from the dead. I know that better than most. Death is a theft of life that can’t be found, forgotten, or forgiven.
Stolen jewelry, though, can be. For twenty years, I’ve been determined to find mine and I’ve refused to forgive or forget.
In all my searching, I didn’t expect it to be hidden in plain sight, in a neighborhood skirting an expansive country club across the city from our rental home. I came here after the boxing gym to burn off my pent-up boredom with a reasonably-paced run and strong imagination. The thud of my feet on the pavement creates a rhythmic beat in tune with my plans for all the ways I could steal from these rich-ass people … if it wouldn’t mean breaking a vow.
As I come to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk, I realize I’m no longer imagining.
It’s not stealing if it’s already mine.
I can’t take back what’s mine, not here, not with all these impeccably-dressed people milling about, their children yards away at the play area. So many seemingly innocent eyes pretending not to watch me, the outsider. Several gazes and glares slam into me as I turn to face the crowd surrounding several tables with gold tablecloths and health products on display. Their expressions are a mix of weariness and dislike—my free running disrupting them from purchasing their optimal health.
Most of my onlookers return to their shopping when I bend over and plant my hands on my knees, gasping for air. I must look like I’m on the verge of a medical emergency, and they would rather pretend that I’m not here than feign concern and help.
Lucky for me, I’m not struggling to breathe due to the run, asthma, or a bee sting.
I bow my head, trying desperately to pull in air, and I close my eyes. Open. Blink, blink, blink. Slowly, I lift my head and look back in the direction of where I saw the brunette, hoping I’m right, and hoping I’m wrong. My gaze roams the crowd until I find her again, at a different table, picking up and examining a large canister of protein powder.
I could be wrong because …
That emerald and diamond bracelet with the stones interlaced in delicate white and yellow gold …
Those elegant gold rope earrings, each with a large sapphire in the basket attached to the post …
That show-stopping ring with tiny pebbles of emeralds surrounding the sapphire setting …
They all could be replicas.
I’ve found look alike pieces before, and while I haven’t seen anyone with more than one, it’s not impossible.
Except …
The emerald cross dangling from a simple gold chain at the brunette’s collarbone—that’s not a fake. It doesn’t have doppelgangers.
My muscles twitch as I refrain from plowing through the crowd to place the brunette in a choke hold and taking back what’s mine when her unconscious body folds to the ground.
Instead, I watch as a woman with dyed blonde hair and sunken cheeks comes to the brunette’s side and takes her arm, leaning in to whisper something to her.
“Erin, we’ll be back,” the brunette calls through the crowd, and sets down the large canister.
Someone in my periphery waves at them as the bottle-blonde and the brunette pivot and head across the unnaturally manicured lawn toward a building tucked under several sprawling trees.
I wait long enough to give them a head start before I set my feet in motion, returning to my jog. I follow the sidewalk around the bend toward the facilities, then push the door open to the women’s restroom. It’s pristine—nothing like what we commoners have at public parks. Glancing for feet first, I walk past the two occupied stalls, then step inside the one at the end and lock the door, pretending to use the toilet.
“Clara’s tired lately. She asked to decrease her hours. I think we’ll have to find a new nanny. Maybe someone who’s younger, who doesn’t have her own family yet,” one of them says. The way she speaks is like nails on a chalkboard, all haughty and whining with almost audible eye rolls.
“Oh, that’s too bad. Did she say she wanted more family time?” the other woman asks, clearly not too bothered by the bathroom conversation.
“God knows. I didn’t ask. But why take the risk of hiring some other nanny with kids,” the first says. “Of course, I can’t have a nanny that’s too attractive, either. I wouldn’t want Billy’s eyes wandering.”
“Billy’s so in love with you, I doubt—”
“Please! It only takes one slip. But you’re right, Billy is obsessed with me.”
This woman’s a bitch. If it’s the brunette, I may strangle her after all, but something tells me it’s the blonde who appears to focus on reshaping and changing her body rather than dressing up what she’s been given.
There’s a noisy flush, and the second woman shouts over it, “You want me to wait?”
“I’ll be out in a sec,” the first says, not answering the question.
I flush my unused toilet, partly deciding to trust my instincts on which woman the brunette might be, and partly because I want the slowpoke with a superiority complex to stress about how much longer she’s in the bathroom compared to others.
The brunette is washing her hands when I step out. I give her a pursed-lip smile as I lean over the sink next to hers, then glance at the bottom of the mirror to examine her. She finishes washing her hands, then stands next to the towel dispenser when she’s done drying.
I step away from my sink and take two paper towels before looking her in the eyes.
“Sorry,” she says, shuffling a half step away.
“You’re fine,” I say to her with my warmest smile and nod.
The other woman’s toilet flushes, queuing me to make a move.
As the blonde steps out of her stall and heads toward us, I pivot toward the door, then stop in my tracks and turn back.
“Those pieces—your jewelry—are stunning,” I say, pointing a finger and moving it in a circle to complement her pairing.
“Thank you,” she says, her cheeks growing pink.
The blonde shakes water from her hands and turns around. With her back to the counter, she yanks several towels free and looks between her friend and me. She elevates her left arm to face level and gently pats the two-carat rock on her ring finger, and then her wrist, which sports a glistening tennis bracelet.
“Mrs. Bradley—such an old soul—loves her antiques,” she says with a chuckle, accenting the last word with her lofty disdain.
The brunette’s cheeks morph from pink to fiery red.
“Can I ask, where did you get them?” I address the brunette, making a point to keep my gaze off her friend.
“Excuse me,” the blonde says, moving until she’s almost between us, then tosses her wadded towels on the counter rather than the trashcan. “Why do you need to know?”
Even an idiot could discern the question as an accusation. I immediately interpret every assumption she’s making about me. Some would be correct. I could react in kind, but I need to utilize my pawns wisely to remain in play.
“They’re very inspiring,” I say, sticking close to the truth. “There are so many jewelry makers these days—so much competition. Only a few craft something so unique.”
The brunette opens her mouth but doesn’t say anything because the blonde steps between us, demanding my attention and halting any conversation that could have been.
“So what?” the blonde chastises. “Are you one of those jewelry makers?”
“Something like that,” I say, making sure my tone contrasts hers.
“Steal your ideas off someone else,” the blonde says, then grabs the other woman’s arm and yanks her toward the door. “Let’s go, Olivia.”
The brunette gives me a sympathetic look as she passes me. When the door slams between us, I allow the grin that I’ve been suppressing.
People may not come back from the dead, but the things stolen along with their lives … that’s an entirely different story.