Anita shook her head. “We can have this conversation later, Neil.”

“A conversation? It needs a conversation? What kind of conversation do you want to have? We can talk. We can talk later, or we can talk now—”

“Ohmigod!” Prachi was leaning over the counter at CREATIVE JEWELZ: GOLD AND DIAMONDS ALL KINDS. “That’s a classic mangalsutra; you know, we hadn’t decided…”

“Actually, Prachi, I have this VIP badge for you.” Anita handed a laminated pink card to Prachi, glancing at me a moment, briefly, with a twinge of suspicion. “Let’s go over there.” She pointed. I shoved my hand in the tote, fingers widening the mouth of that first Ziploc, where I felt a cold 3D-printed fake, a smooth bangle. It seemed terribly flimsy, like if I squeezed it too hard, it might melt, staining my palm yellow.

Prachi was trying on a stack of bangles at MEHTA GOLD when someone else began our first job for us. A heavyset man knocked into her and mumbled a harried sorry before scurrying on. I only had to complete the action, grabbing her as if to pull her up but instead dropping both of us to the floor. My sister landed in an embarrassed squat, as the bangles and two fat armbands (Anita having chosen several too large for Prachi’s wrist) slipped off.

I had replacements in my bag for several of the thinnest bangles. The mess of the real ones littered the floor. For a millisecond, before instinct kicked in, I blinked stupidly at the gold on the vacuumed gray carpet.

I knelt and began to gather the real gold, swapping in the fakes, which were lost among the authentic things quite quickly. Anita waved her clipboard in the owner’s face, demanding his signature on photo releases.

Mr. Mehta pushed Anita aside to help Prachi stand. By then I had made the swap. My hands were clammy. But it was done—three pieces of bridal gold were stuffed in the inside pocket of my messenger bag. We had hurt no one. It hadn’t been that hard.

“You know,” I said conversationally, dusting my hands off, for part of my role was to be blithe and dumb, “I think someone was trampled to death in an Indian mall the other day.”

Mr. Mehta glared at me. “Not nice to generalize like that.”

We arrived at the second target: SCREWVALA PURVEYORS OF BOMBAY GOLD. Hovering over the glass jewelry case stood the spitting image of grown-up Shruti Patel as I had seen her more than once now.

“I’m Dia,” said Shruti.