It was difficult to relax when scenes of murderous rage—starring Sylvia Rockfort with me as the victim—kept flitting through my mind. Lorea had called Sylvia, hoping to schedule an appointment for Tuesday, but Sylvia insisted on coming first thing Monday morning. If the dress hadn’t turned up by then, we would have to tell her. And there was the other problem concerning a certain quilt in my living room, but I wasn’t thinking about that right now. It all felt too overwhelming.
At fifteen minutes to six, I sat at my kitchen table trying to reconstruct some of the details from Natalie’s stolen wedding binder. My fingers kept wandering to a loose string near the hem of my minidress, or extra-long shirt, depending on who was describing the outfit—my mother or me. With black leggings under the
