“Olivia.”
“But if one person keeps doing things and the other person keeps getting told to communicate better, who benefits?”
Diane stared.
That sentence sounded far older than sixteen.
Olivia turned toward the mirror.
Her dress hung unevenly around the damaged waist.
The cut was visible.
So was the small cutout beneath her ribs.
She had designed the silhouette herself.
Diane taught her the draping method.
The first mock-up was terrible.
The second worse.
Olivia kept going.
That was the thing about her.
She could become stubborn enough to make patience look aggressive.
Diane loved that about her.
Brooke hated when Diane said so.
Diane suddenly remembered that.
A conversation six months earlier.
Brooke standing in the kitchen.
“You talk about her designs more than you ever talked about mine.”
Diane had laughed.
“Because you hated sewing.”
“That isn't the point.”
“What is?”
Brooke had not answered.
Diane had assumed jealousy.
Temporary.
Immature.
Something daughters eventually outgrew if mothers refused to reward it.
Perhaps refusing to reward it had become refusing to see it.
Olivia sniffed.
“I need to take this off.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t pull it over the cut.”
“We'll unzip and step out.”
“No.”
Olivia reached toward the side closure.
Her hands shook.
Diane helped.
Carefully.
Neither spoke.
The dress loosened.
Olivia stepped out.
Underneath she wore a camisole and shorts.
Diane laid the navy gown across the bed.
The scissors remained near the foot.
Black handles.
Silver blades.
Ordinary.
Olivia stared.
Then looked toward the small shelf beside her desk.
Something blinked.
Blue.
Once.
Her expression changed.
Diane followed her gaze.
A small indoor security camera faced the garment rack and desk area.
Diane frowned.
“I thought you unplugged that.”
“So did I.”
Months earlier, after Olivia repeatedly found sketchbooks shifted and a box of vintage buttons missing from her worktable, Michael let her install a small camera aimed only at the garment rack, desk, and bedroom door.
Not the bed.
Not the bathroom entrance.
Olivia usually disabled it while home.
At least she thought she did.
She reached for her phone.
The screen lit before she touched anything.
A notification.
She stared.
Diane saw her face change.
“What?”
Olivia opened the message.
The camera app had detected motion.
Then another message beneath it from the automated system:
Your room camera caught everything.
Diane stopped breathing.
Olivia looked at her.
Neither spoke.
She tapped the clip.
The video opened.
There was Olivia in the navy gown.
Brooke behind her.
The angle was high and wide.
No audio at first.
Then sound.
Faint.
Enough.
Brooke’s voice.
“Hold still.”
Olivia:
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
“No.”
Then the image showed Brooke looking directly at the waist.
She pinched the outer panel.
Opened the scissors.
Olivia’s hands were nowhere near them.
“Brooke, stop.”
Brooke cut.
One deliberate closure.
Then another.
Olivia turned.
The second slice came after Olivia said stop.
No ambiguity.
Diane sat on the edge of the bed.
Olivia kept watching.
The recording continued.
Brooke:
“Oh my God, calm down.”
Olivia:
“You cut it!”
Brooke:
“You moved.”
Diane closed her eyes.
There.
Not merely cutting after misunderstanding.
Immediate rewriting.