I had never gotten along with Margaret. From the moment Lily and Ethan announced their engagement, she made it clear she disapproved. She thought Lily wasn’t “polished” enough, that her family wasn’t wealthy enough, that marrying her son would be a step down.
On more than one occasion, she had told me directly that the marriage would “ruin Ethan’s prospects.” The words stung, but I brushed them off for Lily’s sake. Now, looking at her cool composure amid the hysteria, I began to wonder.
While others argued, I slipped out of the room and went downstairs. The house was crowded, but I knew how to move unnoticed; years of being the quiet grandmother had taught me that people rarely paid attention when you weren’t loud.
I searched the laundry room, the closets, and the kitchen drawers. Nothing. Then, in the garage, tucked behind a stack of boxes, I found it: a pair of scissors, their blades glinting, smeared faintly with white threads and specks of satin.
I picked them up with trembling hands. My chest tightened. This was no random act; it was sabotage. And the person who had done it had been in this house.
