W noc przed moimi 50. urodzinami mój zmarły ojciec ukazał mi się we śnie. Stanął w drzwiach mojego pokoju w Atlancie w szarym swetrze, który mu wydziergałam, i powiedział trzy razy: „Liv, nie zakładaj sukienki po mężu”. Niecałe 24 godziny później byłam w szpitalnym laboratorium, wpatrując się w biały proszek, który właśnie wycięłam z tej szmaragdowej sukni, podczas gdy moja przyjaciółka w białym fartuchu powiedziała mi, że to trucizna kontaktowa, która „wyglądałaby jak problem z sercem na twojej imprezie

The closet door swung open. The dress hung there, serene and gleaming.

I reached out and ran my fingertips over the fabric.

What could be wrong with you?

Maybe if I just looked more carefully. Maybe if I proved to myself there was nothing strange.

I took the dress down and laid it out on the bed. I sat beside it, bending close to examine every seam, every stitch. The work was immaculate. No loose threads, no crooked lines.

I turned the dress over and pressed my palm along the lining. The silk felt smooth.

Then my hand passed over the area near the waist seam.

I frowned.

It felt…thicker there. Just slightly. As if something were sandwiched between the layers.

I ran my fingers over it again, slower this time.

Yes. Definitely thicker.

My heartbeat quickened.

Maybe it’s just reinforcement, I told myself. Sometimes tailors double up fabric in stress points so things don’t tear. That’s all.

But my father’s voice cut through that logic.

Don’t wear the dress from your husband.

I stood, turned on the desk lamp for brighter light, and held the dress up, trying to see anything through the fabric. The emerald shimmered, stubbornly opaque.

I laid it back down, pressing at the suspicious spot.

Something thin and flat was there. It crinkled faintly under my touch.

My mouth went dry.

I sat back down on the edge of the bed and pressed my hands over my face.

If I was wrong, I’d ruin the dress and have to explain everything to Mark. I’d sound irrational, ungrateful.

If I was right…

I saw my father in the doorway again. The look in his eyes. The way he’d repeated the words.

He never repeated himself without a reason.

The decision landed quietly inside me.

I opened the top drawer of my dresser and took out the small pair of sewing scissors I used to trim loose threads from sweaters.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Okay.”

I turned the dress inside out and spread it carefully on the bed. I found the place where the lining felt thicker, in the side seam close to the waist, exactly where almost no one would ever touch.

My hands shook as I slid the tip of the scissors under a single stitch.

“Just a peek,” I told myself. “Just enough to see.”

I snipped.

The thread gave with a soft pop. I worked slowly, loosening a few more stitches, creating a small slit in the silk lining. I tried not to damage the main fabric beneath.

My fingers were trembling so badly that I had to stop twice, laying the scissors down and breathing deeply before picking them up again.

When the opening was finally wide enough, I pressed my fingers gently against the inner layer.

The lining shifted.

Something white spilled onto the dark bedspread.

I froze.

It looked like flour at first. Or powdered sugar. A little cascade of fine, white powder dusted the fabric in a small fan.

It kept trickling out for another second. Maybe a teaspoon total. Maybe less. Maybe more. I couldn’t think clearly enough to judge.

No smell.

No clumping.

Just white.

My heart thundered in my ears.

What is this?

Why would anything be sewn into my dress?

My mind raced to the most harmless explanations—scented powder, some kind of fabric treatment—but they collapsed almost as fast as I built them.

Someone had deliberately sewn this into a hidden place.

Someone.

Mark ordered the dress.

My legs felt weak. I backed away from the bed, dropping the scissors onto the nightstand. My breathing turned shallow, my chest tight.

This can’t be happening.

I walked to the nightstand and grabbed my phone, my thumb struggling to hit the right contact.

Iris.

My friend from church and book club. The one who worked as a chemist in a hospital lab in the city. The one who always joked that if I ever needed a blood test interpreted, she was my girl.

The phone rang twice.

“Hey, Liv,” she answered. “What’s up?”

“Iris,” I said, startled by how strange my own voice sounded, thin and high. “Can you talk right now?”

There was a pause.

“You okay?” she asked immediately. “You sound…off.”

“I—I need your help.” I glanced at the bed, at the tiny cloud of white on the duvet. “Right now.”

Her tone shifted, all warmth replaced by a steady, professional calm.

“What happened? Where are you?”

“I’m at home.” I swallowed. “I found some white powder in my dress. It was sewn into the lining. I don’t know what it is, but I’m really scared.”

Silence hummed for a few seconds.

“Which dress?” she asked quietly.

“The one Mark ordered for my birthday,” I whispered.

Another pause. Longer.

“Liv, listen to me very carefully,” Iris said at last. Her voice was firmer, controlled. “Don’t touch that powder anymore. At all. If you touched it with bare hands, go wash them right now—soap and water, several times. Then put the dress in a plastic bag and seal it. Take a small amount of the powder and put it in a separate bag, but only while wearing gloves. Do you have gloves at home?”

“Yes,” I said. “Rubber gloves. For dishes.”

“They’ll work,” she replied. “Collect a sample carefully and bring it to the lab. I’m on shift now. Come as soon as you can.”

“Iris, you’re scaring me,” I whispered.

“I’m not trying to. But this could be anything—from something harmless to something we don’t want near your skin. We just need to know. Get your hands washed, grab what you need, and get here.”

We hung up.

I went straight to the bathroom. I turned the water on hot, pumped soap into my hands, and scrubbed like I was trying to erase the last hour. I rinsed, soaped up again, scrubbed until my skin stung, then rinsed once more.

When I finally turned off the tap, my hands were red and shaking.

I dried them on a clean towel and went back to the bedroom.

The dress lay on the bed, inside out, the slit in the lining gaping slightly, a dusting of white on the dark duvet.

I forced myself to move.

In the kitchen, I grabbed a pair of yellow rubber gloves from under the sink, a roll of small resealable bags we used for snacks, and a large plastic trash bag.

Back in the bedroom, I pulled on the gloves and knelt carefully by the bed. Using two fingers, I scooped a small amount of powder into one of the tiny bags and sealed it shut. Even through the gloves, I felt like my skin was too close.

Then I lifted the dress, trying not to shake it, and slid it into the large trash bag. I tied it tightly at the top.

I peeled off the gloves and dropped them in another bag, then walked to the bathroom and washed my hands again.

Five minutes later, I was dressed, the sample bag in my purse, the trash bag with the dress in the trunk of my car.

The drive to the hospital lab on Maple Street felt like it was happening to someone else. Traffic lights changed from red to green, cars moved and stopped, radio commercials played if I forgot to turn the dial down, but none of it fully registered.

I parked, grabbed my purse, and walked into the building.

Iris met me at the entrance, already waiting in her white lab coat, her ID badge clipped near her shoulder.

“Give it here,” she said softly.

I handed her the small bag of powder.

“Wait right here,” she said, her eyes serious in a way that made the hallway feel colder. “I’ll run a quick preliminary test.”

She disappeared through a door marked STAFF ONLY.

I leaned against the pale green wall and stared at a poster about handwashing and flu season. The second hand on the wall clock jerked forward, one tiny jump at a time.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

I walked toward the lab door, about to knock, when it opened.

Iris stepped out.

She looked like someone had drained the color from her face.

“Let’s go talk in my office,” she said quietly.

We walked down the hallway to a small room at the end. She closed the door behind us and gestured to a chair.

I sat.

My hands were shaking again.

She sat opposite me, folded her hands on the desk, and took a breath.

“Liv,” she said carefully, “this isn’t talc or cornstarch. It’s not anything harmless from a sewing room.”

“What is it?” I whispered.

“I did an express test.” She hesitated. “It indicated the presence of toxic compounds. To figure out exactly what it is, we’ll need a full analysis with more time, but I can tell you with certainty—it’s a type of poison.”

The word hung in the air between us.

Poison.

My brain refused to process it.

I blinked.

“What do you mean?” My voice sounded far away.