She carried the wallet to the small sitting room beside her bedroom and unfolded the photograph Daniel had found. Her mother stood in the middle, laughing at something outside the frame; her father had one arm around her shoulders and Victoria, perhaps seven years old, was holding a paper kite with a broken tail. Victoria remembered that afternoon in fragments. The wind had been too strong, her father had been impatient with the kite, and her mother had sat on the grass fixing it with tape from a purse that seemed to contain whatever anybody needed.
"There's still plenty of kite left," her mother had said after the second tear. "Don't decide it's finished just because one part came loose."
Victoria had forgotten the words for years. In the days after her mother's funeral, she had remembered only the exhaustion of hospital visits, the medical machines, and the fact that no amount of money could make the doctors promise the outcome she wanted. She had returned to work three days later because her company had been negotiating a financing arrangement. People praised her strength, and she accepted the praise because she did not know how to tell them that going back to work was easier than sitting alone with grief.
At eight the next morning, Ethan entered her office and found her looking at the ring again. He had prepared a document about the replacement passport process, but she asked about the visitor from the night before. Ethan explained that the security log had recorded the man's full name when Marcus checked his identification at the gate. "Daniel Brooks," he said. "He lives on the east side of town and runs a restoration shop from his property."
"That's all?"
"That's what we know. Do you want me to send flowers or a thank-you letter?"
Victoria turned the ring around in her fingers. "I'd like to understand who he is. Nothing intrusive, Ethan. Public information, business details, whatever you can find without prying into his private life."
Ethan had known her for nearly six years and understood the significance of the qualification. Victoria normally wanted a complete picture of anyone who entered her professional orbit, preferably before the person knew she was interested. This time she seemed uncertain about the very idea of looking. He promised a modest report and left her alone with the ring.
The remainder of the day should have been satisfying. Sterling Living's finance team confirmed that the new investment would fund two distribution centers, a design collaboration in Europe, and expanded production at an existing factory. Investors called with congratulations, and a reporter described Victoria as a woman who could turn wood and fabric into an international economic force. She thanked the reporter and ended the call with the same practiced politeness she had used for years.