Chapter 7: The Box Ainsley Would Not Let Eira Open
The service corridor smelled of wax, damp linen, and the faint sweetness of the reception cake. Galen walked ahead of me, his dark suit too formal for the narrow passage, while I kept one hand against the wall to steady myself. My cheek still hurt where Ainsley had struck me. The broken silver chain rested in my other hand, its loose end catching against my fingers.
We had searched the edge of the storage area twice. The first time, I had looked for anything small enough to hold the locket. The second time, I had stopped looking for the locket and started looking for the missing container from my mother’s room. That change mattered. Ainsley could hide jewelry in a pocket. A box was harder to make disappear.
Galen paused beside a stack of folded tablecloths. Behind them stood several white garment bags, two wooden crates, and a long cardboard container sealed with brown packing tape. A spray of pale flowers had been printed across one side, the same kind used on the wedding programs.
I recognized the dent near the lower corner before I saw the strip of blue paint along the lid.
It was my mother’s.
The box had been under the cedar bench in her room. I had packed it myself with photographs, fabric samples, a small hand mirror, and the papers I had not yet had time to sort. I had marked the lid with blue paint because the original label had peeled away. There was no mistaking it.
I moved toward it.
Ainsley stepped between us.
Her black evening dress filled the corridor like a closed door. One hand rested lightly against the box, manicured fingers spread over the tape. Her blonde hair remained pinned neatly in place despite the struggle in the reception hall. She watched me without moving, stern and composed, as if the corridor and everything in it belonged to her.
I stopped close enough to see a new crease in the tape.
Galen came up behind me. The space tightened around the three of us. I could hear the reception through the open doorway at the end of the hall: glasses touching, chairs shifting, guests trying to pretend they were not listening.
I pointed to the blue mark.
Ainsley’s hand pressed harder against the lid.
When I reached for the box, she caught my wrist. The grip was not as sudden as the one at the engagement table, but it carried the same certainty. She meant to decide what I could touch. My body reacted before my thoughts did; I pulled back, and the cardboard scraped against the wall.
Galen took Ainsley’s hand from my wrist and held it away from me. He did not shove her. He did not raise his voice. He simply put himself between us, one arm creating a firm boundary.
Ainsley’s attention shifted to him, then back to the box.
For a moment, no one moved. The tape on the lid had a gray smear through its center, as though someone had pressed a thumb into it while it was still warm. One corner had been crushed. A narrow gap showed where the cardboard had started to separate, but the inner paper remained intact.
I took out my phone.
My hand trembled so badly that I had to brace the device against my palm. I photographed the box from the front, then from above. I captured the blue paint, the crushed corner, the wrinkled tape, and Ainsley’s hand still hovering beside the seal. I took another picture of the storage area, including the flowered programs and the stacked crates, so its location could not be mistaken later.
Galen looked at the phone, then at me. His expression gave nothing away, but he remained in the corridor.
I opened the notes application and typed the time, the location, and the condition of the container. I wrote that it had been found among wedding materials, that the tape was disturbed, and that I had been prevented from opening it. I added the blue paint mark and the crushed corner. Each detail felt too small to matter by itself. Together, they were the first account I had made that did not depend on anyone believing my memory.
Ainsley reached past Galen toward the box.
He caught her forearm before she could touch it and lowered her hand. The movement was controlled, immediate, and final. He did not open the lid for me. He did not move the tape. He only kept her from taking it.
A figure appeared at the far end of the corridor, partly hidden by the swinging service door. Ainsley turned toward the sound. Her eyes went to the box, and then to the door.
The box was no longer safe where it stood.
Before I could place my hand on it, Ainsley hooked her fingers under the lower edge and pulled. The cardboard dragged across the floor, leaving a pale line in the dust. Galen shifted to block her, but she released it rather than fight him.
The container slid behind the garment bags, out of direct sight.
May you like
I photographed the new position.
The lid stayed sealed. The contents stayed unknown. I still did not have the locket, but now I had a record of where the rest of my mother’s things had been found—and proof that someone had tried to move them before I could look inside.
Related Stories
