When I arrived at Bellamy’s the following morning, Jett was standing beside the same booth, holding a small plastic bag. Inside was a gold ring decorated with three tiny diamonds surrounding a pale blue aquamarine stone. My hands immediately began shaking. I recognized it instantly. My mother had worn that ring every day for twenty-three years. One gold prong near the stone was bent, a tiny imperfection I knew by heart. I had even 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 and showed me the security footage. The woman had accidentally dropped the ring while reaching into her purse. It slipped between the cushion and wall. Neither customer noticed. Then the man’s phone rang, and his expression changed. The couple rushed outside without paying. The morning valet remembered hearing the man say something terrifying: “Call the hospital. Tell them we’re on our way.” My mother’s ring had somehow ended up with strangers who were now rushing toward a hospital.