The following morning, my mourning was shattered by a violent, rhythmic pounding at my front door. I opened it to find two stony-faced police officers and Mrs. Whitmore’s eldest daughter, Cynthia. Her face was a grotesque mask of triumphant malice. She screamed that I was a thief, accusing me of stealing a priceless diamond necklace—a family heirloom she claimed her mother would never have parted with. I felt a surge of indignation, but I was so certain of my innocence that I stepped aside without hesitation. I told the officers they were welcome to search my home, believing that transparency would end this nightmare.
My confidence evaporated into pure, cold terror when an officer reached into the side pocket of the purse I had carried to the funeral the day before. He pulled out a small, blue velvet pouch. Inside was the exact diamond necklace Cynthia had described. My knees buckled, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud. I looked at the shimmering stones and then at Cynthia, who was wearing a sickly, satisfied grin. The humiliation of being led to a patrol car in handcuffs while my neighbors watched from behind their curtains was a trauma I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
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