Chapter 46 · Uniform in the Closet

"You're not supposed to be in here." Joy's voice cut through the dark before the light did, and my hand froze inside the pocket of the old gray uniform, fingers wrapped around something hard and small.

"Neither are you." I didn't turn around. The housekeeping storage room smelled like bleach and mothballs, forty years of uniforms hanging on a rail nobody bothered to clear out. I'd found the tag first — R. SANTOS, stitched crooked, size six — and my whole chest had gone tight before I even touched the fabric.

Joy shut the door behind her, quiet, like she'd done this a hundred times sneaking around hotel corridors as a kid waiting for our mother's shift to end. "That's Mama's," she said, stepping closer, close enough I could smell her hotel-issue shampoo. "I recognize the collar. She patched it herself, see, right there." She reached out and touched the crooked seam like it might disappear if she blinked.

My fingers found the object again. A key.