“Merinda never wore silver,” Desiree said, shaking her head. “She only kept it in that shoebox because she knew it was the only proof you had.”
The realization sat between us like a physical weight, cold and unexplained.
“We can’t talk about this here,” Arthur said, checking the lock on the safe before wiping his glasses again. “The street gets quiet after seven, and the front door is already locked.”
Desiree stood up, her leather bag tucked firmly under her arm.
“Let’s go to the diner parking lot,” she said. “My car is there, and it is away from the main road.”
I followed her out the back alley door, the cool night air catching my throat as we walked the two blocks down the gravel path toward the neon sign of the diner. My old station wagon sat alone under the buzzing security light, its windshield silvered with the first touch of evening dew.
Desiree stopped beside her blue sedan, her keys clicking against the metal lock.
