My stomach tightened. “What?”
“There’s something in here.”
He turned the fabric inside out and carefully opened a small section of stitching. From inside, he pulled a folded piece of paper—yellowed, fragile.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
“If you’re reading this… I’m sorry. I lied to you about everything.”
“No,” I whispered immediately. “That’s not her.”
It didn’t sound like her. It didn’t look like her handwriting.
The tailor just watched me.
“Are you sure you knew everything about her?” he asked.
I grabbed the dress and left.
I don’t remember walking to Mrs. Kline’s house. I just remember sitting on her couch, repeating the same words over and over.
“She lied to me.”
Mrs. Kline wrapped an arm around me, her voice soft, almost comforting.
“Sometimes people think they’re protecting you,” she said.
That night, I told her she could have the house.
I didn’t care anymore. Not about the money. Not about anything.
That should have been the end of it.
But something didn’t sit right.
The note. The smell. The way both of them spoke.
The garment bag.
It wasn’t hers.
