Chapter 5: The Ring

At five-fifteen I walked back into my building with two hours to spare.

The doorman stood up behind his desk. He did not ask for my name.

"Mrs. Pruden," he said. "Your elevator card works. Nobody's changed it."

"Thank you."

"Mr. Pruden asked me to cancel it at noon." He kept his eyes on mine. "I said the system was down."

I put my hand on the desk.

"You're a good man," I said.

"I've worked this door nine years, ma'am. I know who comes home."

He sent me up with the building manager, a gray-haired woman with a clipboard who did not say one word on the ride.

At 2301, the door stood open.

Three suitcases lay in the foyer.

Shelby sat on my sofa with her shoes on the silk rug, a glass of my wine in her hand and my grandmother's music box open on her knee.

It played four slow notes.

"Put it down," I said.

She looked up. For a second, she was startled.

Then she remembered the camera she did not have.

"You're early," she said. "Your notice says six."

"Put down the music box."

"It's in my apartment."

"It's wound by hand, and you're turning the key backwards. You'll break the spring."

She stopped.

Her mouth tightened. She shut the lid and set it on the cushion beside her.

I walked past her to the glass case by the window and opened it.

There were eleven of them in there. My grandmother had carried them across an ocean in her lap.

I started taking them out one by one, and wrapping each in a scarf from my purse.

"Do you want help?" Shelby said, in a sweet voice. "Since you're leaving."

"I want my ring."

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