I’d installed the cameras on my lawyer’s suggestion after serving the eviction notice. Not hidden, not creepy. Visible. One in the living room. One in the entryway. One in the hallway near the bedrooms. One in the master closet where I kept my mom’s jewelry.
I pulled my phone out on break and opened the feed.
There she was.
Tracy, moving quickly. Not the leisurely stroll of someone getting ready to go out. The jerky, frantic movements of someone on a mission.
She opened my closet.
She went straight for the small jewelry box on the top shelf. The one that held my mom’s necklaces, earrings, and a few pieces from my grandmother. She opened it. Her hands—perfectly manicured, of course—grabbed a handful of necklaces and shoved them into her purse.
My mother’s necklaces.
The ones Grandma had cried over as she handed them to me after Mom’s funeral.
“Oh, hell no,” I whispered, dropping my apron.
I showed my manager.
“I need to go,” I said. “Family emergency.”
She took one look at my face and waved me out.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Go take care of it.”
I called the non-emergency police line on my way home, hands shaking on the steering wheel.