Polish silver in dining room
Change guest bedroom linens (blue suite)
Deep clean upstairs hall bathroom
Breakfast 8:00 – oatmeal, fruit, coffee (no sugar)
Clara smiled.
She liked lists.
They made things feel manageable.
She put on a pot of coffee—strong, black, two cups always ready for Margaret by 8:05 sharp—and started breakfast.
At 7:50, she heard footsteps on the stairs above. Ethan’s voice drifted down.
“Claraaaa, are there waffles?”
“Not today,” she called back, flipping the lid on the oatmeal pot. “Oatmeal and fruit. Very healthy.”
He appeared in the doorway in dinosaur pajamas, hair sticking up, rubbing his eyes.
“Healthy is boring,” he complained, climbing onto a stool. “Are there at least blueberries?”
“There are,” she said, placing a bowl in front of him. “And if you eat them, you’ll grow strong like a T-Rex.”
He narrowed his eyes. “T-Rex didn’t eat fruit.”
“Then strong like a… stegosaurus,” she said.
“They ate plants,” he conceded, picking up his spoon. “Okay. I like stegosaurus.”
She poured him orange juice and set a cup of coffee near the far end of the counter, right where Margaret liked it.
Right on cue, the click of heels sounded in the hallway.
“Good morning,” Clara called.
Margaret swept into the kitchen in a cream blouse and tailored pants, makeup flawless, hair in a smooth bob. She glanced at the counter, picked up the coffee without looking at Clara, and took a sip.
“Too hot,” she said, setting it back down.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hamilton,” Clara said quickly. “I’ll let it cool a bit more next time.”
Margaret hummed, noncommittal.
Her eyes swept the kitchen, taking inventory, then landed briefly on her grandson.
“You’re dripping oatmeal,” she said.
Ethan froze mid-bite and checked his shirt.
He wasn’t.
“Grandma,” he said patiently. “There’s no oatmeal.”
“Well, there will be,” she said. “Don’t slouch.”
She took another sip of coffee and turned toward the doorway.
“Adam is working from home today,” she said to Clara over her shoulder. “There are people coming this afternoon. Some kind of investors.” Her tone suggested she wasn’t impressed. “The house needs to be perfect. As always.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Clara said.
It wasn’t until mid-morning that Clara noticed the jewelry room door was open.
Most people didn’t know there was such a room in the Hamilton house. It wasn’t on the official tour Margaret gave guests. It was tucked behind the upstairs office, a small space with a climate-controlled cabinet and a safe built into the wall.
The Hamilton heirlooms lived there.
Old money, old diamonds, old gold.
Clara only went in to dust.
Today, she’d written it on her own list—just a light dusting, nothing major.
As she passed the office on her way to the laundry room, she saw the door ajar.
Weird, she thought.
Margaret always kept it closed.
Clara hesitated, then pushed it open wider.
The jewelry cabinet was closed, the safe concealed behind its panel, everything seemingly as it should be. Still, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
She stepped in, ran a soft cloth gently along the glass shelves, careful not to bump anything, then backed out, closing the door behind her.
She never saw the missing piece.
Not then.
It was around 2:00 p.m. when the shouting started.
Clara was in the hallway upstairs, vacuuming the runner.
She heard Margaret’s voice first.
High. Sharp.
“—impossible! It was right here. RIGHT HERE!”
Then Adam’s, deeper, trying to stay calm. “Mom, would you just—”
“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down,” Margaret snapped. “Your father gave it to me. It’s the only thing I have left.”
Clara turned off the vacuum.
Footsteps thudded toward the jewelry room.
She stepped back against the wall as Margaret nearly collided with her.
“Clara,” Margaret barked. “Did you touch the jewelry cabinet today?”
Clara swallowed.
“I dusted the shelves, yes,” she said. “Like I always do on Tuesdays. I didn’t open anything. Why, is something—”
“It’s gone,” Margaret said, eyes blazing. “My mother’s necklace. The emerald pendant. Gone.”
Clara’s stomach dropped.
“I… I haven’t seen it,” she said. “I would never—”
“You were the only one up here,” Margaret cut in. “You and that other girl.”
“The other girl” was Paula, a weekend maid who sometimes came in on Tuesdays when things were busy.
“She was only here for two hours,” Clara said. “She never went in this room.”
“How do you know?” Margaret demanded.
“Because I was with her,” Clara said, heat rising in her cheeks. “We cleaned the guest suite and the upstairs bath together. Mrs. Hamilton, I swear, I didn’t—”
Adam appeared behind his mother, tie loosened, worry lines etched deeper into his forehead.
“Mom,” he said, voice low, “let’s just slow down.”
“Someone took it, Adam,” she snapped. “It doesn’t just vanish. And it wasn’t your son. Or you. Or me.” Her eyes landed on Clara. “That leaves the help.”
The way she said “the help” made Clara flinch.
“I’ve worked here eleven years,” Clara said quietly. “I’ve never taken so much as a stamp.”
Adam rubbed his temples. “We need to call the police,” he said. “At least to file a report. Insurance will—”
“Insurance?” Margaret said, furious. “You think this is about insurance? I want whoever did this held accountable.”
Her gaze never left Clara.
The police came. Two officers, a male and a female.
They took statements.
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