I begged the lead detective to check the security footage from the funeral home. I think something in my voice—perhaps the raw desperation of a woman with nothing left to lose—convinced him. We moved to a grainy viewing room, the blue light of the monitors reflecting off our faces. On the screen, the reception hall came into view. I saw myself walk away from my bag to comfort a crying guest. Seconds later, a figure in black moved toward the chair. It was Cynthia. She glanced around with a nervous, twitching energy before reaching into her coat, pulling out a small object, and slipping it into the side pocket of my purse.
The detective rewound the tape, zooming in on the motion. The evidence of a calculated frame-up was undeniable. The “stolen” necklace had never been stolen; it had been planted by the very woman who called the police.
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