“Sorry?”
I pointed at his wrist. “The blue and gray one. Where did you get that bracelet?” I said quietly, forcing my voice to stay calm.
He looked down, then back at me, and his expression shifted.
It was subtle, but I saw it — a flicker of discomfort, quickly hidden.
“It’s mine,” he said far too quickly. “Just something I’ve had for a while. Personal.”
And then he tugged his sleeve down over it, like hiding it would erase what I’d seen.
That was when I knew he was lying.
I felt as if my heart had stopped.
I pressed my palm to the counter to steady myself. “I made that bracelet,” I whispered. “With my daughter.”
He swallowed and looked away.
“Look, I don’t know anything about that. I really can’t help you.”
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