She stands and walks past me toward the dressing area without another word.
Cold. Dismissive. As if the blackmail, the threats, the shove in the hallway, all of it belongs to some separate world she can step out of whenever she chooses.
I turn to pick up the backup timeline from the dresser where someone left it.
And then I see it.
For one second, I think my mind is playing tricks on me.
A handgun.
Small. Dark. Resting half under a folded wrap in the open top drawer of the dresser, like it was put there in a hurry or hidden badly or both.
My whole body goes cold.
I don’t react. I can’t. Not if I want to get out of this room without every nerve in my face giving me away.
So I pick up the paper I came for, close the drawer gently with my free hand as if I noticed nothing unusual at all, and turn back toward the room.
Camille is still in the dressing area, speaking to one of the bridesmaids about earrings.
No one is looking at me.
Good.
I force my legs to move normally and say, “Ten minutes.”
Camille doesn’t even turn. “Fine.”
I leave the room and close the door behind me. Then I stand in the hallway for one second, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shake my whole body.
What the hell was that?
I look down the corridor, then back at the closed door.
Something is going on here. Something much bigger than wedding drama and family politics and drunken scenes in hallways. And I don’t understand any of it.
I make myself keep walking. That’s the only way not to panic.
Down the stairs, through the side hall, past the powder room where two of the bridesmaids are laughing too loudly, out through the service doors and into the back part of the house where the caterers have set up.
The kitchen staff are already deep into the next phase of the day. Breakfast cleared. Lunch prep underway. Silverware being reset. Glasses counted. Someone arguing about ice. Someone else carrying a tray of pastries past my shoulder.
I find the catering supervisor near the plating table. He sees me and immediately looks guilty, which tells me yesterday has been replaying in his head all night too.
“Morning,” I say.
He gives me a tired nod. “Morning.”
“I need to ask you something about yesterday.”
His face tightens. “All right.”
“I’m not here to blame you,” I say, because he looks like he’s bracing for exactly that. “I just need details.”
That relaxes him a little.
“Fine,” he says. “What details?”