leaned over the bed and stroked her dad’s forehead. “That’s
what matters.”
She wasn’t used to seeing him this way. Shrunken. Sick. His
skin so white. He didn’t look like the father who raised her.
That man was robust and healthy and brimming with life.
Always, always ready with laughter and love. He still laughed
and loved, but he was a shell of himself. It was so hard for her.
She didn’t want to think about him like this. God, it hurt so
much.
“Sweetheart, I’d do anything to get it back for you.” This
was important to her dad. Maybe even his dying wish.
She kept stroking his forehead until he fell into a light sleep.
His chest rose and fell with a little more ease when he wasn’t
r /> awake. Coralyn took hold of his hand and fell back into the
chair. The weight of true defeat crashed over her, and now she
was the one who couldn’t breathe. Her chest refused to
cooperate. She was in agony. Her entire body was on fire. Was
this what grief felt like? A pain you couldn’t begin to
understand how to bear?
What if she could get that necklace, even for a day? She’d
give her dad peace. He could go easily then. Rest easy.
Fuck, how am I even thinking this? I don’t want him to rest
easy. I don’t want him to rest at all. I don’t want him to go. I’m
not ready.
Did people rent out jewellery? That seemed more of a
company thing, not something that individual people did.
But this woman, this Giana Thompson, was a
businesswoman. She lived here, in Chicago. She had to have
an office somewhere, which meant she had to be somewhat
accessible. Maybe Coralyn could set up a meeting with her.
