I hurried up the steps, the heavy box tucked under my arm, my keys clinking against the brass lock.
The house smelled of morning coffee and old wood. I ran up the stairs to our bedroom, my heart rate rising with every step.
I opened the heavy oak wardrobe, pushing aside Damon’s gray suits and my own row of beige cardigans.
At the very back, behind a stack of winter blankets we had not used in years, there was a dark, narrow space where the floorboards met the wall.
I slid the gray box into the corner, covering it with a wool shawl.
If Damon found it, he would ask why I needed to draw attention to myself, his voice calm and reasonable while he made the dress seem like a foolish mistake.
I closed the wardrobe door slowly, ensuring the latch clicked shut.
