Chương 2 - The Vanity Drawer
The private dressing suite smelled of fading white roses and expensive hairspray. I shoved the heavy oak door shut behind me, throwing the deadbolt with a trembling hand that barely had the strength to turn the brass mechanism. Once locked inside, the heavy silence of the room crashed down over me. The ballroom noise was muffled to a dull throb through the thick walls. My knees finally gave out, and I slid down the full-length mirror until I hit the carpeted floor, my sheer lace wedding gown pooling around me like seafoam.
My breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps. The numbness had migrated from my throat down into my chest, making every inhalation feel like drawing air through a wet sponge. I needed my phone. I needed to call an ambulance, or the police, or anyone who wasn't part of this immaculate, suffocating family. I crawled across the floor toward the antique vanity table where my beaded purse sat beside a porcelain bowl of hairpins.
My fingers batted clumsily at the clasp of the bag. I dumped its contents across the wooden floor—lipstick, compact mirror, breath mints, and my cell phone. I snatched the device up, pressing the home button. The screen remained pitch black. I pressed it again, harder, but the battery indicator didn't light up. Dead. Completely, impossibly dead, even though I had plugged it in before walking down the aisle. A cold wave of dread washed over me as I realized who must have handled the bag during the pre-ceremony photographs.
"Clever," I whispered, my voice sounding raspy and thin in the empty room.
As I sat there, stranded in my own private cell, a glint of metal caught my eye from inside the partially open top drawer of the vanity. It wasn't my makeup or any item I had brought into the suite. Resting on the dark mahogany wood was a single, old-fashioned brass key attached to a small paper luggage tag. With immense effort, I dragged myself upward, using the edge of the vanity to pull my weight. My fingers closed around the key. I pulled the tag toward my face, squinting in the dim wall-sconce light. Written in Eleanor's precise, sharp handwriting were three words: *Service Elevator. Basement.*
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Before I could process the implication, a sharp, metallic knock echoed from the heavy suite door.
"Honey?" the groom's voice called out, muffled by the wood. "Open the door. Mama Eleanor said you weren't feeling well, and she brought some herbal tea up from the kitchen. Let us in."
