I hugged them both, took their coats, and turned toward the kitchen to check the oven.
Then Claire slipped off her scarf, and I turned back.
The necklace was resting just below her collarbone. A thin gold chain with an oval pendant. A deep green stone in the center, framed by tiny engraved leaves so fine they looked like lace.
My hand found the edge of the counter behind me.
The necklace was resting just below her collarbone.
I knew that shade of green. I knew those carvings. I recognized the tiny hinge hidden along the left side of the pendant — the one that made it a locket.
I’d held that necklace in my hands on the last night of my mother’s life and placed it inside her coffin myself.
“It’s vintage,” Claire said, touching the pendant when she caught me staring. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I managed. “Where did you get it?”
“My dad gave it to me. I’ve had it since I was little.”
There was no second necklace. There never had been.
So how was it around her neck?
I’d held that necklace in my hands on the last night of my mother’s life.
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