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yellow tourmaline.
     No—there was a hint of green in Casey Dowling’s big, yellow stone. Which probably made it a citrine, a flashy but not supervaluable
     stone. That was even more reason Sarah wanted to keep this ring.
    While she knew that holding on to stolen merchandise could be a terrible mistake, she had to find a way to keep this one thing.
     She wanted more than a souvenir. She wanted a trophy. A reward. And now she was thinking that the thing to do was to have
     the yellow stone reset as a pendant.
    She remembered something her grandmother had said to her mother, who had said it to her: “On some people, rhinestones look
     like diamonds. On others, diamonds look like rhinestones.”
    Sarah thought that, on her—with her T.J. Maxx wardrobe and plain looks—citrine would look like glass. She stood in front of
     the mirror and held the yellow stone to her black turtleneck, just under her collarbone.
    It looked much smaller when it wasn’t a ring.
    She was sure that, once reset, this stone would keep her secret. As Sarah stared at herself in the mirror, there was a loud
     knock on the door. It was her husband, Trevor.
    “Why is the door locked, missy? What are you doing? Having fun with yourself?”
    “You could say that,” Sarah said.
    “Let me in.”
    “No.”
    “Let me in!”
    Sarah put the ring under the hollowed-out base of the lamp on her night table.
    “Go to hell!” she shouted.
    He was shaking the door, kicking at it. Sarah went over and unlocked it.
Just another day,
she thought as she let Trevor into the bedroom.
Just another day in the secret life of Sarah Wells.

Chapter 17
    SARAH SLAMMED THE front door of her apartment and marched out to the car thinking about frickin’ Trevor, who had begged her,
     “Wait just another minute.” Only it was an unbearable twenty minutes under his fat, nasty body, and now she was borderline
     late to work—again.
    Sarah headed her Saturn onto Delores Street and got onto the freeway, making up lost time. She switched on the radio and found
     “
Good Morning
with Lisa Kerz and Rosemary Van Buren,
the
place for traffic, weather, and local news.”
    Lisa Kerz was saying, “Rosemary, this is the latest on Casey Dowling, who we’ve just learned was shot last night.”
    Shot. What was that?
Sarah gripped the wheel.
    “Do the police have a lead on who killed her?” Van Buren asked.
    Killed her?
    Sarah’s heart thundered in her chest. What kind of lie was this? Casey Dowling was alive and screaming when she had escaped
     from the Dowling house.
    Casey had been alive.
    “No, this is about Marcus Dowling,” said Kerz. “Breaking news. Mr. Dowling’s lawyer, Tony Peyser, made a statement ten minutes
     ago—”
    Sarah stared at the radio as if it were a person, listening to Lisa Kerz saying that Mr. Dowling’s lawyer had gone live on
     KQED asking for help from the people of San Francisco. She ripped her eyes back to the road just in time to miss the guardrail.
    “Okay, now here’s the statement, hot off the wire,” Van Buren added. “Says here, quoting Mr. Peyser, ‘Mr. Dowling is offering
     a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of whoever killed Casey Dowling.’”
    Sarah saw her exit ramp rushing toward the car, jerked the steering wheel without signaling, and left rubber on the roadway
     as she made the turn. Once off the freeway, she drove without seeing, eventually finding herself in the parking lot at Booker
     T. Washington High.
    Sarah shut off the car, grabbed her backpack, and headed through the red iron gates and into the main building, entering the
     teacher’s lounge for her customary pick-me-up before facing the day.
    The bell had rung. The lounge was nearly empty except for one person: Heidi Meyer, who was standing by the coffee machine,
     stirring her cup. Sarah called out, “Hey, Heidi.”
    “Hey, yourself. Whoa. You okay, Sarah?”
    “Bah. Trevor’s a bastard. Heard enough?”
    Heidi put down her cup