“Lavender blouse, second row,” Mrs. Whitaker finished. My eyes followed hers toward the blonde woman wearing sunglasses. I recognized her immediately, though my husband apparently never had. Her name was Coralie, and she had been sitting quietly through the hearing until the bailiff moved toward her. Then she reached into her coat pocket as if she intended to leave. When she pulled her hand back out, I saw something that made my stomach drop.

My grandmother’s ring was still on her finger. An emerald surrounded by two tiny diamonds, unmistakable even from across the courtroom. She had worn it into the bank, where she had made four withdrawals from my account, and now she was wearing it in court as though it belonged to her. Mrs. Whitaker had noticed her before anyone else. She had remembered the ring, the woman, and the face from the bank’s security footage. But I had not yet heard the worst part of what she was about to tell the judge.