"Your house?"

Vivienne was the first one out of the gate.

"What did you just say? This is Justin's house. I've seen the deed on his phone!"

Justin grabbed her arm and yanked. "Viv, let's just go. Please."

She shook him off and got in my face, finger jabbing at me.

"What is your problem, lady? Wasn't getting kicked out of the restaurant embarrassing enough? Now you're here trying to grab his house?"

"Does your monthly paycheck even cover a floor tile in this place? And you've got the nerve to call it yours?"

The blonde chimed in. "Yeah, look in a mirror. You look broke."

I pulled out my phone to make a call.

Vivienne knocked it out of my hand.

The phone bounced twice on the floor.

"Who you calling? Your broke friends?"

A guy in a Hawaiian shirt clicked his tongue. "Lady, read the room. His girlfriend's right here. What's a hired hand like you doing in our way?"

I bent down to pick up my phone.

Vivienne's eyes locked on my neck.

The collar of my shirt had shifted. A thin silver chain was showing, and on the end of it was a small silver locket the size of my thumb.

A single letter was engraved into it. A "Y."

It was my mother's.

My mother was a silversmith. She never made anything expensive in her whole life. This one piece, she spent three months on. Engraved every line by hand.

The night she finished, she pressed it into my palm.

"Sweetheart. I don't have much to give you. But I made this for you. Wear it for me. So I know you're with me."

Those were the last words she ever said to me.

She was gone by morning.

For twenty-three years, that locket had never come off my neck.

"Nice piece," Vivienne said. Her eyes hadn't left it. "Where'd you get it? Don't tell me you mooched it off my boyfriend too."

I closed my hand around the chain. "Not your business."

"Let me see."

I stepped back. "Don't touch it."

"The more you tell me not to, the more I want to."

Her face changed. She flicked her eyes at two of the guys behind her.

They closed in from both sides and pinned my arms.

Vivienne stepped up, grabbed the chain, and yanked.

It snapped.

The locket landed in her palm.

I tried to pull free. "Give it back."

She held it up. Squinted. Snorted.

"This? I thought it'd be worth something. It's just a trinket."

"Give it back."

"Sure."

She opened her hand.

The locket slipped between her fingers.

It hit the marble with a thin metallic sound.

She stepped on it. Once. Then twisted her heel, hard.

The case buckled. The hinge gave. The front panel split. The Y my mother had engraved cracked through the center.

I dropped to my knees. Scooped up the pieces. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Mom.

You spent three months on it.

You said you'd feel better if I wore it.

I wore it for twenty-three years.

"Are you serious right now?" Vivienne tilted her head. "What was that worth, ten bucks? Any bracelet Justin buys me is worth a hundred times that."

I stood up.

I didn't cry.

I picked up each piece and put them in my pocket. Then I turned to face her.

"Do you know what that was?"

"A trinket—"

"That was my mother's life."

I didn't raise my voice. The people around her went quiet for a second.

Just a second.

The blonde laughed. "Your mother's life? Some piece of street junk is her life?"

"That's what poor people do. Take some piece of garbage and slap a sob story on it."

"Anyway, get out. You're making me sick."

Vivienne rolled her eyes and turned, throwing an arm around her friend's shoulders to head back to the couch.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

I pulled her around and slapped her across the face.

The sound rang off the walls.

The room went silent.

Vivienne held her cheek. "You hit me?"

She lunged. Her nails caught my forearm and dragged. Blood beaded up in three lines.

Her friends piled on. Someone shoved me. Someone kicked at my legs.

I went down. A heel came down on the back of my hand. Someone had a fistful of my hair.

Vivienne ground her shoe into my fingers. Her teeth were clenched.

"Apologize. On your knees. Apologize to me."

Justin was standing right there. His lips kept twitching. He didn't move.

I was facedown on the floor. The taste of iron in my mouth. My fingers were still wrapped around the pieces in my pocket.

Outside, car doors started slamming.

One after another. Black sedans pulling up to the gate.

A dozen people in business suits filed in.

The man in front was Wesley Sharpe, head of legal at Sinclair Group.

He took in the scene. His eyes landed on me for two beats.

Then he spoke, not loud, but every word distinct.

"Who touched Ms. Sinclair?"