His desk was angled into a corner of the low-ceilinged, white-painted Detectives Unit of the Great Barrington Police Department. Bobby and I sat opposite him, soaking wet from the rain, and took turns talking. I could hear but not see the half dozen other detectives at their desks behind us: the clatter of typing on a computer keyboard, chair wheels rolling across linoleum, a phone ringing just once before being answered, the hum of unruffled voices. Under the fluorescent lights, Detective Lazare’s pale skin contrasted ghostily with the dyed frazzle of his pitch-black hair. The large rectangular window behind him showed the rain-beaten bright green leaves of a century-old maple tree. “You’re convinced your sister bought the diamonds?” Lazare asked me. The identical-looking yet mismatched earrings lay on a clear space of his neat desk. “I can’t say I’m sure, but it seems she might have.” Just saying those words aloud, voicing my tentative doubts, felt shattering.
