The apology came three weeks later, at a small gallery on Harbor Street that Brooke had rented for the occasion.
She'd invited about forty people. The wedding guests, mostly. A few of the cousins. Delia and Marisol. Thea Prentiss. Officer Reyes, who came in plainclothes and stood near the back with her arms folded and a look on her face like she'd seen stranger things but not many. And me.
Brooke stood at the front of the room and spoke for twelve minutes without notes. She talked about her grandmother's necklace and what it meant to the family and what it had cost to protect it. She talked about the foundation and the books and the two years of transfers that nobody had wanted to look at. She talked about the florist who had been accused of theft in front of four hundred people because
