A thief in the house

I feel completely sick as I write this, but I think someone has been stealing from us. Child One was back briefly from art school over Christmas, and raised the alarm – some pieces of jewellery were missing.

At first, I was pretty sure they were just misplaced. And it’s still a distinct possibility – Child One’s room is an Aladdin’s cave of bits and bobs, as all girls’ rooms are. But I’ve searched nearly everywhere now, and there’s no sign. And I keep remembering more pieces of jewellery that I’ve given my lovely daughter, that aren’t there.

Some of them I gave to her and Child Two after my brush with death thanks to melanoma, including my very beautiful engagement ring from my marriage to their father. One of the other missing pieces was given to Child One by her uncle, and she was saving it to wear on her wedding day.

I’m still hoping against hope that these things will turn up. In the meantime, the list of suspects is not large. In fact, it’s very, very small. It’s quite ironic, given that I’m writing a whodunnit. In this case, the identity of the culprit is looking reasonably clear. It’s what on earth to do about it – and the horrible, horrible sick feeling of betrayal – that’s worrying me.


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