An officer met me at the house. A woman in her fifties with lines around her mouth that said she’d seen everything twice.
I played the footage for her.
Tracy tried.
She tried to cry. Tried to say she was “safekeeping” the jewelry. Tried to claim some pieces had been “gifts” to her over the years.
“Ma’am,” the officer said bluntly, “this young woman is the owner of the house and the legal heir of these items. They are not yours. Attempting to remove them without her consent is theft.”
Tracy’s tears dried up fast.
“It’s a family matter,” she sniffed. “We’ll handle it internally.”
The officer turned to me.
“Do you want to press charges?” she asked.
Not yet, I thought.
I wanted leverage more than I wanted her in handcuffs that second.
“I’d like to file a report,” I said. “For the record. In case things… escalate.”
The officer nodded.
“Smart,” she said. “Keep those cameras running.”
Tracy glared at me like I’d stabbed her.
“How dare you call the cops on family,” she hissed after the officer left.
“How dare you steal from your dead husband’s dead wife’s daughter,” I shot back. “Be glad I didn’t let them haul you out.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
No good comebacks.
Only sputtering.