Page 24 of Her Dark Lies
I look at myself in the mirror, the transformation from girl to woman, bride to wife, hitting me. I finger the pearls around my neck, so happy I chose the bateau neckline for the dress. The pearls, nestled against my throat, complete it perfectly. The next time I put on this dress, it will be to walk down the aisle to marry Jack.
Tickled with how I look, I twist and swirl, and as the skirt moves, I hear twin gasps from behind me.
“What is that?” Henna says, and there is horror in her voice.
“What’s what?” I look over my shoulder, trying to see, but by the look on Henna’s face, I know it’s bad.
“Hold still,” Henna commands, and I freeze in place. I feel them pulling at the layers of satin and tulle, the seamstress letting out little mewling gasps like a blind kitten removed from her mother’s side for the first time.
“What is it, Henna?” I twist my neck around and catch a glimpse of something red.That’s not right, my mind helpfully provides.There isn’t anything red in my dress.
“Oh no, my foot must still be bleeding. I stepped on some glass. Is it ruined? Can we get it out?”
“Take it off,” Henna demands. The seamstress unbuttons the few she’s finished, and I step out of the dress.
Henna has a hand to her mouth. She has gone quite pale. “Oh, Claire. No, this isn’t from your foot. I am so sorry. I don’t know what happened. Maybe something leaked in the storage bag?”
She finally lets me see.
There is a wide slash of what looks like dark crimson paint across the back interior fold of my dress.
My heart is hammering, trying to burst from my chest. We lay the dress on the bed reverently, the three of us gentling the fabric like it’s a spooked horse. Pieces of the red fall off onto my hand.
The stain is not paint. It’s putting off a disgusting, musty odor, and bits flake off onto the floor.
It is blood.
And it spells out a ragged, blurry word.
WHORE
15
Panic at the Disco
The cry I let out must sound quite pained because Henna grabs me, pulls me into a tight embrace. “Shh, shh, shh. We’ll figure something out. Perhaps we can sew the panels together—”
She’s smothering me, and I fight to get loose. She lets me go so suddenly I stumble into a small marble-topped table, causing all the incidental items to fall on the floor. The seamstress dives for them, clearly grateful for something to do.
When I right myself, I can barely look at my dress. “I can’t get married in a dress that has that nasty bloody word on it, Henna. No.”
“Then we’ll cut the damage free, create some sort of bustle. It will change the line of the dress, yes, but—”
“Stop. No. The dress is ruined. Throw it away.”
I want to ask her who had access to it, how she could let this happen,why why why why why, but I bite my tongue. As far as I know, the dress has been in three places until now—my house, the salon of the seamstress in Nashville, and here, but trust me, when I gave over the dress to Henna, it hadn’t been defiled. Henna had come to collect it in Nashville last week, and she’s been in charge of it since. But accusing her of letting this happen isn’t going to solve the problem.
You’re being awfully logical, Claire. It’s okay to have feelings about this.
I don’t particularly like having feelings. It’s not that I avoid them, it’s only that strong emotion makes me feel weak, and that kick-starts my panic.
Breathe, Claire.
I breathe.
Henna paces.
The seamstress, pale and shaking, having retrieved the table’s baubles from the floor, rebags the dress. She disappears into the hall with a whisper of fabric before she can be blamed for this fiasco.
