“What is going on here?” my father’s voice boomed.

The sound seemed to shake the copper pots hanging from the ceiling.

Patricia froze.

She turned slowly, her face instantly shifting from anger to a look of deep concern.

“Emiliano,” she said, her voice dropping an octave.

She took a step toward him, her hands reaching out.

“Thank goodness you are here,” she said. “We have a terrible situation.”

“Do we?” my father asked.

He did not move to meet her.

He stood in the center of the kitchen doorway, his arms at his sides.

Martina ran from the alcove, her face pale.

She grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Daniela, she says Rosa stole something,” Martina whispered.

“It is alright, Martina,” I said, pulling her behind me. “Stay here.”

Patricia looked at me, then back at my father.

She held up the silver pouch.

“I found my mother’s diamond tennis bracelet in Rosa’s apron pocket,” Patricia said.

She turned the pouch over, and the glittering diamonds spilled onto the marble counter.

They clattered against the broken pieces of the porcelain rabbit.