Chapter 15: The Dress Fitting

I stood in front of the mirror in the main bedroom, my chest heaving. The notation on the deed was clear: *Sole Survivorship.* That meant one person walked away from that house in Nevada, and the other didn't.

And Richard wasn't the one who died.

"Elena?"

I jumped, nearly dropping my phone. Eleanor was in the doorway, flanked by Catherine. They were both staring at me.

"We have the fitting for the gala," Eleanor said, her voice dripping with impatience. "The seamstress has been waiting for twenty minutes."

"I... I lost track of time."

I looked at Catherine. She was back in her role—shoulders slumped, eyes vacant, hands twisting the fabric of her skirt. But I knew better now. I knew about the Cayman accounts. I knew about the keyboard.

We walked down the hall to the guest suite where the seamstress had set up shop. The room was filled with racks of silk and tulle, the air heavy with the smell of steam and expensive perfume.

Eleanor took charge immediately, barking orders at the poor woman with the pins. Catherine stood silently on the dais, letting herself be draped in emerald silk. She looked like a doll, pliant and lifeless.

"Hold still, dear," Eleanor snapped. "You're trembling."

I sat in the corner, pretending to check emails on my phone. But my camera was open. I zoomed in on Catherine’s reflection in the tri-fold mirror.

Her eyes weren't vacant. They were darting around the room, tracking Eleanor’s movements. Calculating.

"Elena," Eleanor said, not turning around. "Put that phone away. It's rude."

"Just handling a crisis with the caterer," I lied, sliding the phone into my pocket.

"There are always crises," Eleanor sighed. "That's why we have you."

She moved to inspect the hem of Catherine’s dress. "Too long. Take it up an inch. We don't want her tripping."

As Eleanor bent down, Catherine’s gaze locked onto mine in the mirror. For a second, the mask dropped completely. Her expression was lucid, terrified, and desperate.

She mouthed something. I couldn't make it out.

Eleanor stood up. "Better. Now, turn around."

Catherine turned, the silk rustling like dry leaves. As she spun, she stumbled slightly, catching herself on the edge of the mirror.

"Clumsy," Eleanor muttered.

"I'm sorry," Catherine whispered. Her voice was raspy, unused.

Eleanor turned to grab a glass of water from the side table. In that brief window of distraction, Catherine looked at me again. This time, she didn't mouth it. She spoke, her voice barely a breath.

"Check the attic."

My blood went cold. The attic in the old wing. The one that was always locked.

"What did you say, Catherine?" Eleanor whipped around, the water glass sloshing over the rim.

Catherine froze. Her eyes went dead instantly, the light extinguishing as if someone had flipped a switch. She stared at the floor, her hands shaking.

"I said... I like the fabric," she mumbled.

Eleanor narrowed her eyes, scanning Catherine’s face, then mine. The silence stretched, tight as a piano wire.

"Of course you do," Eleanor said finally, her voice smooth but her eyes hard. "It's Italian."

She took a sip of water, never taking her gaze off me.

"We're done here," she announced. "Greta, take her back. And lock the door this time."