Spencer climbed into her sister’s Mercedes and sat back against the warm leather seats. As they wound through Rosewood, Melissa tried to take Spencer’s mind off things by chattering about the baby items she was planning to register for. “It’s crazy, all the things you need for such a little person,” she said. “So many blankets and bibs, bottles and toys, and we don’t know whether to co-sleep or use a bassinet . . .”
Her ring flashed as she gesticulated with her hands. It was incongruous to see Melissa wearing their mother’s old ring; Spencer wondered what her dad thought about it. Her mother’s nasty words floated back to her, too. You girls are set to inherit a treasure trove of things from your father. Well, you won’t get anything. You’ll be in jail—it’ll be no use to you there.
Suddenly, an idea struck her. She let out a gasp.
Melissa looked up. “You okay?”
Spencer tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and tried to smile. “Sure.”
But the rest of the way home, she jiggled her leg repeatedly. When she was little, she used to sneak into her mom’s closet and look at the jewels inside her red-and-black enamel jewelry box. Sometimes, she’d even try them on. Was it still there? When had her mother last taken stock?
Could Spencer actually consider taking some of that jewelry . . . to pay Angela?
As soon as her sister pulled into the driveway, Spencer gave her another grateful hug, ran into the house, and slammed the door. She waited until Melissa pulled out again, then shot upstairs. As usual, her mom’s bedroom suite smelled like her mother’s signature Chanel No. 5, and it was five-star-hotel-room spotless, the pillows fluffed, the bedspread smoothed, all clothes put away. Their cleaning lady even ironed Spencer’s mom’s sheets every morning before placing them on the bed.
She stepped toward her mother’s walk-in closet. Mrs. Hastings’s wardrobe hung on one side, Mr. Pennythistle’s suits on the other, their shoes on racks upon racks at the back. And then, on a middle shelf, there it was: the same black-and-red box she remembered.
Hands shaking, Spencer tried the lid. It didn’t budge. She held it up to the light, then caught sight of a little keypad by the hinge. Of course: It had a code.
She sat back, trying to remember what the old code had been. Melissa’s birthday, right? She typed in 1123 for November 23, but a red LED light appeared. Spencer frowned. Why would her mother have changed it?
She tried 0408 for Amelia’s birthday, and then Mr. Pennythistle’s, but the red light appeared again and again. Then, feeling pretty hopeless, she typed in the code for her own birthday. The LED flashed green, and the hinge unlatched. Spencer pressed her lips together, guilt swelling over her. But maybe her mother’s usage of her birthday was fairly arbitrary, just another semi-significant number combination after lots of other semi-significant number combinations had already been used. It didn’t mean anything, did it?
Several diamond bracelets were arranged carefully on a velvet tray. Two red Cartier boxes were nestled into a trough, along with a box from Tiffany and a Philadelphia jeweler Mr. Hastings frequented. Spencer opened the first Cartier to find the massive emerald ring her father had given her mom a few Christmases ago. The next box held a pair of diamond earrings he’d presented to her for an anniversary. There were more velvet boxes in a second tray bearing bracelets, diamond hoops and studs, a pear-shaped diamond ring that looked to be at least three carats, and a pink diamond brooch Spencer recalled her father giving to her mom for her birthday.
Spencer heard a sound and looked up. Was her mom here? Hands fluttering, she scooped up some of the velvet boxes and stuffed them into her pocket. She selected the pink diamond—her mom probably wouldn’t notice it was gone—a few bracelets, and a pair of big diamond studs that looked identical to the ones already in Mrs. Hastings’s ears, then rearranged everything in the box to look as though it had been untouched.
She shut the lid, darted out of the closet, and was almost to her room when someone cleared her throat behind her. Spencer wheeled around. Amelia stood in the middle of the hall, staring.
“O-oh!” Spencer sputtered. “I didn’t know you were home.”
Amelia looked Spencer up and down, her lips pressed tightly together. She glanced at Mrs. Hastings’s open bedroom door and said nothing.
Spencer’s heart jumped. “I, um, wanted to borrow my mom’s curling iron,” she blathered. “It’s much nicer than mine.” It was the first thing she could think of.
But then her stepsister’s gaze fell to Spencer’s hands. Not only were they curling iron free, but she was wearing the pear-shaped diamond ring she’d snuck out of the jewelry box. Spencer’s heart jumped. Just get out of here, a voice in her head screamed. Go before you dig an even deeper hole.
She pushed past Amelia into her own bedroom, slamming the door loudly. After a moment, she heard Amelia close her own door and the classical SiriusXM station snap on. The guilt started to snake around her like a noose. Amelia was going to say something. Should Spencer just put everything back?
But the only thing she could picture in her mind was the four block walls of a prison cell. And the lawyer’s words: It makes the most sense for you girls to enter a plea bargain. They felt like the only two valid thoughts in her brain, crowding out everything else.
She fled out of her room and slipped into Mr. Pennythistle’s office. He had a separate landline from the home phone, which she knew was being monitored. She hated using this phone in case the cops were monitoring it, too, though she doubted they were quite that thorough. And anyway, she’d only be on with Angela for a few moments—not long enough to trace.