“The shop is closed,” Arthur said in his low, gravelly monotone, not looking up from his work.
“I want my grandmother’s necklace back,” I said. “I have the three hundred dollars.”
I laid the three fifty-dollar bills on the glass counter, followed by the rest of the cash.
Arthur stopped his screwdriver. He picked up the yellow cloth and began polishing his thick glasses, his fingers moving in tight, nervous circles.
“We had an agreement, Cara,” he said, his voice flat. “Twenty-four hours. It has only been nine.”
“I want it now,” I said. “Is it counterfeit? Is that why you called that woman?”
“It is not counterfeit,” Arthur said, setting his glasses back on his nose. “It is a genuine family heirloom. It is worth much more than your rent.”
“Then give it to me,” I said, reaching toward the black velvet tray behind the counter.
“I cannot do that,” Arthur said. “She is already on her way here.”
The door behind me did not ring, but the cool air from the street swept in
