Page 38 of Gave Proof Through the Night

For one full second nobody breathes.

Then Rue chokes on a Taki, and has to be thumped on the back.

“Each?” Ivy says. “As in, per person?”

“Each,” I confirm.

“I need you to say that number again,” Suri says. “Slower, and maybe with your hands.”

“Sixteen. Point five. Million.” I do, in fact, use my hands.

Rue whistles low, long, the sound a person makes at a fireworks show. “Okay. Okay okay okay. I’m listening. Continue.”

Tanya’s eyes are bulging. “How real is that number?”

“Extremely,” Zoe says, not glancing up from her laptop. “Assuming nobody in this room does anything catastrophically stupid between now and August.”

“So, somewhat real,” Ginger says.

“Very real,” I say, and nod at Zoe.

I pull the drop cloth off the thing that’s been sitting on the folding table behind me all night. Underneath it is a scale model of a hotel ballroom, foam board and hot glue and, unless I’m wrong, part of a shoebox, tiny paper guests frozen mid-conversation around a miniature dance floor.

“This is the Corcoran Ballroom," I say. "At the Four Seasons Hotel. In three weeks, it hosts the Stars and Stripes Celebration Gala.”

“What’s that?” Rue asks, now recovered from her Taki incident.

“It’s the closing festivities for that hockey tournament going on at the National Arena,” Ivy supplies. "But it’s not just a sports thing. There will be politicians, VIPs, and important figures of note.”

Ginger’s wine glass stops halfway to her mouth. “So that’s the target? All those VIPs?”

“Not exactly.”

Ginger knows my convictions. I never go after private citizens or personal wealth. Just greedy corporations with shady (probably illegal) dealings. She also knows how every job leading up to this has been small-time. Low profile enough to keep us out of anyone’s radar. So this one is different. Very different. But I’m not about to betray my principles, and that’s why this next part of my presentation is important.

Zoe rubs her hands together. “Story time, ladies.”

Suri comes closer. “I love stories.”

“This one has a queen, a dead president, and a necklace that’s about to ruin all our summer plans,” I say, and tap the smart board.

A sepia portrait blooms across the screen. A woman in black mourning silk, tired eyes, spine like a fence post.

“Mary Todd Lincoln,” I say. “In 1865, a month after her husband was shot beside her at Ford’s Theatre, she got a letter from Queen Victoria. Victoria had lost Prince Albert a few years earlier and knew exactly what that grief felt like. Mary wrote back, and it became a whole correspondence. One widow to another. History calls it the Friendship Letters.”

I swipe. “Along with one of those letters,” I say. “Victoria sent this.”

The necklace fills the screen, sapphires hanging like a widow’s teardrops surrounded by halos of tiny diamonds. That heavy, generous pendant at the center with more sapphires and diamonds getting gradually smaller as they run along the chain. I’ve studied this piece my whole life. I could describe it in my sleep.

Suri audibly gasps. “The Friendship Jewel.“

“You are correct,” I say, and I love her a little more for it. “Some of you might already know the next part. In 1875, Mary’s son had her committed in an insanity trial. She wasn’t even told about it until the day it happened and couldn’t even defend herself.”

“Wait.” Rue holds up a Taki. “Her own son had her committed?”

“For what?” Ginger asks, and there’s an edge in her voice now.

“Spending her own money. Buying jewelry. Walking outside. Grieving too visibly, honestly.”