Chapter 4: The Sketchbook in Her Handbag
“Security just found the original sketchbook in Mrs. Walker’s handbag.””
The words seemed to drain every sound from the backstage corridor.
I turned toward the security officer standing beside Vanessa. He held a small black notebook in a clear evidence sleeve. Its corners were worn, its spine cracked, and a faded silver butterfly had been drawn across the front cover.
My mother's sketchbook.
I hadn't seen it in five years.
Vanessa stood motionless, clutching her designer handbag against her hip. The confident woman who had ordered me to stop making accusations that morning suddenly looked like someone caught standing over a grave.
“That's not mine,” she said sharply.
The security officer glanced at the bag.
“Ma'am, we found it in the inside compartment.””
“You must have put it there.””
“Mrs. Walker,” Rebecca Harrison said, approaching with the competition director, “please step away from the bag.””
Vanessa laughed, but the sound came out thin and strained.
“This is ridiculous. My daughter is about to compete for a life-changing scholarship, and you're allowing this girl to manufacture a scandal.””
I stared at the notebook.
“Where did you find it?””
Vanessa's eyes snapped toward me.
“I don't know what you're talking about.””
“That's my mother's sketchbook.””
“You've never seen that before.””
“I recognize the butterfly on the cover.””
“You're imagining things.””
I took a step closer.
“You told me her sketchbooks were lost when we moved. You said they were gone forever.””
Vanessa's fingers tightened around her handbag strap.
“Emily, stop.””
“Did you steal it from our house?””
She leaned toward me, lowering her voice so only I could hear.
“You have absolutely no idea what your mother left behind.””
Before I could respond, Rebecca intervened.
“Mrs. Walker, I need you to answer one question. Did you bring this notebook to the competition?””
“No.””
“Then you won't object to our examining it.””
“Of course I object! It's private property.””
Rebecca held her gaze.
“Whose property?””
Vanessa opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
The silence was more revealing than any confession.
The security officer placed the notebook on the registration table. Rebecca put on a pair of disposable gloves and carefully opened the cover.
The first page carried my mother's full name in her elegant handwriting.
*Elizabeth Anne Miller. Original Designs. 2018–2021.*
Below it was a handwritten dedication.
For Emily, who sees beauty even in broken things. May you always create something the world cannot take away from you.
My knees nearly buckled.
I reached for the table, gripping its edge.
My mother had written those words when I was twelve. I remembered sitting beside her in the hospital, drawing butterflies on the corners of her appointment cards while she tried to pretend she wasn't frightened.
I'd never known she'd written me a dedication.
Rebecca turned another page.
Sketches filled the notebook. Gowns with sculptural sleeves. Dresses constructed from translucent layers. Intricate butterfly patterns that appeared to move across the paper.
Then we reached the midnight-blue gown.
My original design.
Every measurement was there. Every stitch placement. Every note about the silver embroidery and the asymmetrical draping I had eventually added during the reconstruction.
But something else caught my eye.
A photograph had been taped inside the page.
It showed my mother standing beside a younger Rebecca Harrison in a fashion studio. They were smiling in front of a dress form displaying the very same butterfly motif.
On the back, my mother had written a date and three words.
First collection meeting.
Rebecca stared at the photograph.
“Elizabeth,” she whispered.
I looked at her.
“You really knew her.””
Rebecca nodded slowly.
“She was preparing to launch her first independent collection. The butterfly designs were going to be the centerpiece.””
“What happened?””
Before Rebecca could answer, Vanessa stepped forward.
“This is completely irrelevant to today's competition.””
Rebecca didn't even look at her.
“It's extremely relevant if the designs were previously registered.””
She turned another page.
A folded document slipped from the notebook and landed on the table.
Patricia Lewis picked it up.
Her expression changed as she read the heading.
“It's a design ownership agreement.””
Vanessa lunged forward.
“Give me that!””
The security officer stepped between them.
“Ma'am, please remain where you are.””
Patricia read the document aloud.
“Under the terms of this agreement, the original designs remain the exclusive intellectual property of Elizabeth Miller. Upon her death, ownership transfers to her named beneficiary, Emily Miller.””
My heart pounded.
“I'm the beneficiary?””
Patricia checked the signature at the bottom.
“Yes. The document appears to have been signed and witnessed.””
Vanessa shook her head furiously.
“That paper is meaningless. Elizabeth was sick. She wasn't thinking clearly.””
Rebecca's expression hardened.
“Are you suggesting your own actions were justified because she was dying?””
“I'm saying she made promises she couldn't keep!””
“What promises?”” I demanded.
Vanessa turned toward me.
For a moment, I saw something in her eyes that looked almost like hatred.
“Your mother promised me a share of her collection.””
The words fell between us.
Rebecca frowned.
“I was present at Elizabeth's final collection meeting. She never agreed to transfer ownership of her designs to you.””
Vanessa's lips parted.
Rebecca continued.
“She told me she wanted her daughter to inherit everything.””
I couldn't breathe.
My mother had protected me even after she was gone.
And Vanessa had spent three years trying to take it away.
Madison appeared at the end of the corridor, still wearing her stolen gown. Her makeup was perfect, but her eyes were wide with panic.
“Mom? What's happening?””
Vanessa immediately turned toward her.
“Go back to the dressing room.””
“Security says they found Grandma Elizabeth's sketchbook in your bag.””
Madison looked at me.
Then at the notebook.
Then at the judges.
“Mom, you told me that sketchbook was yours.””
The corridor went silent.
Vanessa's face changed.
“Madison, not another word.””
“But you said Emily's mother gave you the designs!””
“Enough!””
Madison flinched.
I stared at my stepsister.
She had known about the stolen dress. She had helped destroy it. But now I wondered whether she had also been deceived about the designs themselves.
That didn't excuse what she'd done.
It only made the truth more complicated.
Rebecca closed the notebook.
“Today's competition will proceed after the judges review this evidence. Mrs. Walker, you will remain available for questioning.””
Vanessa looked toward the stage, where the audience waited.
“You can't do this to me.””
Rebecca's voice was calm.
“We haven't done anything to you. We're examining evidence.””
Then she turned to me.
“Emily, there's one more thing you need to see.””
She opened the notebook to the final page.
A sealed envelope had been tucked inside the back cover. My name was written across it in my mother's handwriting.
The envelope had never been opened.
My hands trembled as I reached for it.
Then Vanessa screamed.
“DON'T YOU DARE OPEN THAT!””
Everyone turned toward her.
May you like
And for the first time since my mother's death, I understood that the most dangerous secret in that house had never been the stolen dress.
It was whatever my mother had written inside that envelope.
