6. Inventory #2
Naomi bundled the tissue paper back into the bag.
She looped the string handles over her wrist and turned back toward the main hallway.
I pushed my palms flat against the chilled counter, bracing my weight against the smooth surface.
I slid off the tall barstool, dragging my boots against the tile to stall for a fraction of a second.
A deep ache pulled at my lower spine, but I ignored the pain.
I straightened my posture and followed her.
Naomi ascended the staircase first, her shoes clicking a sharp rhythm against the hardwood treads. I gripped the handrail and followed, the planks creaking under my shifting weight.
We crossed the threshold into the unfinished nursery. The sharp bite of fresh wall paint stung my nose, mixing with the dry heat pushing from the floor vents. Naomi stopped at the wooden changing table positioned beside the doorframe.
She dropped her glossy shopping bags onto the changing pad, her slender frame blocking the only exit. The dead-end layout forced me deeper into the room. I navigated around the bunched drop cloths covering the center of the hardwood floor.
“Watch your step on the loose canvas,” I said, pointing to a bunched corner near her boots. “The painters left a mess in here yesterday, and the edges are a tripping hazard.”
Naomi waved off the warning without bothering to look down at the floorboards.
I retreated to the far corner of the room and sank into the rocking chair.
I settled my spiral sketchpad flat across my lap, resting my palms against the cardboard cover.
Naomi rummaged through the shopping bag, pushing aside the crumpled tissue.
The thin material crinkled against the silence as she tossed it onto the changing pad.
“You are glowing right now, Naomi,” I said, forcing my tone to remain casual. “I don’t think I’ve seen you this excited in months.”
She offered a bright, practiced smile, her expression radiant under the overhead lights. Reaching back into the bag, she pulled out a tiny cotton shirt. She smoothed the fabric over her forearm, running her manicured fingers along the seams.
“I just couldn’t help myself,” she said. “When I saw the displays in the boutique window, I knew I had to clear out their inventory. She needs to have the best of everything.”
She played the role of the doting aunt flawlessly. The sight made my stomach turn. She laid claim to the clothes, preparing to raise a child she intended to steal from my corpse.
I pressed the heel of my palm hard against the wire binding of my sketchpad. The metal coils dug a rigid line into my skin. The sharp sting cut through the rising terror. I kept my breathing steady, watching her sort a stack of tiny socks on the mattress edge.
Naomi lifted a small garment into the light, holding it up by the tiny shoulders to admire the stitching.
“Look at this little yellow one,” Naomi said. “It is going to look so perfect on her. I can’t wait to dress her up.”
I can’t wait to dress her up.
The horrific reality of what she meant hung in the stifling air. I let my shoulders slump back against the wooden slats of the chair. I just needed to keep her talking and her hands busy.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Did they have it in the organic bamboo blend? We’re sourcing bamboo for the firm’s new line, and I really want to see how it holds up to a wash cycle.”
Naomi flipped the tiny collar back. Her thumbnail scraped against the white paper label sewn into the neckline.
“I think it’s just standard cotton, but I can check the tags. You’re always thinking about the business, aren’t you?”
I leaned forward in the seat, pretending to care about the seams to buy myself more time.
“Check the bottom of the bag for the receipt,” I said. “I want to verify their return policy on these knits.”
Naomi rummaged through the shopping bag, pushing aside the crumpled tissue. She retrieved the printed slip and set it on the changing pad. She picked up a green sweater and yanked at the paper tags. The sharp snap of the plastic fastener pierced the quiet room.
She began folding the tiny garments into neat squares, stacking them near the edge of the changing table. I watched her painted nails smooth the creases of the cotton.
“You’re stressing over inventory on your day off,” she said. “You need to let me and Warren handle the supply chain.”
I bet you would love that.
“It is hard to turn off the CEO mindset,” I said.
Naomi scooped up the stack of folded clothes. She stepped away from the changing table and walked toward the small closet across the room, leaving the doorway clear.
I forced myself to stand up, dropping the sketchpad onto the empty seat of the rocking chair. I pressed a hand flat against my lower back and winced.
“Honestly, standing here is making my back throb,” I said. “I think I need to go lie down in my room before the crew gets back.”
Naomi turned away from the closet shelves. Her expression shifted into one of deep, practiced concern.
“Of course, sweetie. You go rest. I’ll finish organizing the closet. You shouldn’t be on your feet anyway.”
I stepped out of the nursery. The sudden rush of a cool draft from the hallway washed over my skin, clearing the noxious sting of fresh paint from the air. My boots dragged against the floorboards as I walked down the corridor. I reached the master bedroom and slipped inside.
I closed the door and turned the lock. The mechanism engaged with a metallic click. I leaned my full weight back against the solid wood, using the rigid surface to steady my trembling legs. The charade was finally over. I had just stared a murderer in the face while discussing thread counts.
But I couldn’t stop seeing the black leather cover. I pictured the blue ink spelling out a despair I didn’t actually feel, flawlessly forged in my exact handwriting. He had spent hours tracing the loops of my letters, writing out his perfect alibi.
The threat wasn’t just a conversation overheard through a wall anymore; it was a physical weapon sitting in the drawer downstairs, waiting to be used.