Chapter 1 - The Muddy Pink Shoe
The first thing Barnaby brought me was a shoe.
Small.
Pink.
Muddy.
Wet enough to leave a dark stain on the cream carpet of a Manhattan charity ballroom where nearly every surface had been designed to look too expensive to touch.
My name is Keith Donovan.
I was thirty-nine years old, chairman of Donovan Capital and one of the primary donors to the children’s foundation hosting that evening’s gala.
People were still arriving.
Crystal chandeliers reflected across polished floors.
White flowers covered the stage.
Dinner had not yet begun.
Barnaby was a young German Shepherd belonging to our foundation’s therapy-dog program.
He had been introduced to guests an hour earlier wearing a blue vest.
Now the vest was gone.
His coat was soaked.
His paws were muddy.
And between his teeth was the pink shoe.
He ran directly toward me.
Dropped it at my feet.
Then looked toward the service hallway.
I knew the shoe.
Not because I had purchased it.
Because three weeks earlier my seven-year-old niece Nora had shown me the glittery little stars along the side and informed me they made her:
“at least twelve percent faster.”
Nora was my late sister Laura’s daughter.
I bent down.
“Barnaby?”
He pulled at my trouser cuff.
Once.
Then again.
My uncle Howard Donovan approached from my left.
Sixty-three.
Silver hair.
Black tuxedo.
Board member of the Donovan Family Foundation.
My mother’s younger brother.
He looked at:
the wet dog,
the shoe,
then me.
His first reaction was not:
Where is Nora?
He kicked the shoe aside.
Hard enough that it slid beneath a chair.
“Throw that mutt out.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
He gestured toward Barnaby.
“He’s destroying the carpet.”
I bent down and retrieved:
the shoe.
“Whose is this?”
Howard’s expression barely changed.
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“Keith.”
“Nora owns this shoe.”
Barnaby pulled at my trouser leg again.
Toward the hallway.
I started walking.
Howard stepped directly into my path.
“Sit down.”
I looked at him.
“Move.”
“You’re about to open the gala.”
“I’m looking for Nora.”
Howard rolled his eyes.
“She’s probably with one of the staff.”
“Why would she be with staff?”
“Because she wanders.”
“She’s seven.”
“Exactly.”
I moved right.
Howard blocked me again.
Then said something that made the ballroom disappear around us.
“Some children aren’t worth your trouble.”
I stared.
He realized how ugly it sounded.
Too late.
I firmly pushed his blocking arm aside.
“Get out of my way.”
Barnaby hurried down:
the service corridor.
I followed.
Howard followed me.
“Keith.”
I ignored him.
The corridor led toward:
a catering prep area,
service elevator,
coat storage,
and a side passage opening onto a covered terrace.
Rain was striking the windows hard enough that I could hear it through:
the walls.
Barnaby stopped.
Looked toward the terrace.
Then whined.
My stomach tightened.
“Nora?”
Nothing.
I went farther.
Then a small face appeared around:
a doorway.
Brown hair plastered against:
her forehead.
Gray cardigan damp.
One bare foot.
The other wearing:
one pink shoe.
“Nora.”
She saw me.
Then Howard.
Her expression changed immediately.
She ran toward me.
Not quickly.
Carefully.
Then hid behind my coat.
I crouched.
“What happened?”
She did not answer.
Howard said:
“See?”
“She’s fine.”
Nora pressed herself against:
my back.
I looked at her.
“Sweetheart.”
“Did somebody scare you?”
Her eyes moved toward:
Howard.
Then she whispered:
“That’s the man I was scared of.”
Howard’s smugness vanished.
“Nora.”
I stood.
“Don’t speak to her.”
“She’s confused.”
I looked toward:
my uncle.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
Nora tugged my jacket.
“He told me to stay in the little room.”
Howard said:
“She was supposed to wait for her grandmother.”
“Which little room?”
Nora pointed toward:
a service lounge beside the terrace.
The door had:
no lock.
But it could be held shut from outside by placing one of the banquet carts against it.
A cart sat:
two feet away.
I looked at Howard.
His eyes hardened.
“Do not start inventing something dramatic.”
I asked Nora:
“Were you able to open the door?”
She shook her head.
“I pushed.”
“Then?”
“Barnaby came.”
Apparently Barnaby had been nearby with his handler before slipping free during the confusion.
He scratched at the door from:
outside.
Nora called to him.
Someone eventually moved the cart—possibly an event employee passing through—without knowing why it had been there.
Nora slipped onto the covered terrace.
Barnaby followed.
She lost:
one shoe
in the rain.
Then became frightened and came back inside.
That explained the mud.
Not yet:
why Howard wanted her hidden.
I stood.
Howard began moving toward the ballroom exit.
Not running.
Too polished for:
running.
Just leaving.
I stepped in front of:
the double doors.
Closed them firmly.
No physical contact.
“Then you’re staying right here.”
Howard laughed nervously.
“For what?”
“Until Nora tells me exactly what happened.”
“This is ridiculous.”
Nora looked up at:
me.
Then said quietly:
“But he wasn’t the boss.”
I stopped.
“What?”
Howard’s face changed.
Nora repeated:
“He wasn’t the boss.”
“Who was?”
She looked past:
Howard.
Toward the ballroom.
I followed her gaze.
At the far end of the room stood a woman in a silver-gray evening gown, perfectly still beside the foundation’s donor wall.
My mother.
Eleanor Donovan.
Sixty-seven years old.
Chairwoman of the Donovan Family Foundation.
Nora’s legal guardian.
The woman I had trusted to raise my sister’s child after Laura died.
Eleanor looked at:
Howard.
Then me.
Then Nora.
No confusion.
No surprise.
Only:
calculation.
Howard suddenly reached toward my shoulder.
“Keith, don’t.”
I stepped away.
And for the first time that night, I realized Howard had never been trying to protect:
the gala.
He was trying to keep me from reaching:
May you like
my mother.
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