So how was she wearing it?
I got through dinner without really being present.
As soon as they left, I went to the hallway closet and pulled out old photo albums.
My mother wore that necklace in nearly every picture.
I spread them out under the kitchen light and studied each one.
It was identical.
I hadn’t imagined it.
I didn’t wait.
That same night, I called Claire’s father.
I kept my voice calm, introduced myself politely, and asked about the necklace, pretending I was simply interested in vintage jewelry.
There was a pause.
Too long.
“It was a private purchase,” he said. “Years ago.”
“Do you remember where you got it?”
Another pause.
“Why do you ask?”
“I used to own something very similar,” I said.
“I’m sure there are many like it,” he replied quickly. Then he ended the call.
The next day, I went to see Claire.
She welcomed me in without hesitation.
When I asked about the necklace, she didn’t seem guarded at all.
“I’ve had it forever,” she said. “Do you want to see it up close?”
She placed it in my hand.
My fingers found the hinge instantly.
I opened it.
Empty.
But the inside—the engraving, the pattern—I knew it by heart.
