blue stone swung from it.
My breath disappeared.
I knew every scratch on that pendant.
I had bought it in Florence during the first year of my marriage.
Genevieve and I had been too busy to take a proper honeymoon, so we stole four days in Italy between meetings.
We argued about restaurants.
Got lost twice.
Ate terrible food near the train station because every good place had closed.
On our final evening, I saw that necklace in a narrow shop window.
Genevieve told me it was too expensive.
I bought it anyway.
She wore it almost every day for the next nine years.
She had been buried wearing it.
“Where did you get that?”
Elena’s eyes filled.
“Your wife gave it to me.”
“No.”
“Three weeks before she died.”
“That’s impossible.”
She flinched at my voice.
Genevieve Mercer had died instantly when her car left Interstate 90 during a
