“My bag. My locker. My home if you want. Search anything.”
The security chief checked employee lockers.
Nothing.
He examined Clara’s handbag.
Nothing.
They searched service areas, laundry baskets, bedrooms, garbage containers, and even the kitchen pantry.
Nothing.
That should have mattered.
To Margaret, it did not.
By evening, she had constructed a complete story.
Clara had taken the necklace.
Clara had hidden it somewhere outside the estate.
Clara had probably been planning the theft for weeks.
Every absence of evidence became evidence of cleverness.
Adam sat behind his desk while Clara stood in front of him.
Margaret remained beside the fireplace.
Clara had known Adam for thirteen years. She had made soup for him when his wife died because he forgot to eat. She had sat with Idan during nights when grief woke the child screaming. She had never asked the family for anything beyond her salary.
Adam could barely look at her.
“Clara, my mother believes—”
Clara interrupted him for the first time in thirteen years.
“Do you?”
He looked up.
The question clearly unsettled him.
“I don’t know what to believe.”
Clara swallowed.
“That is not what I asked.”
Margaret stiffened.
