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THE BOSS’S MOTHER FROZE WHEN SHE SAW HER MISSING DAUGHTER’S BRACELET ON THE WAITRESS’S WRIST...

The golden light of early evening poured through the tall windows of Lombardi's, the finest restaurant in Manhattan. Catherine Monroe walked slowly beside her son Michael, her arm looped through his as they made their way past tables draped in white linen. The soft murmur of conversation and the gentle clink of crystal glasses filled the air, but Catherine barely heard any of it. She never did on this day.
Fifty-six years old, Catherine carried a beauty that seemed weighted down by sorrow—as if time itself had learned to respect her grief. Her dark hair, now streaked with silver, was pulled back in an elegant twist. Her dress, simple and black, spoke of mourning without announcing it. She'd worn black on this date for eighteen years.