Mr. Bennett looked down.
Then back at me.
“What?”
My knees gave out.
I caught the edge of the sink.
“No.”
His expression hardened.
“What is it?”
I stared at the locket.
There was no possibility of mistake.
I knew the tiny dent near the clasp.
I knew the uneven engraving.
I knew the mark on the back where a child had once scratched a crooked star with the tip of a sewing needle.
I had held that locket in my hands when I was nineteen years old.
It had belonged to my older brother.
Ryan Morgan.
The brother I had buried seventeen years earlier.
Or believed I had buried.
“Where did you get that?” I whispered.
Mr. Bennett’s face became perfectly still.
“Get what?”
“The locket.”
His hand instinctively moved toward it.
I stepped closer.
“That belonged to my brother.”
His jaw tightened.
“You’re mistaken.”
“No.”
My voice broke.
