is that child?"

Her smile narrowed. "If you're interested in meeting the children, I can explain the process."

"Her name is Maisie?"

"I can't discuss a child with someone who hasn't been cleared."

Fair. He had spent ten years being obeyed whenever he asked a question. This was the first sensible refusal he'd heard all week.

Grant took out his phone and pulled up the last photograph he had of Anna. At twenty-nine she was grinning on the loading dock of his first warehouse, holding a paper cup and making a rude gesture toward the camera.

"Anna Reed was my sister. I need to know if that girl is her daughter."

The receptionist looked from the photograph to the girl. She set down her pen and called someone.

A woman in a cream coat emerged from the back hallway. "Mr. Whitaker. I'm Diane Voss. I oversee Maisie's placement arrangements."

"Is Anna her mother?"

Diane glanced toward the crowded lobby. "This isn't an appropriate place."

"Then show me one."

Her expression did not change. She led him to a small office, leaving the door open. On the desk stood a framed certificate and a cup full of pens printed with the center's name.

"Anna was Maisie's mother," Diane said.

Grant felt his legs lose their certainty. "How old?"

"Nine."

Anna had lived three years after Maisie was born. Three years during which Grant had returned her letters unopened. He had believed their quarrel was about the money he'd refused to lend her. He had let that belief stand because being angry was easier than calling.

"Why didn't anyone contact me when Anna died?"

"You were contacted."

"I wasn't."

Diane folded her hands. "Mr. Whitaker, I know this must be a shock. Please don't turn it into a scene in front of Maisie."

"Show me what says I was contacted."

"Those are protected records. You can make a request through the proper channels."

A child's laugh traveled down the hallway. Grant looked through the open door. Maisie was at a craft table, watching a boy show his drawing to a couple. She had made a red paper heart. No one was looking at it.

"Can I speak to her?"

"Not today."

Diane's answer arrived too quickly.

Grant stepped into the hallway before he said something that would make the next conversation harder. The volunteer at the table bent to retrieve a dropped marker. Maisie approached the couple with her heart held in both hands.

"I can make pancakes," she told them. "And I don't mind quiet movies."

The woman gave her a kind, distracted smile. "That's wonderful, sweetheart."

The boy tugged her sleeve, and the couple turned away.

Maisie looked down at the heart, then slid it inside her coat. Grant recognized the motion. Anna used to hide her drawings when their father came home in a bad mood.

The receptionist met Grant by the exit. "Please don't approach her without an approved visit."

"I won't." He took a card from his wallet. "Tell me who receives a request."

She wrote down the center's family services number and the name of a county case coordinator. He photographed the paper, thanked her, and went outside.

From the sidewalk, he called the coordinator. He gave his name, his relationship to Anna, and his number. Then he called Tessa Ward, an attorney a colleague had once recommended for a child welfare matter.

"I need to establish that I'm this child's uncle," he said when she answered. "And I need her records requested properly."

"Where are you?" Tessa asked.

He told her.

"Stay available. Don't call the guardian again. I'll tell you what we can ask for and what you need to bring."

Grant went back inside only to give the receptionist the contact information Tessa had requested. The craft tables were being cleared. Maisie stood beside a stack of folding chairs, alone except for the rabbit under her arm.

He kept several feet between them.

"I like your rabbit," he said.

"His name is Captain."

"He looks experienced."

"He is."

Maisie studied him. Her eyes were gray like Anna's, but the guarded expression was entirely her own.

"You're the man who was talking about me," she said.

Grant considered denying it. "Yes."

"Are you here to pick somebody?"

"I'm here to find out something about my family."

She shifted Captain against her chest. "People find out things. Then they leave."

A volunteer called her name from the hallway. Grant did not move closer.

"I'm going to ask for a visit," he said. "They'll decide if that's allowed."

Maisie looked at his empty hands, at the receptionist watching nearby, then back at his face.

"And after you find out," she asked, "are you going to leave too?"