Lily had told her to leave, and security had escorted her out. It seemed like a simple answer: Hannah must have come back in the night, slipped in, and destroyed the dress out of spite.
But something about that didn’t sit right with me. The house had been locked, the alarms set. To get inside undetected would have required more than desperation; it would have required planning. And as much as I disliked Hannah, she didn’t strike me as clever enough for that kind of intrusion.
So I began to watch, quietly, while the rest of the family panicked. I noticed how Anne’s younger sister, my daughter-in-law, kept avoiding Lily’s eyes, her face pale and lips tight.
I noticed how one of the bridesmaids, Sophie, kept wringing her hands, whispering to another girl in frantic tones. And I noticed, most of all, that Ethan’s mother, Margaret, sat stiff and silent in the corner, her expression unreadable.
I had never gotten along with Margaret. From the moment Lily and Ethan announced their engagement, she made it clear she disapproved. She thought Lily wasn’t “polished” enough, that her family wasn’t wealthy enough, that marrying her son would be a step down.
On more than one occasion, she had told me directly that the marriage would “ruin Ethan’s prospects.” The words stung, but I brushed them off for Lily’s sake. Now, looking at her cool composure amid the hysteria, I began to wonder.
While others argued, I slipped out of the room and went downstairs. The house was crowded, but I knew how to move unnoticed; years of being the quiet grandmother had taught me that people rarely paid attention when you weren’t loud.
I searched the laundry room, the closets, and the kitchen drawers. Nothing. Then, in the garage, tucked behind a stack of boxes, I found it: a pair of scissors, their blades glinting, smeared faintly with white threads and specks of satin.
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