Chapter 3
The hallway outside the ballroom was colder than the room we'd left. The air tasted like air conditioning and carpet cleaner. Mom had pulled me into the little alcove by the coat check, where the wall sconces didn't quite reach. You could still hear the ballroom through the double doors, the clink of forks and that low murmur people make when they're trying to be polite.
Mom's hand was shaking. She wasn't crying anymore, not the way she had been at the table. She just stood there with her phone clutched in both hands, staring at the screen like she didn't want to unlock it.
"They're still in there," I said. "Dad and Vanessa. On stage."
"I know," she said. Her voice was flat.
She finally thumbed her phone open. Her background was still that photo of us at the lake last summer, before Dad moved out. She swiped to her contacts and pressed a name. I saw it light up: MARA.
My aunt Mara had a key to our apartment. She watered the plants when Mom worked late.
"Hey," Mom said when Mara picked up. Her voice tried to be normal and didn't make it. "I'm so sorry to call. Are you home? Can you — can you do me a favor real quick?"
I watched Mom's face while she listened. Mara was saying something, probably asking if we were okay.
Mom closed her eyes for a second. "Can you go to my apartment? I know, I'm sorry, I know it's late. Just — my jewelry box. The wooden one on my dresser. Can you tell me if the pearls are in it? The double strand."
She put the phone on speaker so I could hear. The little speaker crackled.
Mara said, "Jo, are you sure? At the gala?"
"Please just look," Mom said.
There was rustling, and keys jingling on Mara's end, and then the sound of a door opening that I recognized even through the phone. Our apartment door had that little squeak at the bottom. I heard Mara's footsteps on our bedroom rug.
"Okay, I'm looking," Mara said. "Brown box, gold latch?"
"Yes."
A pause. A click as the lid opened. Mom's breathing got faster.
"Oh, Jo," Mara said, quiet. "It's empty. The little white pillow thing is here but there's nothing on it."
Mom didn't say anything. She stared at the wallpaper in the alcove, at the tiny gold pattern in it. Her hand tightened around the phone.
"You're sure?" she whispered.
"I'm sure, honey. Nothing else is missing. Did something happen?"
Mom swallowed. "No. Thank you. I'll call you tomorrow."
She hung up and just stood there holding the phone to her chest. The hallway was quiet except for the muffled sound of someone testing the microphone on stage. A feedback whine, then a laugh.
I felt my stomach drop. I remembered the pearls on Vanessa's neck, how they sat exactly against that champagne dress. Two perfect rows. Mom's mom had given them to her before she died. Mom only wore them maybe three times a year.
And then I remembered Tuesday.
Dad had picked me up after school in his black SUV. He was early, which was weird. He said he wanted to grab my blue sweater because the ballroom would be cold for the gala.
"You still have Mom's apartment key?" he'd asked in the car. He'd said it so casual, like he was asking about the weather.
I had it on my backpack, the silver key Mom gave me last month. I'd hesitated, but he was my dad. He said he'd be two minutes, just run up while I waited in the car. I watched him go into the building with my key, and he came back with my sweater folded over his arm. He'd smiled and said thanks, kiddo.
"Mom," I said. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to. "Tuesday. When Dad picked me up. He asked for your apartment key. He said he needed my sweater."
Mom looked at me. Really looked at me for the first time since we'd left the table.
"What?" she said.
"He went up alone. I stayed in the car. He had your key for like five minutes."
Her face did something slow. It wasn't crying. Her mouth pressed together and her eyes went wide and then very still. She understood before I even finished. I could see it happen.
"He took them," she said. It wasn't a question. "He went into my room and took them."
She leaned back against the wall. The hallway lights made her earrings sparkle. Her hands were still shaking, but different now. Not sad shaky. Mad shaky.
"He didn't ask," she said, almost to herself. "He didn't even ask me. He just took them out of my room and gave them to her."
I didn't know what to say. For a second I thought she might start crying again, but she didn't. She just breathed, slow and loud through her nose.
The ballroom doors opened and a waiter came out with a tray. He didn't look at us. The sound of the gala got louder for a second — someone was introducing Dad, I could hear his name — and then the doors swung shut again.
Mom pushed off the wall. "We are not leaving," she said. Her voice was low and steady now. "He gets up there and does his speech, and then he comes off that stage and he talks to us. Not to her. To us."
She looked down at me, and she put her hand on my shoulder. Her fingers were cold.
"After his speech," she said. "We wait right here until he's done. And then we ask him where he got that necklace. Okay?"
I nodded. My clutch was still in my hands, the beads digging into my palms.
May you like
"Okay," I said.
We stayed in the alcove. The microphone on stage got louder. I could hear Dad's voice starting, muffled through the doors, thanking everyone for coming.
