Victoria scoffed. “As if you’d keep it in your pocket. It’s probably in the kitchen, stashed in a bin, waiting for you to retrieve it at the end of your shift.”
The trap was as brilliant as it was cruel. The necklace was most likely nestled safely in the silk lining of Victoria’s own clutch, waiting to be discovered later, after Clara’s life had been thoroughly and irrevocably ruined. An accusation was all that was needed.
“We will, of course, search the kitchen,” Mr. Dubois stammered, trying to placate her.
“And what about her?” Victoria insisted, her voice rising to a shrill, theatrical pitch. “She should be detained. We should call the police.”
The staff began a frantic, humiliating search, on their hands and knees, peering under tables. Clara stood still, the silent, accused eye of the hurricane. She knew she was being framed. She knew that denials were futile. She had to change the narrative. She had to use the one weapon Victoria did not know she possessed. Knowledge. This was the moment not to drop a bomb, but to plant a seed of doubt. To introduce an element of chaos into Victoria’s perfectly staged drama.
As the fruitless search continued, a suffocating sense of doom settled over Clara. Mr. Dubois was wringing his hands. Victoria was looking triumphant. “We can’t find anything, Miss Sterling,” Mr. Dubois reported, his voice shaky.
“Then call the police,” Victoria commanded. “I want to file a report.”
The word report hung in the air. A final, damning verdict. Clara knew this was her last chance. She could not prove her innocence regarding the necklace, because the necklace’s location was part of the lie. But she could attack the credibility of her accuser. She took a deep breath and looked directly at Victoria. Her voice was not loud, but it was clear, and it carried an unusual weight.
“Miss Sterling, perhaps you should check your clutch again. Sometimes, when things are stressful, we misplace things.”