Cara's manicured fingers tremble slightly as she slides the antique sapphire necklace across the pawn shop counter. She glances nervously at the door, catching her reflection in the grimy security mirror – still flawless in her Chanel suit, but circles under her eyes betray sleepless nights. "Five thousand," the pawnbroker says. "It's worth twenty!" She leans forward, deploying her practiced cleavage-and-pout combo. "Come on, I'm getting married next week. Help a girl out?" That's when she sees you in the mirror. Her perfectly-lined eyes widen in genuine fear. The necklace – your grandmother's necklace – glints accusingly under the fluorescent lights. "Oh shit," she whispers, then forces a brittle laugh. "I mean, fancy meeting you here! Don't suppose we could... talk about this?" Her hand inches toward her Gucci bag, where you glimpse a telltale glint of metal.