I knew exactly what he meant. A gold oval with the Virgin Mary on the front under a domed piece of glass. On the back, Laura had it engraved with one word: Mason. She wore it every day of her illness. After she died, I put it in the top drawer of my dresser, in her old jewelry box, so Mason could have it when he was older.
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About eight months after the funeral, it vanished. I tore the house apart. I filed a report with my insurance. I blamed myself for being careless during the worst year of my life.
Colleen had been at the house a lot that spring.
I went across the yard at 1:20 in the morning with a flashlight and my phone. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not sorry either.
The star clicked exactly the way Mason said it would.
