A cold dread, heavy and absolute, coiled in my gut. I knew that camisole.
My closest friend of twelve years, Claire, had shown it to me just weeks earlier. We’d been sitting at a dimly lit corner table at Bistro Vendôme after her engagement dinner.
She’d laughed, cheeks flushed with wine and excitement, as she pulled the delicate fabric from a boutique bag and held it against her chest.
“Owen paid a ridiculous amount for this,” she’d whispered, leaning across the table with a conspiratorial grin. “I’m saving it for our honeymoon.”
Claire was supposed to be at her corporate office. Damon was supposed to be at a site inspection for his construction firm. Yet here was her honeymoon lingerie, discarded like trash on my bedroom floor.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but a strange, terrifying calm washed over my exterior. I slowly scanned the room. The en-suite door stood wide open, revealing empty space.
The hallway behind me was clear. There was only one place left.
My walk-in closet.
