The face was thinner in the portrait. Stronger. Healthier. But you knew those cheekbones, that mouth, that deep line between the brows.
It was him.
The old man from the bus stop.
For a moment, the room tilted. You could still feel the cold pavement under your knees and hear yourself saying, You’re not alone. You stared at the portrait so long that Andrew touched your elbow.
“Claire,” he whispered. “Don’t.”
His mother noticed.
“Admiring Harrison?” she asked.
You turned slowly. “Harrison?”
“Harrison Whitmore,” Richard said. “My father.”
Your heartbeat became a hard, uneven knock in your chest.
Paige rolled her eyes. “Grandfather, technically. Founder of half the family empire. Full-time nightmare.”
Andrew’s fingers tightened around your elbow, just enough to hurt. “Claire is probably just impressed by the painting.”
You looked from the portrait to Andrew’s face. He knew something was wrong. Maybe he didn’t know what yet, but he could see the color draining from you.
“Is he here tonight?” you asked.
The temperature in the room changed.
Richard set his glass down. Celeste’s smile sharpened. Paige stopped scrolling.
“No,” Celeste said. “Harrison is unwell.”
Andrew cut in fast. “He’s been declining for a while.”
You remembered the man’s hand gripping that leather glove. You remembered the initials on the cardholder. H. W.
“Where is he?” you asked.
Richard gave you a slow, measured look. “That’s a rather personal question from someone who arrived an hour late.”
Your cheeks burned, but you did not look away. “I only asked because I saw a man tonight who looked very much like him.”
Silence slammed into the room.
Andrew’s hand fell from your arm.
Celeste’s face went still in a way that was more frightening than anger. “What did you just say?”
You could have lied. You could have softened it, laughed, pretended your nerves had tricked you. But something inside you, something that had been shrinking all evening, stood up straight.
“I found an elderly man collapsed near Brookline Avenue,” you said. “He had a cardholder with the initials H. W. He was taken to St. Catherine’s Hospital.”
Paige whispered, “Oh my God.”
Richard moved first. “What hospital?”
“St. Catherine’s.”
“What did he say?”
“He was unconscious.”
“Did he have anything with him?” Richard asked.
You narrowed your eyes. “Why aren’t you asking whether he’s alive?”
That was the first moment Andrew looked truly afraid.
Celeste pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the polished floor. “Richard.”
Andrew stepped toward you. “Claire, maybe we should talk in the hall.”
