THE CHRISTMAS WITNESS

I stared at the paused security footage on Malcolm’s phone, the blood freezing in my veins.

The man standing beside the black SUV wasn’t a nameless street thug.

He was wearing a custom wool overcoat. He had a distinct, jagged scar along his jawline.

It was Marcus.

My head of security. The man who had guarded my home, my business, and my family for ten years. The man who was supposedly securing my estate at this very moment.

“Boss?” Malcolm asked, his voice low, sensing the sudden shift in the room.

I didn’t answer immediately. My mind was spinning, recalculating every vulnerability I had. If Marcus was the man who ran Norah’s mother off the road, then my inner circle wasn’t just breached. It was completely compromised.

And I had just brought the only eyewitness directly into my penthouse.

I looked over at Norah. She was sitting on the edge of my massive leather sofa, her small legs dangling, clutching the stuffed rabbit. She looked incredibly fragile against the dark, heavy furniture of my world.

“Malcolm,” I said quietly, keeping my eyes on the little girl. “Who knows we brought her here?”

“Just me and the driver,” Malcolm replied.

“Keep it that way. If Marcus calls, tell him I’m at the office. Do not let him near this floor.”

Malcolm’s eyes widened slightly, the realization hitting him. He nodded once, his hand instinctively dropping to the holster at his waist. “Understood.”

I walked slowly back to Norah. I crouched down so I was at her eye level again. She was shivering, despite the heat of the room.

“Norah,” I said gently. “You’re very brave for telling me about that man.”

She didn’t smile. She just held the rabbit tighter. “He’s a bad man.”

“I know. And I’m going to make sure he doesn’t hurt you.” I reached out to adjust the heavy wool coat I had wrapped around her back at the park.

As I shifted the fabric, something caught my eye.

The coat was oversized, meant for an adult woman. It had to be her mother’s. The right pocket was torn, hanging loosely by a few threads. But something was heavy inside it.

“May I?” I asked, gesturing to the pocket.

Norah nodded slowly.

I slipped my hand into the torn lining. My fingers brushed against cold metal. I pulled it out.

It was a silver locket, tarnished at the edges, hanging from a broken chain. The clasp was slightly bent, as if it had been ripped from someone’s neck in a struggle.

I pressed my thumb against the latch. It popped open.

I expected to see a picture of Norah’s father. Or perhaps her mother.

Instead, my breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt violently on its axis.

On the left side of the locket was a picture of a beautiful, dark-haired woman smiling brightly.

On the right side was a little girl with bright green eyes, laughing as she held a blue balloon.