Chapter 4 - The Louvered Closet Door
My key stuck for half a second in the lock.
The hallway upstairs was quieter than I remembered. The ballroom sound came up through the floor as a low hum, chandeliers and voices and the clink of glass pressed thin by carpet and closed doors. Marcelo stood too close behind me. I could feel the heat of him through the lace at my back.
I turned the key harder than I needed to. The dressing suite door swung inward.
The air that came out was stale and sweet. Hairspray and lace and the faint powder smell from the touch-up station they'd set for me that afternoon. Someone had left one of the vanity bulbs on. It threw a yellow circle over my makeup scattered on the counter — blush, bobby pins, a half-drunk glass of water with lipstick on the rim.
Lily slipped under my arm before I could stop her.
"Lily," I said. I kept my voice low. "Stay with Mommy."
She didn't run wild. That was the worst part. She walked straight across the rug in her navy dress, her shoes silent, her curls bouncing with the navy bows I'd tied that morning. She stopped a foot in front of the closet on the far wall and just stood there.
She didn't touch it. Her hands stayed at her sides.
Marcelo stepped past me into the room and shut the door behind us. The lock clicked. The hum from downstairs dulled.
He looked around like he'd never been in the room before, though the foundation had booked it for us every year. White couch. Full-length mirror. Racks along the side wall with my backup shawl and his spare shirt still in plastic. On the floor by the vanity sat a long garment bag zipped shut and a white shoe box with the lid on straight.
He went to those first.
I watched his shoes sink into the rug. He nudged the garment bag with his toe, then bent and lifted a corner of it. Inside was only the gray dress I'd considered and rejected. He set it back down. He lifted the shoe box lid an inch, glanced at the silver heels inside, and closed it again.
"Nothing's disturbed," he said.
I didn't answer. My hands were shaking, so I pressed them against the beadwork at my sides. The lace scratched my palms.
Lily still hadn't moved. She stared at the closet doors — two narrow louvered doors painted cream to match the walls, with the slats half-open so you couldn't quite see inside, only shadow. Next to them was the bathroom door, white and solid, with the little brass knob.
Two doors. I kept looking between them.
If I opened the bathroom first, I could flush, run water, buy thirty seconds. If I opened the closet first, it would be over. I knew which one held it. I'd folded it that afternoon with shaking hands after Lily wandered in while I was changing, after she'd gone quiet in that way only she got quiet. I'd shoved it high on the shelf behind my tote bag, where the slats wouldn't show the curve.
Marcelo followed my eyes.
"Elena." He said my name once, flat.
May you like
Lily lifted her arm. She didn't grab the knob. She didn't rattle the slats the way a three-year-old normally would. She just extended one small finger and pointed at the left louvered door, still closed.
"There," she said.
