Joy, 1923.
Then—
Eleanor Blackwood. Born October 12, 1900. Orphaned age five. Raised by her aunt, Annabelle Hensley. Married ThomasBlackwood. Mother to Mary and Joy. Disappeared March 15, 1927. With child. God rest their souls.
“They wrote ‘disappeared,’” Annie said. “Not died.”
“Because no one could prove it,” Jack replied. He turned a page.
“Richard Mitchell,” he read. “Son of Josephine Blackwood.”
Annie calculated. “Seventeen. Turning eighteen in five days.”
Jack nodded. “Five days after Eleanor vanished.”
“If she’d been pregnant with a boy—”
“Richard would’ve lost everything.”
Annie closed the Bible slowly. Her pulse beat in her throat. “Jack…what if Eleanor was carrying a boy?”
“Then Thomas’s bloodline would’ve continued,” he said. “But there’s no verifiable record. And without a body—”
Unless the locket held proof. The thought formed fully and settled heavy.
She reached into her pocket and touched the velvet pouch. Her gaze drifted back to the photograph and picked it up. Eleanor’s dress blurred. The child in her arms. The girl at her side. The locket nestled in fabrics on her chest. The same curve. The same shape.
Annie’s breath caught.
“What if this is why?” she whispered. “What if the locket proves something they couldn’t afford to let surface?”
Jack followed her gaze. His shoulders squared.
“That would explain everything,” he said quietly.
Annie’s fingers tightened around the photograph as understanding threaded through her fear. And someone out there believed it still had the power to tear down a legacy built on blood and silence.
***
Jack studied the photograph in Annie’s hands, registering the moment her expression shifted from simple curiosity into something far more intent. Her body went still, shoulders subtly tightening as her focus narrowed, the way it always had when she stood on the edge of a realization. He remembered that look from conference rooms and evidence boards, from late nights when a case finally began to speak.
“What is it?” he asked, stepping closer.
“The locket,” she said quietly, lifting her finger to the image. “She’s wearing it. I’m sure.”
She drew the actual locket from her pocket and held it beside the photograph. Even without perfect clarity, the resemblance was unmistakable. The oval shape. The way it sat against Eleanor’s chest. The faint suggestion of stones at the front.
Jack leaned in, studying both. “Have we found any other photographs of her?”
“Not yet. But I’d bet she wore this in most of them.” Annie’s voice dropped. “What if she knew she was in danger?”
The question settled heavily in his chest.
If Eleanor Blackwood had suspected something—if she had hidden proof, names, instructions, or leverage inside that locket—then the necklace wasn’t sentimental. It was strategic. Evidence preserved by someone who believed she wouldn’t survive to protect it herself.
“Then whatever’s inside matters,” Jack said. “And not just to history. It matters to whoever’s willing to hurt people to get it back.”
He straightened slowly, letting his gaze drift across the shop. Boxes lined the walls. Estate items lay spread across tables. Shadows pooled in corners that had once felt harmless.
