“…lavender blouse, second row,” Mrs. Whitaker finished. The blonde woman with the sunglasses. The one my husband had glanced at and not recognized, because he had never once looked at her closely enough to fear this moment.
Her name was Coralie, and she reached into her coat pocket to leave before the bailiff reached her, and when she pulled her hand back out, my grandmother’s ring was still on her finger. An emerald with two little diamonds. She had worn it into that courtroom the same way she wore it into the bank, because she had come to believe it was hers.
