Chapter 6: My Mother's Missing Ledger
I didn't sleep.
I sat on the floor beside my bed until the sky outside my window turned pale gray, staring at the photograph of my mother and Celeste.
The woman in the picture looked younger, perhaps twenty-five. Her hair was shorter, her smile wider, and the silver crescent pendant rested against the collar of her blouse.
My mother stood beside her with one hand on a sewing table.
They looked like friends.
Not enemies.
Not two women connected by a secret serious enough that my mother had written a warning about it.
I turned the photograph over again.
The night everything changed. Never trust Celeste with the truth.
My mother's handwriting was unmistakable.
I traced the words with my fingertip.
"What happened?"" I whispered.
The room offered no answer.
I opened the first notebook.
The pages were filled with sketches of theatrical costumes, measurements, fabric calculations, and notes about clients. Some designs were familiar. Others looked like experiments my mother had never finished.
I searched for the word Celeste.
Nothing.
I tried the next notebook.
Then the next.
At seven fifteen, my father knocked on the door.
"Nia? Can I come in?""
I closed the notebook.
"Yeah.""
He entered carrying two mugs of hot chocolate.
He placed one beside me and looked at the open box.
"Your mom's things?""
I nodded.
"I found something last night.""
I showed him the photograph.
His face changed immediately.
"Where did you get this?""
"It was inside an envelope with a note.""
He took the picture carefully.
"That's Celeste.""
"You know her?""
"Of course. She and your mother worked together years ago. They were close for a while.""
"How close?""
He sat on the edge of the bed.
"Close enough that your mother trusted her with some of her designs. They were planning to open a small costume studio together.""
I looked at the photograph.
"What happened?""
My father rubbed his forehead.
"I don't know all the details. Your mother stopped talking about Celeste after a disagreement. She said she'd been betrayed, but she never explained exactly how.""
"Did she ever mention a red ledger?""
He looked at me.
"A what?""
I showed him the note.
He read it twice.
"No. I've never heard of it.""
I pulled out the other notebooks and searched through the pages again.
"Maybe it's in here.""
My father helped me examine the boxes, opening envelopes and checking the labels on old folders.
We found invoices, fabric samples, and photographs from costume exhibitions.
But no red ledger.
At eight thirty, my father checked his phone.
"I have to go to work, but I'll call Detective Lee before I leave. You shouldn't investigate this alone.""
"I know.""
He hesitated.
"Nia, there's something else I need to tell you.""
I looked up.
"When your mother died, I was so overwhelmed that I let a lot of things go untouched. There were boxes in storage I never opened. Papers I didn't understand. I thought I'd have time to deal with them later.""
His voice broke slightly.
"I should've gone through everything with you.""
I shook my head.
"You were grieving too, Dad.""
He reached for my hand.
"If someone has been using your mother's work or threatening you because of something she knew, we're going to find out.""
After he left, I called Harper.
She answered sounding half asleep.
"Nia? It's eight in the morning.""
"I need your help.""
"Is this about the fire?""
"Partly.""
I told her about the photograph, Celeste, and the red ledger.
By the time I finished, Harper was completely awake.
"Your mom knew Celeste was dangerous?""
"I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out.""
"Okay. What do you need me to do?""
"Can you come over? I don't want to go through these notebooks alone.""
Twenty minutes later, Harper arrived carrying a backpack full of snacks and a laptop.
She sat cross-legged on the floor and examined the photograph.
"She looks like someone who'd own a suspiciously large collection of black turtlenecks," she said.
I stared at her.
"That's your contribution?""
"I'm trying to keep you from having a nervous breakdown.""
Despite everything, I laughed.
Then Harper became serious.
"All right. Let's start with what we know. Celeste worked with your mom.
Something happened. Your mom warned you about her, and now someone has put a message in your costume about your mother knowing what they did.""
"That's all we know.""
"And someone wanted you to lose the competition.""
"Yes.""
Harper opened her laptop.
"Then let's see what Celeste has been doing.""
We searched her public profiles.
Celeste owned a small design consultancy that specialized in theatrical wardrobes and special-event costumes. She'd worked with local theaters, fashion exhibitions, and several schools.
Her business website displayed photographs of elaborate costumes.
One of them looked strangely familiar.
It was a black-and-silver gown with enormous feathered wings.
I leaned closer.
"That's almost my design.""
Harper clicked the image.
The page listed the costume as The Ashen Seraph, created four years earlier for a regional fashion exhibition.
My stomach tightened.
The bodice had the same curved silver embroidery I'd drawn in my sketchbook. The wing arrangement was similar, too, although the feathers were arranged in a different pattern.
"Maybe it's just a coincidence," Harper said.
I looked at the photograph again.
Then I opened my mother's notebooks and found a sketch of a similar design.
The date was written in the corner.
Six years earlier.
I placed the two images side by side.
My mother's sketch had the same wing shape, the same curved lines along the bodice, and the same unusual arrangement of silver crystals.
Harper stared at them.
"Okay. That's not a coincidence.""
I searched the website for the name of the exhibition.
An article appeared in the results.
Local Designer Celeste Ward Wins Prestigious Costume Award.
The article included a photograph of Celeste accepting a trophy beneath a banner displaying the name of a famous regional theater.
The caption credited her with creating The Ashen Seraph.
There was no mention of my mother.
I felt sick.
"She stole it.""
Harper looked at the notebooks.
"It looks like she copied your mom's design, but we need more evidence before we can say exactly what happened.""
I knew she was right.
Still, the similarities were undeniable.
I turned another page in my mother's notebook.
A small piece of paper fell out.
It was a receipt from a storage facility, dated two months before my mother died.
The unit number was written in blue ink.
Beside it, my mother had added a note.
Red ledger. Keep safe until the truth is ready.
I grabbed my phone.
The storage facility was still operating.
My father had never mentioned it.
I called him immediately.
He answered from his car.
"Nia?""
"I found a storage receipt in Mom's notebook.""
There was a pause.
"Which facility?""
I read him the name and unit number.
"I remember that place," he said.
"Your mother rented a unit there for her work materials. After she died, I thought everything had been transferred to our garage.""
"Did you check?""
"I thought I had.""
"Could something still be there?""
"Possibly.""
He went quiet.
"Don't go there alone. I'll meet you after work, and we'll speak to the manager.""
I agreed, though waiting felt impossible.
At noon, Detective Lee called.
She confirmed that the costume from the photograph had been located in a storage room used by a local production company.
The police had also identified the unknown number as a prepaid phone, but they were still investigating who had used it.
"Did you find anything else?"" she asked.
I told her about Celeste and the photograph in my mother's envelope.
Detective Lee listened carefully.
"That's relevant, especially if the person involved in the incident had access to your costume. But don't approach Celeste yourself. Let us determine whether she has any connection to the events at school.""
"What about Brianna?""
"We've located her.""
My heart jumped.
"She's safe?""
"Physically, yes. She's staying with a relative while we continue the investigation.""
"Did she tell you who sent those messages?""
"She's given us some information, but we're still verifying it.""
"Can I speak to her?""
"Not right now. If she wants to contact you, let us know before responding.""
The call ended.
I sat quietly for several minutes.
Brianna was alive.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I felt as if I'd been handed another locked door.
At four thirty, my father returned home.
We drove to the storage facility together.
It stood behind a row of warehouses on the edge of town, its corrugated metal buildings stained by years of rain. The manager checked the old records and confirmed that the unit was still registered under my mother's name.
"Nobody has accessed it in years," he said.
He led us down a narrow corridor and unlocked the door.
The metal shutter rattled upward.
Inside were cardboard boxes, garment bags, two dress forms, and a long wooden worktable.
Dust covered everything.
My father stepped inside slowly.
"She kept more here than I remembered.""
I moved toward the boxes.
One was labeled Winter Collection. Another contained old theater programs and fabric samples.
Then I saw it.
A narrow red book, tucked inside a metal filing cabinet.
My hands trembled as I pulled it out.
The cover was worn, and the corners had begun to peel.
A small label on the front read:
*CARTER-WARD STUDIO — ORIGINAL DESIGNS AND CONTRACTS*
My father stood behind me.
"That's it.""
I opened the ledger.
The first pages contained lists of materials and client payments.
Then came sketches, dated contracts, and handwritten notes about designs submitted to exhibitions.
Halfway through, I found a page marked with a black star.
Beside it was a photograph of the same silver-and-black costume we'd seen online.
My mother's handwriting appeared beneath it.
Original design by Margaret Carter. Submitted jointly with Celeste Ward. Celeste removed the original sketches and entered the design under her own name.
I felt my pulse pounding in my ears.
There were signatures beneath the entry.
My mother's.
And Celeste's.
But the next page was even worse.
It contained a photocopy of a letter from the exhibition committee, dated six years earlier.
The letter stated that the winning designer would receive a substantial grant to establish a professional costume studio.
The grant had been awarded to Celeste.
My mother had written a final note beneath the letter.
She didn't just steal my design. She stole the future we planned together.
I looked at my father.
"Why didn't you tell me?""
He shook his head, visibly shaken.
"I never knew this existed.""
I turned another page.
A list of names filled the bottom half of the paper.
Several belonged to theater directors and exhibition judges.
One belonged to a woman named Vanessa Hale.
My stepmother.
I stared at the name.
Beside it, my mother had written:
Vanessa knows where the missing sketches went.
The room seemed to tilt.
My father took the ledger from me and read the entry.
His face drained of color.
"Vanessa?""
Before either of us could speak, my phone vibrated.
A message had arrived from an unknown number.
There was no greeting.
No explanation.
Only a photograph of the open storage unit, taken from outside the doorway.
Beneath it were eight words.
*You found the ledger. Now ask your father why.*
I looked up at him.
May you like
He was staring at the message.
And for the first time since the fire, my father looked as though he was hiding something from me.
