“Lying children make up stories.”

I walked to the oak sideboard in the dining room and opened it, and among the linen napkins I found a framed photograph from two months earlier: Veronica, at a party, wearing the gold brooch at her throat.

“If she stole it seven months ago,” I said, holding up the frame, “why are you wearing it in a photo taken eight weeks ago?”

“I don’t have to justify how I run my household to you!” Veronica snapped, her voice climbing.