Page 96 of To Believe In You
Her lungs froze. She lifted the lid daily to retrieve a ring, but she rarely touched the drawers where she kept her own meager collection of necklaces, earrings, and bracelets, gifts from her parents and Shane, mostly. The last time she’d slid one open had been a couple of weeks ago, to store the extra jewelry she’d worn to Gannon’s wedding, since she hadn’t been to the safety deposit box yet.
Now, several of the drawers were tipped open, and one lay stacked on top of Grandpa’s stamp book on the dresser, a gaping black hole where it fit into the box. The sapphire of the ring she’d worn yesterday bit into her breastbone. She’d lifted her hand without realizing it until the pain registered.
She jammed the ring in place on her finger as she rushed across the room. The drawer, which had glittered with precious cargo last time she’d opened it, now displayed only blue velvet. Despite the disarray, not one stray stud or necklace charm lay on the dresser. Nothing glinted from the creamy carpet.
Her hands raced across the fuzzy velvet, verifying what her eyes told her. Yesterday, she’d selected the blue sapphire from among a dozen others stored in the top section. Today, her fingers bumped over empty slots.
She tipped open one drawer, then another.
The bracelets, the earrings, and most importantly, the rings—all missing. Her stomach pitched.
Someone had broken in.
Someone had been in her bedroom.
Fear clutched at the nape of her neck, dug into her stomach, and crawled up the backs of her knees like spiders. She locked her arms across herself so tightly her ribs ached when she breathed. All was still and quiet, but …
She dared turn only her head toward the closed closet door.
An intruder could lurk anywhere. Could she safely bolt to her car?
She refolded her arms, and the sapphire ring scraped the skin inside her forearm as she again walked herself through the events of the day prior.
She’d taken a ring from the jewelry box yesterday morning. The next time she’d been back to her bedroom had been late, after learning the hard way why the reality show contestants had struggled to master crème brûlée. She’d turned on the lights in the bathroom, where she’d gotten ready for bed and removed the ring. Then, she’d flipped the switch and found her way to bed in the dark.
The disturbed jewelry box could’ve escaped her notice. Which meant the break-in could’ve occurred yesterday, while she’d been at work. If so, the culprit was long gone—as were Grandma’s rings.
And the other jewelry, but the rings …
Her phone pierced the quiet, and she yelped in surprise. She lunged to grab it, as if the sound would alert the thief to her presence. But he—she?—would already know Lina was here. She’d been sleeping only minutes before.
If he’d wanted to hurt her, he’d had the chance.
Not the world’s most comforting thought, but her hands steadied enough to turn the phone so she could read the screen. The notification had come from social media. Another post about Matt, probably.
She clamped her teeth on her lip.
Matt. She wanted to talk to Matt.
Foolish, since she’d told him she’d call the police before she called him in case of trouble with Shane.
Was this trouble with Shane?
She tried to imagine her ex pulling open the dainty drawers, dumping the contents into a bag. Small and valuable, the jewelry made sense to take if he was desperate for money.
Although, she may have more losses yet to discover.
But to resort to theft, Shane would have to have been desperate.
Her feet didn’t want to budge from the spot they’d warmed in the carpet. She’d been safe right here so far, and moving seemed like a risk. From right where she stood, she called the police.
* * *
Matt liftedhis focus from his menu at the noise Krissy made. Food had lost its appeal, but Krissy deserved lunch, and coming here bought him another hour before he’d have to crash into Nadia’s life.
His sister tapped her menu. “When I suggested we try authentic Mexican, I didn’t expect”—she leaned closer and switched to a whisper—“to find tripe on the menu.”
Tripe? Matt scanned his choices again. The dish names and descriptions were written in Spanish, followed by an English translation. He’d taken four years of Spanish in high school—and had learned what tripe was at some point—but he’d fried a lot of brain cells since then, and whatever he had left, distraction had dumbed him down so he couldn’t read either language.
