The next morning, Jett called and asked me to return to the restaurant before my shift. His voice sounded strangely serious. When I arrived, he was standing beside the couple’s booth, holding a small plastic bag. Inside was a gold ring with three tiny diamonds surrounding a pale blue aquamarine stone. My hands began to shake. I knew that ring better than anything in the world. My mother had worn it every day for twenty-three years. The bent gold prong near the stone was unmistakable, and I had included the ring in every missing-person poster because it was the only piece of jewelry missing from her house.

Jett apologized for refusing to investigate the night before and showed me the security footage. The woman had accidentally dropped the ring while reaching into her purse, and it had slipped between the cushion and the wall. Neither of them noticed. Then the man received a phone call. His expression changed instantly, and the couple rushed out without even remembering their bill. The morning valet recalled hearing the man say something that made my heart pound: “Call the hospital. Tell them we’re on our way.” My mother’s ring had somehow ended up with these strangers, and now they were rushing to a hospital. I grabbed the bag and drove away, determined to discover the truth.