Page 7 of The Woman with the Wallet

But she was gone.

Of course she was.

She was clearly a pro.

And she’d just made off with the score of her entire fucking career.

CHAPTER THREE

Max

Not quite believing my eyes, I zipped the coin compartment in the wallet before climbing off the bed, walking over to my bedroom door, and locking it.

The last thing I needed was Nicole—who was the sweetest girl but also kind of loosey-goosey with the concept of knocking before entering—to come barging in, see what I’d found, and start demanding answers.

I felt bad sometimes, knowing that Megs was lying to both of her partners about my job. But it was literally the only secret she kept from anyone. And we both knew it was what allowed us to afford a decently sized apartment, since both their salaries were likely too modest to afford anything other than a studio.

So, when we discussed my job in their company—which was almost never—we just said I was a courier.

It wasn’t, in the strictest sense, a lie.

When pressed about my odd hours, we simply said that rich people were demanding. Which was also true. And that, to make the big bucks, I had to be on call whenever they needed me to move shit from point A to point B.

It wasn’t a perfect system, but it was surprisingly infrequent that anyone actually asked specifics about my job. If anything, they were just saying that I worked too much. And when their boyfriend was in town, he—being a fellow workaholic—was always was quick to jump in and defend me.

Lock secured, I kicked off my shoes, turned on the big light, then grabbed a simple black pillowcase from my closet to spread on my bed.

Then, stomach clenching, I reached again for the wallet, unzipping the coin pocket, and carefully shaking the contents onto the pillowcase.

There they fell.

Dozens of brilliant little diamonds.

Diamonds.

The man’s coin purse was full of actual diamonds.

Or, at least, that was what my less-than-expert eyes said.

I grabbed the largest one I could find and walked over to the side of the room, careful to keep a grip on it as I ran the pointed end across the very corner of the window, and scratching it down.

Sure enough, there was a scratch.

It wasn’t exactly conclusive. There were other gems that could scratch glass.

So I raised the diamond to my mouth, huffed some air onto it, and watching how quickly the fog faded.

“Hm,” I murmured when it almost immediately cleared.

Those were really the only tests I could do at home without any equipment. But I was leaning toward them being genuine.

Diamonds weren’t exactly my specialty, despite working closely for very wealthy men and women for years. If you held up your engagement ring to me and I saw it all sparkling and catching the light, I would assume it was a diamond. Even if it was cubic zirconia or moissanite.

The only way I could know for certain was to grab one of the diamonds—logically, the smallest of the bunch—and take it to an actual expert.

Decision made, I swept all the other diamonds back up, putting them into the coin purse, save for the tiny one I carefully tucked into my own wallet.

I slipped my feet back into my boots and made my way to the door.

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