Chapter 16: The Things Piper Took

My lawyer called me the next morning.

“June, we found something.”

I sat up straight in my chair.

“What is it?”

“The sewing box.”

My heart stopped for a second.

“Where was it?”

“In Piper’s car.”

I gripped the edge of my desk.

“How did it get there?”

“That's what we're trying to determine.”

He explained that the property manager had photographed every vehicle on the driveway during the inventory inspection. Piper's car had been parked behind the garage.

The sewing box was visible through the rear window.

“There’s more,” my lawyer continued.

“The jewelry box was found in the master bedroom closet, inside one of Piper’s suitcases.”

I closed my eyes.

She hadn't accidentally taken them.

She had packed them.

“What about the photographs?” I asked.

“We're still looking.”

I was quiet for a moment.

Then I said, “I want everything returned before they leave the property.”

“That's the plan.”

After we hung up, I stared at my mother's photograph on my desk.

The sewing box wasn't worth much money.

It was a small wooden box with scratches along the lid and a brass clasp that never closed properly.

My mother had kept needles, thread, buttons, and scraps of lace inside it.

When I was a child, I used to sit beside her while she sewed.

She would let me sort the buttons by color.

I could still remember the sound of her scissors cutting fabric.

The box was one of the last things that made those memories feel real.

And Piper had taken it.

That afternoon, my lawyer sent me photographs from the property inspection.

There it was.

My mother's sewing box sat inside an open suitcase.

Beside it was the jewelry box.

The photograph made something inside me go cold.

Then I noticed something else.

A corner of white fabric was sticking out from beneath the sewing box.

I zoomed in.

It wasn't the wedding dress.

It was a piece of lace.

The same lace my mother had used around the neckline.

I immediately called my lawyer.

“That lace,” I said. “Can you ask the inspector to photograph it?”

A few minutes later, another picture arrived.

The lace had been carefully folded.

It hadn't been burned.

Piper had lied.

The part of the dress she claimed was destroyed had apparently been saved.

I leaned back in my chair.

Why?

Why would she burn some of it and keep the rest?

Then another thought crossed my mind.

Maybe she hadn't wanted to destroy the dress.

Maybe she wanted something from it.

I opened my old photo folder and searched through the pictures of my mother wearing it.

There was one photograph I had almost forgotten.

My mother was standing in front of the mirror, holding the back of the dress open.

The lace pattern was clearly visible.

But near the waistline was something else.

A small embroidered symbol.

Three tiny roses arranged around a letter.

I zoomed in until the image became blurry.

The letter was an M.

My mother's initial.

I remembered something she once told me.

“Every piece of this dress has a story.”

At the time, I thought she meant the embroidery.

Now I wasn't so sure.

I called my lawyer again.

“I need you to preserve that lace exactly as it is.”

“Why?”

“Because I think my mother hid something in the dress.”

There was a pause.

“June, are you saying there may be something sewn into it?”

“I don't know.”

I looked at the photograph again.

“But my mother never did anything without a reason.”

That evening, Grant sent me a message.

For the first time in weeks, I opened it.

“Piper says you’re taking everything too far.”

A second message followed.

“She only took a few sentimental things because she thought they belonged to the family.”

Then came the sentence that made my blood run cold.

“You should stop digging before you embarrass yourself.”

I read it twice.

Then I smiled.

Because if they were telling me to stop digging, there was only one reason.

They were afraid of what I might find.

I typed a reply.

“Don't worry, Grant.”

“I'm just getting started.”

Then I blocked him again.

The next morning, I drove to my lawyer's office.

On his desk was my mother's sewing box.

For the first time since the wedding, I touched something that belonged to her without feeling like it had been taken away from me.

I opened the lid.

Inside were old needles, faded thread, tiny buttons, and several scraps of lace.

My fingers stopped on one particular piece.

It had the same three-rose pattern from the wedding dress.

And stitched into the center was the letter M.

My lawyer looked at me.

“What does it mean?”

I shook my head.

“I don't know yet.”

But I knew one thing.

Whatever my mother had hidden in that dress, Piper had been looking for it.

And suddenly, the wedding wasn't just about replacing me.

There was something else going on.