“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I should have checked the cameras.”
Then he looked at the bag.
“And after seeing this, I think you need to know what happened.”
Inside was a gold ring.
The second I saw it, I stopped breathing.
Thin band.
Three tiny diamonds.
A pale blue center stone.
One bent prong near the setting.
I knew every scratch.
Every flaw.
Every detail.
Because I had spent four months staring at photographs of that ring.
It belonged to my mother.
She had worn it every
