Millionaire’s son brings home a black girl—what the mother sees in her necklace FREEZES her cold..
Amanda’s fingers blanched as they gripped her wine vessel. «And you complied just like that?» she probed, attempting nonchalance. «I was only fifteen.»
«It terrified me. I assumed perhaps my origins involved peril. Or influence.»
«Thus, I abandoned it.» Riley averted her eyes, feeling self-conscious. «I convinced myself history was irrelevant.»
Logan extended his palm to hers beneath the tabletop. «It holds significance,» he declared. Richard made a sound to clear his vocal cords.
«You mentioned the chain accompanied you from infancy. Do you retain any documents from the authorities?» Riley batted her lashes. «Just a duplicate.»
«For what reason?» «Might you permit us to examine it?» he proposed, a bit hastily. Amanda darted a piercing stare his way. Yet Riley merely lifted her shoulders.
«Certainly. It’s back at my place.» Amanda’s words sliced through the atmosphere.
«I desire to view it this evening.» Sixty minutes later, Logan arrived at the curb near Riley’s compact residence in a serene section of South Los Angeles. The difference was stark, shifting from luxurious high-rises to squeaky wooden planks.
Amanda and Richard had demanded to accompany them. Amanda claimed she sought resolution. Richard offered no explanation whatsoever.
Riley expressed regret for any disorder, despite her space being impeccably tidy, volumes arranged orderly, a tiny planted greenery on the ledge, and an aged computer powering up on a provisional workstation fashioned from piled boxes. «Here it is,» she announced, pulling out a thin beige envelope from a secure container beneath her sleeping area. «Not a lot, merely entry records and a blurred health document.»
She passed it to Amanda, who unveiled it with quivering digits. The initial sheet was a clinic summary. Baby girl.
African-American descent. Estimated days old, five. Discovered deserted close to Hollywood Shelter.
Adorned with half-moon chain. Without harm. Lacking observers.
Amanda’s inhalation hitched. Underneath lay a caseworker’s entry, marked 2007. Child seemed in good condition.
Unnamed informant disclosed site. Informant’s tone, woman, around thirties. Likely well-schooled.
Declined to provide identity. Stated, «She’s better off apart from me.» Richard retreated as though hit.
Amanda lowered herself gradually onto the brink of Riley’s sofa. She avoided blinking. She was muttering.
«Heavens, it’s you.» Logan glanced among them, perplexed. «Hold on, what are you implying, Mom? What’s happening?» Amanda stayed mute.
Her vision fixed on the dossier resting on her knees, as if it had unearthed a specter from within her. Riley remained rigid, her palm clasping the edge of her workstation. «This looks familiar to you, correct?» Richard inquired softly.
He avoided eyeing Riley. He focused on his spouse. Amanda at last uttered words, her timbre faint and fracturing…
