The following afternoon, Hannah met the daughter, Clara, in Miller’s back office. Clara was immaculately dressed, her arms folded tightly across her silk blouse. She insisted the alexandrite had been passed down through four generations of her family, originating from a great-grandmother in St. Petersburg.
“It’s a sacred family heirloom,” Clara insisted, her voice tight with anger. “It was never meant to be sold for pocket change by careless estate managers. You’re taking advantage of a mistake.”
Hannah listened quietly, then asked a simple question. “Do you have a picture of your mother wearing it? An old insurance appraisal? Anything?” Clara stiffened. She admitted there were no records; her mother had been notoriously secretive and mistrusted banks. The lack of documentation felt suspicious, but Clara’s distress was undoubtedly real.