had died instantly. His six-year-old sister, Clara, had been asleep in the upstairs room right above the slipway.
The coast guard had searched the tide for three weeks. They found scorched cedar, floating life preservers, and part of the dock. They never found Clara. They buried an empty mahogany casket in the family plot in Milton, and on that day, Vincent Raldi had stopped laughing. He had spent his twenties methodically tearing apart the men who planted the charge, and his thirties building legitimate steel-and-glass towers over the graves of his grief, convinced that the only thing left of his bloodline was cold granite.
His fingers trembled so hard the locket clicked against his signet ring.
He found the tiny notched hinge. He pressed it.
The silver shell popped open.
Inside, protected from water and time by a wax seal long since cracked to dust, was a miniature black-and-white photograph.
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