That afternoon, a young woman in a discount blazer approached her in the room behind the courthouse.
“Ms. Alvarez?” she said. “My name is Jenna Park. I’m… technically not a lawyer yet. I’m a legal intern with the public defender’s office.”
“They said you didn’t have anyone,” Jenna continued. “So… I asked my supervisor if I could at least meet you. See if we can assign you someone.”
Clara looked at her for a moment.
Then she burst into tears.
Clara was released to await trial with an ankle monitor and conditions: curfew, reporting requirements, no contact with the Hamiltons.
She returned to her small one-bedroom apartment, sat on the sofa she’d bought at a thrift store, and stared at the wall.
Her phone was silent.
No calls from Adam.
No calls from Margaret.
Until two nights later.
At 7:06 p.m., there was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” she called, her heart pounding.
“It’s me,” a small voice answered.
She opened it.
Ethan stood there, wearing a hoodie and sneakers, his hair standing on end, holding a folded piece of paper.
Behind him, the nanny, flustered, hurried past, talking on her phone.
“I ran away,” she said. “I was on the phone.”
She hugged him tightly around the waist.
“I know you didn’t do it,” she said into her sweater. “I told Dad. He didn’t listen. But I know.”
Clara wiped her eyes, her throat too tight to speak.
He handed her the folded paper.
“Here,” she said shyly. “I drew this for you.”
She unfolded it.
A crayon drawing of a large house on a hill.
A little boy.
A woman with black hair in a ponytail.
The word FAMILY written at the top in shaky letters.
Her chest ached.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “You have to come back, son. They’re going to worry.”
“I didn’t want you to be alone,” he said.
The nanny arrived, panting.
“Ethan! You can’t just run away like that!”
“I was saying goodbye,” she said defiantly.
The nanny gave Clara an apologetic look and took Ethan’s hand.
“We’ll meet again,” she said, looking back.
Clara stood in the doorway long after they left, the drawing trembling in her hands.
Something she thought was dead—her inner struggle—had awakened.
She wouldn’t let them define her as a thief.
Not without them listening to her.
With Jenna’s help, Clara began to fight.
They didn’t have much.
No money.
No high-profile lawyers.
But they had persistence.
They requested the security footage from the Hamilton estate.
Most of it seemed normal.
People moving through the rooms.
Lights turning on and off.
But the night the necklace disappeared, there was a failure.
A power outage.
“The transmission cuts out exactly four minutes,” Jenna said, frowning in front of the computer. “From 10:42 p.m. to 10:46 p.m., in the upstairs hallway in front of the jewelry room.”
“Could someone have… turned it off?” Clara asked.
“Maybe,” Jenna said. “Or the system malfunctioned. Or someone with access tampered with it.”
They filed a motion to obtain more detailed records from the security company.
The Hamiltons’ attorney objected.
The judge denied it.
“It’s speculation,” Hale said. “The recording is irrelevant. The facts remain: Ms. Alvarez was in the area.”
