Liam was away. John was at work. I was upstairs alone when the smell reached me — sharp, burnt, wrong.
His door was locked.
I used a small screwdriver until the lock gave way, then pushed it open.
There was no fire, only a scorched power strip beside his desk. I yanked the cord from the wall.
Then I saw the photo.
The prom picture.
Livia smiling beside Liam, already hiding a secret.
My legs weakened, and I sank onto his yellow beanbag chair.
Something underneath me felt strange.
Too soft in one spot.
Too hard in another.
I flipped it over.
A long seam ran across the bottom, stitched with bright red thread.
Liam had never known how to sew.
But Livia had.
My hands trembled as I pulled the thread loose.
The fabric tore open.
First came pale blue satin.
Then my daughter’s prom dress slid into my lap.
