I bought a used washing machine at a local thrift store in Savannah Creek, and finding a diamond ring inside should have been the end of a lucky story. Instead, I ended up with ten police cruisers idling in front of my porch while my neighbors peered through their blinds.
My name is Cade, and at thirty years old, I am a single father raising three kids on a shoestring budget. When our old machine finally gave up the ghost, I had no savings and a mountain of laundry that seemed to grow every time I turned my head.
I managed to find a beat-up washer at a second-hand shop for sixty dollars, sold strictly as-is with a firm no-return policy. After hauling it home to our small house on Larkspur Lane, I decided to run a quick rinse cycle to clear out any old grime.
Suddenly, a distinct metallic tapping echoed from inside the stainless steel drum. I paused the machine and reached into the damp interior, expecting to pull out a loose bolt or perhaps a stray nickel.
Instead, my fingers closed around something cold, heavy, and unmistakably solid. It was a diamond ring, its gold band smoothed by decades of wear and its setting holding a stone that caught the overhead light.