A reporter raised her hand. She was in her early fifties, with straight red hair the color of a new penny. Elodie recognized her, too: Regan O’Rourke from The New York Times, formerly a gossip columnist who’d written some absurd items about Elodie and her sisters. And some not so absurd.

“Is that because of the curse?” Regan asked.

Oh, not that nonsense again. It had been years since she’d thought about the old rumor that the Electric Rose diamond was cursed and doomed her family to be unlucky in love. Leave it to Regan to bring it up. She was probably the one who’d started it.

“No, we don’t make decisions based on tabloids from the 1990s,” Elodie said with a forced laugh. She glanced once again at her niece, a mirror image of her mother.

She stopped taking questions.

Gemma followed the tide of journalists from the press area back onto the main floor.

She walked directly behind the red-headed reporter who asked about the curse. Growing up, Gemma had tried to make sense of her parents’ deaths, searching online and finding a revolting trove of gossip items about her family. Yes, some said the Electric Rose, just like the Hope Diamond, was “cursed.” Some claimed that her mother’s oldest sister, Celeste, ran away to New England and joined a cult. She read that her mother stole her father from Elodie, and that her grandfather had an affair and originally unearthed the Electric Rose to win his wife back. Gemma knew every gossip item was garbage, but out of all of them, the curse story was the one that persisted. But even as a teenager Gemma knew it was childish—lazy—to try to explain away real-world tragedy with magical thinking.

The front doors were now open to the wider party, well-heeled guests pouring in, vibrating with the specific energy of people who felt included, chosen, special. The last time Gemma had been inside the store, she had felt that way: Included. Chosen. Special.

Being around diamonds and emeralds could do that to a person. Her mother always told her that the value of precious gems went beyond their beauty—that each stone had unique properties that enhanced the spiritual life of the owner. “They’re little bits of magic.” Emerald stimulated the heart chakra, healing emotions as well as the physical heart. Rubies improved energy and concentration.

“What about pink diamonds?” Gemma once asked, because of course that was her favorite stone of all.

“Pink diamonds heighten our intuition.” And she wagged her ring finger with the breathtaking gem.

Has not been shown in public since the death of its owner.

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

“I need to speak with you,” Elodie said.

Escorted by security guards, Gemma had no choice but to follow Elodie out a side entrance onto East Fifty-Third Street.