The glowing green text on the laptop screen was a venomous snake, coiled and ready to strike. It wasn’t an accusation; it was a digital fingerprint, a trail of breadcrumbs leading directly to the hand that had just tried to crush my windpipe and incinerate my reputation. Richard’s hand.
My mind recoiled, a physical rejection of the truth on the screen. A thousand moments cascaded through my memory, a frantic, desperate search for a counter-argument. Richard teaching me how to hold a loupe, his large, warm hand steadying my small one. Richard beaming with pride at my graduation from the Gemological Institute. Richard, just last week, pouring me a glass of vintage port, telling me I was the only true legacy Sterling & Sons would ever have.
“No,” I whispered, the word a dry rasp in the conf
