She has begun to perspire inside the chic cashmere coat. Watching the appraiser furtively. Not wanting to betray her anxiety. They will substitute fake pearls for my pearls. This is how it’s done, when you are a fool.

  Hannah has been wiping her ink-stained hands on tissues, without great success. She has a horror of smearing ink on her clothing, which will appear to be mere grime. She forces herself to breathe normally. Her eyes, sensitive and bloodshot from hours of weeping, and another sleepless night, water from the woman’s cigarette smoke.

  Her face aches from, evidently, smiling.

  A lifetime of smiling and no one cares for her. Can’t these strangers see, Hannah’s heart is broken?

  How stupid could you be to imagine I’d loved you.

  The scorn in his voice. The contempt.

  He’d never loved her, he’d tricked and exploited her. The crudest kind of sex he’d inflicted upon her, desperate Hannah chose to interpret as love.

  Even his gentler lovemaking, Hannah understands was pretense. Those kisses. His hands framing her face …

  You have come to dwell in my heart, Hannah.

  Yet: Even now in Zink Jewelers where he has sent her, to humiliate her, Hannah is thinking, But he must have meant it! Some of it.

  Yes, she is sure, recalling. Y.K. had truly desired her, she had not been mistaken—surely.

  Sexual desire in the male can’t be faked, fraudulent. The man’s intense sexual pleasure, the jolt of it, she’d witnessed, as if it were her own.

  A small pulse of hope stirs, even now. For certainly Y.K. had desired her. She imagines him framing her face in his hands and assuring her gravely—Of course I didn’t mean it, darling. I was testing you.

  And her children: He has called them beautiful, he has said he wants to be their father.

  Impossible for Y.K. not to love them, Hannah thinks. He seems to have no children of his own. She’d seen how he’d looked at Conor, and at Katya. As he’d looked at her, many times.

  How could you doubt me, Hannah? You must know I’ve always loved you.

  She is sure, he’d loved her more than he’d ever loved Marlene Reddick. He’d desired her.

  If she brings the money to him, as he’d requested. He’d been hurt by the way she pulled Conor away from him at the entrance to the filthy men’s restroom in the park, this will be Hannah’s opportunity to make reparation. He will probably not accept the money. Ten thousand dollars is nothing to him! Just a token, a gesture. As a cornered animal will bare its throat to the predator, in the hope that the predator will not tear it out.

  He will laugh at her, and kiss her, and call her darling; he will lead her to the glass-topped table by the window where a bottle of red wine awaits them. He will lead her into the other room, the bedroom—that place of reconciliation.

  Mirrors, edged with zinc. On a bureau top a heavy urn meant to replicate a Grecian urn, in which copper flowers, branches have been arranged.

  Yet: Hannah is terrified, her husband will be murdered.

  As Christina and Harold Rusch were murdered for their money, so, too, Wes Jarrett will be murdered.

  When it’s the right time for me to meet your husband, that will be arranged.

  With mounting unease Hannah has been watching the appraiser at the rear of the store as he examines the pearl necklace beneath intense white light. He is an older man, obese, with a blunt, hairless skull. His neck is lost in fatty folds. Tenderly he peers at the necklace through an eyeglass, his heavy face is soft with a sensuous sort of concentration. This professional appraiser will respect her, Hannah thinks.

  Close by the appraiser is an antique birdcage on a pedestal, made of delicately carved wood, with much Victorian filigree. Inside are several small birds—canaries?—fluttering about. Hannah realizes that she has been hearing faint birdsong she’d assumed was music from a radio. And scurrying about the floor at the appraiser’s feet, indeed clambering about his thick thighs, there is something white, fretful … White rats? Tame rats? Hannah stares in disbelief. But the appraiser behaves as if nothing is out of the ordinary, like the woman with the harlequin glasses who has resumed work with an adding machine.

  “Mrs. Jar-rett?”—the appraiser lifts his large somber head without exactly looking at Hannah. “Come here, please.”

  Please. Hannah feels absurdly grateful, to be addressed so politely.

  But it isn’t so easy to approach the appraiser, Hannah discovers. The woman at the cashier’s counter offers Hannah no assistance, she is forced to make her way around the end of the counter, and along a narrow aisle between display cases, to arrive at the appraiser’s worktable at the very rear of the store. Here are open shelves heaped with tagged jewelry, a row of padlocked filing cabinets, a wall safe directly behind the appraiser.

  Hannah’s stumbling approach has excited the canaries—yellow-feathered, cream-colored, red-orange—which are flitting about in their filigreed cage, emitting sharp little cries. And the white rats, at least a dozen of them, beautiful sleek creatures with pink, inflamed-looking eyes and twitching noses and hairless pink tails, blink at Hannah with avid interest.

  Do you recognize us? Guess!

  Hannah shudders, and laughs. An eerie sensation comes over her, as of an imminent revelation, like a metal flower opening in her brain.

  “Shh! Shh! Behave yourselves!”—the appraiser chides the chittering birds and the curious rats. “We have a customer.”

  Hannah is feeling hopeful. The appraiser must admire her antique necklace, she thinks; for surely not every visitor to Zink Jewelers is allowed into this private part of the store.

  Close up, Hannah sees that the appraiser is an attractive man in his sixties, despite his obesity, bumpy hairless skull, and liver-spotted skin. Indeed, he reminds her of her kindly therapist Dr. T__.

  His eyes are small yet silvery-luminous behind the thick lenses of his bifocals; his heavy jaws are clean-shaven, and his fingernails are unusually large, very clean. He wears a dandyish madras vest, Hannah wonders if he’d purchased it at the Eastern Market across the street. (Or, no: He has a family, one of his devoted daughters gave him the vest, as a birthday gift for a man difficult to please, for he has everything he wants, indeed more than anyone could want, from the treasure trove of Zink Jewelers Estate & Loan.) Coatless, he wears a long-sleeved white cotton dress shirt with a starched collar. His cuff links are onyx. As the appraiser examines her pearls in his oddly intimate way, drawing the necklace slowly and sensuously across his thick lips, one of the sleek white rats that has been lolling in his lap stands, placing its claws on the tabletop, and peers impishly at Hannah.

  Those pink, inflamed eyes! The twitching nose, smelling her.

  Hannah feels hairs stir at the nape of her neck, as with a curious sort of recognition; but again, the uncanny sensation fades.

  At last, the appraiser touches the necklace with his tongue, that seems to Hannah unusually large, moist, a living thing.

  “Oh!”—Hannah cries, involuntarily; it’s as if a light electric shock has rippled through her.

  “Well, my dear! Mrs. Jar-rett! You see, you have come to me very late.”

  “What—what do you mean?” Hannah is unnerved by the elderly man peering at her with his silvery eyes, over the tops of his bifocals.

  “You have neglected these pearls, dear. You need to wear pearls often. You should know, pearls require human warmth, intimacy, to maintain their beauty. Their being. Spinoza said, ‘All things desire to persist in their being.’ Pearls are not diamonds, dear. If left alone, they lose heart. They lose hope. Like all of us, they become brittle and begin to die.”

  Hannah stands abashed, contrite. Yet, she retains a glimmer of hope, that the pearls are of some worth.

  “I realize they aren’t ‘natural’ pearls. I realize that they are only ‘cultured’ …”

  The appraiser laughs at her, not unkindly. To Hannah’s surprise he tells her that indeed the pearls are not cultured but natural—“But, you see, they have begun to lose their luster. They have begun to lose hope. They are at the start of their decline, like a love that has gone wrong.”

  Hannah is astonished: Natural pearls? Her grandmother had owned, and had left to her, a necklace of natural pearls?

  “Why have you not worn these pearls more often, Mrs. Jar-rett? Did you think they were unfashionable, ‘old’?”

  Hannah tries to think. She has no idea. She owns so many other necklaces, so many pairs of earrings, bracelets, most of them newly purchased, stylish and expensive costume jewelry, she’d never given the antique pearls much thought.

  “They are not ‘chic’—‘sexy.’ Is that it?”

  Hannah feels her face heat, embarrassed. Has the elderly gentleman actually uttered the word sexy? In relation to her grandmother’s pearls?

  He adds: “There is a small diamond clasp, too. Very tasteful.”

  “I—I—yes, but I wasn’t sure if—the stones might not be diamonds …”

  “Yes, they are diamonds. But very small: one-quarter carat.”

  Hannah is conscious of the appraiser contemplating her with an unnerving sort of familiarity, like an older relative. She is still hopeful that, if he likes her, as he seems to be liking her, he will offer a good price for the necklace.

  Impulsively she asks: “Are you a friend of Y.K., Mr. Zink?”

  “‘Zink’—but who is ‘Mr. Zink’?”

  “Aren’t you—Mr. Zink?”

  “No, dear. I am not. I am a longtime, faithful employee of Morris Zink—but, to be truthful, I have not seen Morris Zink in a long time. Nor have I spoken with him. He lives in Grosse Pointe, in one of those grand old lakeside estates. He owns many jewelry stores, pawnshops in Detroit and vicinity. He communicates with his employees through intermediaries—if, indeed, he is still alive. It may be a son and heir who is ‘Zink’ now.” The appraiser pauses, nudging away a needily affectionate white rat that has been burrowing beneath his arm. “And I have never heard of—did you say ‘Why-kay’?”

  “But I thought he’d called you. Y.K. I think his name is—Yaakel Keinz. Didn’t he call? To say that I was coming?” Hannah tries not to sound dismayed, disappointed.

  “Did he? I’m not familiar with the name. Yaakel Keinz?”

  Doubtfully the appraiser pronounces this name, giving it a strongly foreign inflection. Hannah feels a stab of vertigo as if the sticky linoleum floor is tilting beneath her feet.

  “He—he’s a businessman. He comes to Detroit every few weeks on—on business …” Hannah’s voice trails off, weakly.

  “He isn’t a Black Hebrew Israelite—is he?” The appraiser looks alarmed.

  “He—he’s American. He was born in America.”

  “I doubt that, my dear. They are anti-Semites, you know. They are not Jews.”

  The appraiser shakes his heavy lips, disapproving. Hannah has no idea what he is talking about.

  “He—isn’t Black. His skin color is—is—not black …”

  “Of course not. Not evidently.” Then, thoughtfully: “The name—Yaakel Keinz—is a Hebrew name, I believe. But it’s likely an appropriated name. The man could be a Russian agent—a contemporary anarchist—one who destabilizes.”

  Hannah shakes her head, confused. She has no idea what the appraiser is talking about.

  She has no idea who her lover is—the man whom she believes to be her lover.

  Nor has she any idea why she is here, in this airless subterranean place, in the late morning of an overcast winter day. And only the vaguest idea where she is.

  “These people are deadly, my dear. Their tactics are ruthless. They insinuate themselves into the lives of ‘real’ people and eviscerate them from within. These are the most insidious terrorist attacks against Americans—‘white’ Americans—that are not correctly identified …”

  Seeing that Hannah is baffled, and frightened, the appraiser drops the subject.

  He informs Hannah that her pearls are indeed natural South Sea pearls, not well aged, with a clasp of small diamonds.

  “Seven thousand, cash.”

  Seven thousand! Hannah is crushed. Does this mean that the pearl necklace is only worth approximately fourteen thousand dollars?

  Hannah protests: “But—if those are real pearls—”

  “You have neglected them, dear. You are a shallow person, perhaps. Probably the pearls have been forgotten in a drawer, you haven’t worn them in years. Then, something happens in your life, something that calls into question your life, and so you turn back for help, you ‘reach’ for—something that is lost to you, you’d taken for granted. Your grandmother gave you the pearls? Well, then—you see—your grandmother is lost to you. The resale value of pearls isn’t great, unlike diamonds. Do you have diamonds you’d like sell? Necklace, earrings? Rings?” Sharp-eyed, the appraiser is looking frankly at Hannah’s fingers.

  Hannah is overwhelmed by the appraiser’s words, that seem to her both kindly and chiding, intimate and accusing. She had thought the man was her friend …

  No time to go elsewhere for a second appraisal. In her agitated state Hannah dreads driving in the city. And she doesn’t dare bring jewelry to an appraiser in the Far Hills vicinity, the news might get back to someone who knows her.

  Impossible to give up her rings, Hannah thinks. Wes would notice.

  (Would Wes notice? She could sell the engagement ring, which is a sizable diamond of several carats; she could replace it, in this very store perhaps, with a zircon or even a rhinestone ring, and Wes would never notice.)

  “My dear, the offer is seven thousand, cash. Take it or leave it.”

  Several white rats on the worktable are regarding Hannah with impertinent interest. She feels a ticklish sensation—a warm-skinned rat nips at her ankle with its sharp teeth, as if teasing. “Oh!”—Hannah kicks at it, shocked.

  The appraiser laughs, but cautions: “My dear, don’t provoke them: They may appear tame, and they are very charming, but they are wild creatures, and they can bite.”

  Hannah examines her ankle: There is a tiny run in the sheer nylon stocking but her skin doesn’t appear to be broken.

  “Seven thousand, dear. But in two minutes, it will be six thousand.”

  Hannah means to say vehemently No thank you. Instead, she hears herself say Yes.

  “Yes?—to seven thousand, cash?”

  “Y-yes.”

  It is unnaturally warm in the cave-like interior, though neither the appraiser nor the woman with the harlequin glasses seems to notice. As if somewhere close by there is a beating heart, the heat of a furnace …

  “Very sensible, dear. For one who has neglected a treasure.”

  Hannah rubs ruefully at her ankle, which has begun to itch. Alert and avid the pink-eyed white rats regard her as if they fear retaliation from her.

  Even as the corpulent appraiser turns in his swivel chair to open the wall safe, to count out cash for Hannah, she hears herself protest—“Wait: no.”

  She has changed her mind, she tells him. This is all a mistake.

  Suddenly desperate to get the necklace back as she’d been desperate to run after Y.K. and Conor, seize Conor’s hand and reclaim him, at the entrance to the men’s restroom in the park.

  The appraiser isn’t so incensed as Y.K. had been but he isn’t amused.

  But he is a gentleman: “Are you sure, dear? If you walk out of here with the necklace, then change your mind and return, the price will have dropped by fifteen hundred dollars.”

  He is laughing at her, Hannah thinks. She all but snatches the necklace from the appraiser’s hands, slips it into her handbag. She has lost or forgotten the little cloth bag, left on the cashier’s counter.

  “Let me out, please. Unlock the door, please. Let me out.”

  Hannah makes her way with some difficulty to the front of the cluttered store. Barely she can see daylight through the barred front window overlooking Gratiot Avenue.

  Frantically, Hannah pushes at the door. It is locked, unmovable, and then, with a click! unlocked, presumably by the woman in the harlequin glasses.

  Ah, out on the street!—wide windswept Gratiot Avenue where the air has turned cold, hostile, with a mineral smell. A faint white sun glowers like a barely throbbing heart.

  “For Sale”

  Slowly like a woman in a dream from which she is in terror of waking Hannah drives home to Far Hills on the John C. Lodge Expressway.

  Slowly, for wind from the river shakes the gleaming-white sedan.

  Slowly in the right-hand lane, for Hannah is very tired.

  Death rattling the windows of the sedan. But canny Hannah has locked all the doors …

  Slowly and painstakingly for she must calculate how to live the rest of her life.

  I am sorry, I could not sell my grandmother’s pearls. I don’t have the money to give you.

  Please forgive me! Please don’t punish me for loving you.

  Like rushing water vehicles swing out to pass the white sedan in a turbulent stream. Drivers sound their horns, annoyed at Hannah’s slow speed.

  I am a wounded person, please don’t wound me further.

  Distracted by rushing thoughts. But grateful, she didn’t sell her grandmother’s pearls.

  Natural pearls! South Sea pearls. Hannah is ashamed, she’d undervalued the gift from her grandmother, whom she had not loved enough.

  Too young, too self-absorbed at the time, to realize.

  She will withdraw nine thousand, nine hundred dollars from the Far Hills bank, she will provide the final hundred herself, out of her wallet. Too risky, to withdraw nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars, not a good idea.

  Except: She will have to ask for the money in cash, in large denominations: one-hundred-dollar bills.

  No choice, otherwise Y.K. will destroy her.

  (But will the bank allow such a large withdrawal from a joint account? Will they call Wes even as Hannah stands foolishly waiting at the teller’s window?)

  Futile to beg the man for mercy. Indeed Y.K. is a terrorist, he has laughed at Hannah’s distress.

  Hannah is approaching Eight Mile Road, Detroit city limits. Approximately halfway to Far Hills. A wave of despair engulfs her, she has no idea what she will do to save herself, and the children.