The first scream cut through the music just as the orchestra reached the final note.
For half a second, the guests inside Bellweather Hall remained perfectly still. Champagne glasses hovered near painted lips. Waiters froze between tables. A hundred faces turned toward the illuminated display at the center of the ballroom.
The glass case was open.
The velvet stand inside it was empty.
The Crimson Star, a ruby necklace insured for nearly two million dollars, had disappeared.
“Seal every exit!” shouted Lydia Graves, the director of the charity gala.
The musicians lowered their instruments. Security officers rushed toward the doors. Heavy locks clicked into place, trapping politicians, investors, actors, journalists, and hotel employees beneath the golden chandeliers.
Near the service corridor, Maeve Rowan stopped pushing her cart.
She wore the silver-gray uniform of Bellweather Hall’s temporary alterations staff. A measuring tape hung around her neck, and a small sewing kit rested beside folded tablecloths on the cart.
Her eleven-year-old son, Oliver, was waiting in the employee lounge downstairs. His school had closed early because of a heating failure, and Maeve had been unable to find anyone to watch him.
She had promised him they would leave before ten.
It was already nine forty-five.
Maeve looked at the empty display and felt a cold pressure tighten around her ribs.
Only fifteen minutes earlier, she had been called to the private gallery to repair a torn evening gown. A voice over the staff intercom had told her that a guest needed immediate assistance.
When Maeve reached the gallery, no one was there.
She had waited for less than a minute before returning backstage.
Now the necklace was gone.
“Check every employee,” Lydia ordered. “Bags, lockers, carts—everything.”
Her voice carried across the room with the sharp confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
Lydia was tall, elegant, and dressed in a black gown covered with tiny crystals. The light from the chandeliers followed her whenever she moved. She had organized the gala, selected the guest list, supervised the security arrangements, and personally announced that the Crimson Star would be displayed for one night only.
The necklace had once belonged to a European actress. Its sale was supposed to fund a new children’s hospital wing.
At least, that was what the guests had been told.
A security officer approached Maeve.
“Step away from the cart.”
Maeve obeyed.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“We’re conducting a search.”
“I can see that. I’m asking why you’re looking at me.”
The officer did not answer.
Another guard opened the drawers of her cart. He lifted scissors, needles, spools of thread, replacement buttons, fabric glue, and two unfinished sleeves.
Then he found a white plastic card beneath a roll of black silk.
He held it up.
Lydia saw it from across the ballroom.
“What is that?”
The guard examined the card.
“Master access key.”
The room seemed to contract around Maeve.
“That isn’t mine,” she said.
Lydia walked toward her slowly.
The guests moved aside, creating a path.
“The gallery display can only be opened with a master key,” Lydia said. “Where did you get it?”
“I didn’t.”
“It was inside your cart.”
“I have never seen that card before.”
Lydia’s expression was almost sympathetic.
Almost.
“Maeve, this will be much easier if you return the necklace now.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Perhaps you panicked. Perhaps you saw something valuable and made a terrible decision.”
Maeve looked at the watching guests.
Some appeared shocked. Others seemed fascinated. Several had already raised their phones.
“I was called to the gallery,” Maeve said. “Someone requested a clothing repair.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. The message came through the staff intercom.”
Lydia turned toward the hotel supervisor.
“Was a repair requested?”
The supervisor shook his head.
“No request was logged.”
“That’s impossible,” Maeve said. “I heard the message myself.”
Lydia sighed.
“Search her.”
Two female security officers escorted Maeve behind a decorative partition. They checked her pockets, shoes, sewing pouch, and uniform.
They found nothing.
When Maeve stepped back into the ballroom, two police officers were entering through the main doors.
Behind them stood Oliver.
His backpack hung from one shoulder. His dark hair was untidy, and fear had drained the color from his face.
“Mom?”
Maeve’s heart dropped.
“Oliver, you were supposed to stay downstairs.”
“A guard came into the lounge. Everyone was running. They said something was stolen.”
He hurried toward her, but a security officer blocked his path.
“Let him through,” Maeve said.
The officer hesitated.
“He is my son.”
Oliver slipped around the guard and wrapped both arms around Maeve’s waist.