look at this.”
Tiny red stitches ran along the black fabric.
They didn’t match the original stitching.
“That’s not factory work,” he said.
“I’ve never seen it before.”
“Is this your suitcase?”
I swallowed.
“My husband’s.”
His eyes stayed on mine for a moment.
“Do I have your permission to open the lining?”
“Yes.”
He cut the first stitch.
Then another.
A second officer leaned closer.
“These look recent.”
“How recent?”
“Weeks, possibly less.”
My stomach dropped.
Weeks?
Gary claimed the suitcase hadn’t been touched for a year.
Then the
