Chapter 473

The golden morning light filtered through the curtains as Olivia Sinclair sat upright in bed, her fingers clutching the crumpled photograph of her grandfather. The edges were worn from constant handling.

"But my grandfather suffers from Alzheimer's," she whispered to the empty room. "And now he's missing."

Her throat constricted as she remembered the frantic search through Halstead's streets. "I heard he might be in Newport, so I rushed here. But there's been no sign of him." A single tear escaped before she could stop it. "I don't know if I'll ever find him."

Across the breakfast table, Evelyn Whitmore studied Olivia's pale face. After a long silence, she pushed her coffee aside. "I'd rather not bring her up, but if you're looking for a lost elderly person... Margaret Sinclair might be able to help."

Olivia's head snapped up.

Evelyn continued, "Since starting university, Margaret has dedicated herself to charity work. She's rescued countless elderly and children." A bitter smile touched her lips. "There are practically no homeless seniors left in Newport."

If Alistair Kensington had wandered into Newport and become disoriented, Olivia realized with dawning hope, he might have crossed paths with Margaret. The newspapers often featured Margaret's philanthropic efforts, including her adoption program for homeless seniors.

"But," Olivia frowned, "if she found a lost person, not just a homeless one, shouldn't she have taken them to the authorities?"

She'd checked with every police station in Newport upon arrival. No one matching Alistair's description had been reported.

Evelyn shook her head. "The media praises her endlessly, but they never give specifics. Though..." She hesitated. "The seniors in her care do appear monthly for press interviews. They seem... well cared for."

Olivia's fingers flew across her phone screen. Within moments, she found last month's charity feature—Margaret surrounded by elderly beneficiaries.

Her breath caught.

There, in the crowded photograph—just the edge of a shoulder, the curve of a familiar posture—was someone she'd recognize anywhere. The image cut off before showing the face, but Olivia's heart pounded.

"That's him," she whispered.

The next morning found Olivia standing before the gleaming glass doors of Sinclair Charitable Foundation. When Margaret appeared, her practiced smile faltered for just an instant before settling into perfect composure.

"Miss Kensington," Margaret greeted coolly. "To what do we owe this... unexpected visit?"

Olivia extended her hand, her smile warm despite the tension crackling between them. "Miss Sinclair, your humanitarian work is quite impressive. A friend's relative has gone missing in Newport—an elderly gentleman with dementia. I was hoping to—"

Margaret's laugh cut through the air like shattered glass. "Olivia, spare me the act." Her lips twisted into something resembling a smile. "We both know why you're really here. Looking for dirt? Hoping to catch me mistreating these poor souls?" She stepped closer, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "People like you aren't welcome here."

Olivia didn't flinch. With deliberate calm, she gestured toward the street where three black SUVs idled, their tinted windows revealing nothing.

The silent threat hung between them.

Margaret's eyes flickered toward the vehicles, then back to Olivia's unreadable expression. For the first time, uncertainty shadowed her perfect facade.

Olivia took a step forward. The game had changed.