The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(14)

Mrs. Webber pressed her lips together and nodded as she made her way back around her desk and took a seat. “That ring might just be your saving grace then. Now”—she pulled a thin file from a pile on her desk—“let’s talk about the charges against you.” She used her pointer finger to skim down the long yellow sheet she shimmied out. She arched her right eyebrow. “Assaulting an officer?”

“I waved a towel in his face,” I explained, ashamed by the behavior.

“A charge for assault on an officer is a class C felony. The maximum penalties include up to five thousand dollars in fines and up to five years’ jail time.”

“I could go back to jail?!”

She held up her hand. “Your record’s clean. The DA’s willing to drop the charges assuming you’re willing to cooperate in the case should they need you to. Let’s be real, you’re not the fish they’re after.”

“Is Adam the fish?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

She slammed my folder shut. “Adam’s the whole damn whale.”

I nodded, pushed up from my chair, and grabbed my coat off the back of it. “Thank you. For everything. I’m not sure how I’m going to pay you for your time, but I’ll figure something out.”

“Of course. I’ll contact you as soon as I hear from the DA.”

“And Mom?”

She held three fingers up in the air. “I won’t say a thing, Girl Scout’s honor. I can’t anyway, attorney-client privilege,” she said with a wink before softening her eyes. “I know none of this is easy. I’m sure you feel like you got hit with a wrecking ball.”

“If I’m being honest, the only thing I feel right now is numb.”





Chapter Seven


I left Mrs. Webber’s office in a daze and walked aimlessly, passing block after block, neighborhood after neighborhood, and before I knew it, found myself shuffling through the crowds in Midtown. I looked down at my hand, the four-carat Asscher-cut diamond glistening in the bright sunlight, and realized I wasn’t too far from the Diamond District.

I turned up Forty-Seventh Street and walked toward Sixth Avenue, ducking into the first shop I passed. A saleswoman buzzed me into the store and held up her hand, letting me know she was just about finished helping another customer. I nodded and leaned over the glass case displaying sparkling wedding bands inside.

“The third one from the left would look spectacular next to your engagement ring,” the saleswoman said as she approached. “Do you want to try it on?” Before I could even answer, she’d already unlocked the case and set the tray down on the counter in front of me. “Go ahead,” she urged.

I slid the wedding band on my finger and held up my hand to admire the pair of rings under the light, side by side. What was I doing? Wake up, Avery. You aren’t getting married, not anymore.

“Perfection, no?” she said.

I swallowed past the lump that had risen up in my throat and handed the wedding band back to her. “It’s very beautiful.”

“And I can give you a great deal on it if you’re willing to take the floor sample. We’ll polish it up like new. You’d never know the difference, but it’ll save you thousands,” she said in a hushed tone.

“I’m not shopping for a wedding band today.”

“Sorry, I just assumed. Well, we have some beautiful pendants and some lovely holiday sets marked down. If you can pay all cash, I can take twenty percent off.”

“Actually, I was wondering if someone could appraise something for me?”

“My father does the official insurance appraisals, and I’m afraid he’s not in today.”

“I don’t need an official appraisal. I just wanted to get a general sense of my engagement ring’s value.”

The saleswoman narrowed her gaze. “Sure, I can give you a ballpark idea.”

I twisted the ring off my finger, quickly peeled off the Band-Aid, and placed it down in the black velvet box on the display counter. The saleswoman pinched it between her fingers and held the band out in front of her. She lifted the loupe dangling from a gold chain around her neck to her eye and brought the diamond closer for inspection, twisting it in all different directions under the ceiling lights.

“Hmm.” She sighed.

“What is it?”

The saleswoman motioned to another salesperson working the floor. “Michael, can you come take a look at this?” Michael set down a stack of invoices he’d been organizing and joined us. “This customer’s asking for a ballpark appraisal of her engagement ring,” she said, passing him the loupe.

He lifted up the ring and held it close to the magnifying lens. “Fugazi!” he cried, setting both items down on the counter.

I looked over at them both. “Sorry fu . . . what?”

“Fugazi. Fake. Your stone’s a fake,” Michael said matter-of-factly.

My stomach bottomed out. “My ring’s a fake?”

The saleswoman stepped forward. “The band’s genuine platinum, and the two baguettes are real, about a half carat each and of nice quality, but the center stone’s a CZ, a cubic zirconia.”

“A fugazi!” Michael shouted, his volume garnering a curious glance from a young couple on the other side of the store.