Chapter 10 - The Handwriting Test
The dance ended early. The applause was thin and polite, and I felt it fade before we had even stepped off the floor. Michael's hand left my back. Sabrina stood near the edge with her champagne flute lowered, watching me. I did not look back at her long. I needed air that was not heavy with perfume and eyes.
I walked toward the side of the ballroom where the gift table stretched long under the sconces. It was covered in white linen, stacked with boxes and envelopes, and anchored by tall floral arrangements that threw soft shadows across the cards. A framed seating chart stood at one end. Place cards fanned out in neat rows. No one followed me at first. That was what I wanted.
The coordinator, a young woman named Jenna with a headset and a clipboard, hovered near the table adjusting a leaning frame. She smiled when she saw me.
"Mrs. Hale, can I get you anything? Water?"
"No, thank you," I said. "You have done a beautiful job with the room."
She thanked me and stepped back to let me look. I set my clutch on the edge of the table and kept my hand on it. My fingers were steady now. The baldness under my wig felt cool in the warm air, a reminder to move slowly.
I looked at the place cards. Each one was handwritten in the same dark ink, names looping across thick cream stock. Mr. and Mrs. Adler. Table Six. Cousin Laura. The letters were practiced and pretty, with tall upper loops and a certain curl on the lowercase y. I had seen that hand before on thank-you notes Sabrina had sent after the engagement dinner. I had saved two of them in my desk drawer at home.
I glanced around. The guests were still turned toward the dance floor, talking in low clusters. Sabrina was speaking to a bridesmaid. Michael was by the bar with his back half-turned. No one was watching the gift table.
I opened my clutch. The note was folded inside, tucked against my compact and my reading glasses. I had kept it there since I picked it up off the reception table. Congratulations you finally have a hairstyle that suits your age. The small heart underneath. I did not unfold it all the way. I just eased the edge out enough to see the writing.
I slid one of the spare blank place cards aside and laid my phone flat. Then, careful not to touch anything I should not touch, I positioned my clutch so the note's corner showed beside the row of written cards. The chandelier light hit both surfaces the same way. I took a photo. Then another, closer.
On the small screen, the comparison was quiet but clear. The C in Congratulations had the same high arch as the C in Cousin. The y in finally and the y in family finished with the same upward flick. And the heart. On Table Four's card, someone had drawn a tiny heart after the word Love. Same size. Same tilt to the right. Same broken line at the bottom where the pen had lifted too fast.
My breath caught. I did not let myself name it certainty. It was a match my eyes could see, nothing more, nothing a lab would sign. But I knew what I was looking at.
Jenna stepped closer again. "Are you looking for your place card? You're at Table One, with Michael."
"I know," I said, and slipped the note back into my clutch and snapped it shut. "Jenna, I want to ask a favor."
"Of course."
"These handwritten cards. The seating chart lettering. Please do not throw any of them away tonight. If any get knocked over or left behind, would you box them and keep them safe for me? Exactly as they are."
She blinked. "You mean save the place cards?"
"Yes. All of them. And the little signs. Don't clean them up with the trash. Put them in a box and give them to me before I leave."
She made a note on her clipboard. "I can do that. Do you want me to tell the bus staff?"
"Please. Tell them Mrs. Hale asked to keep the paper goods from the gift table."
She nodded and walked a few feet to speak to a server. I watched him nod back. It was a small thing, easily done, and no one would think twice about it.
May you like
I picked up my clutch and held it tight against my side. The original note was inside. Not a copy. Not a photo. The paper Sabrina — or someone — had touched that morning. I was not going to lay it on a table for a crowd to pass around. I was not going to accuse anyone in front of two hundred guests.
I took one last look at the rows of looping names under the warm light. I had what I needed for now. Proof I could hold without raising my voice.
