A shiny little souvenir keychain, the Eiffel Tower dangling jauntily on the end, hit the table with a clack. Heads turned, eyes widened, and breaths were held collectively. But there was no bracelet. No sapphire. No evidence of the crime Beatrice had so theatrically proclaimed.
The room was frozen in a tableau of tension. My mother, eyes wide with hurt and confusion, glanced around, searching for an ally in this sea of hostility. I finally reached her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, desperate to shield her from the daggers of judgment that seemed to pierce the air.
“Mom, it’s okay,” I murmured softly, though my voice shook with a cocktail of anger and disbelief. “We know the truth.”
