Chapter 2 - The Locked Door
The hallways of Willow Ridge Lodge were quiet, lined with vintage equestrian paintings and polished hardwood floors that echoed our hurried footsteps. We checked the garden terrace first, walking past the rows of empty white chairs where guests were murmuring quietly as they waited for the processional music to begin.
"Emily?" Laura called out softly, stepping into the small side parlor.
No answer.
We checked the kitchen, where caterers were rushing trays of appetizers past towering wedding cakes. We checked the women’s restroom near the banquet hall. Nothing.
"This doesn't make sense," I muttered, my stride lengthening as a heavy, irrational dread began to pool in my gut. Emily knew how much this day meant. For weeks, she had practiced her pacing down our hallway at home, making sure she scattered the dried rose petals evenly, counting out loud: One, two, scatter. One, two, scatter. She took immense pride in being the flower girl. She would never wander off without telling someone, especially not when the ceremony was minutes away.
"Check the service corridor," Laura suggested, her face pale. "The old wing where they store extra chairs and cleaning supplies. Sometimes kids wander into weird places when they're nervous."
We jogged down the dim hallway behind the main banquet kitchen. The air here smelled faintly of lemon polish and old dust. The heavy wooden doors to the storage rooms stood wide open, showing neat stacks of folding chairs and spare table linens.
At the very end of the corridor, tucked behind a heavy fire door, was the lodge's utility and laundry room.
As we approached, I heard a faint, rhythmic sound.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was the muffled sound of a sneaker kicking against a solid core wooden door.
I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart hammering against my ribs in a way no combat zone ever managed to induce. I strode forward and grabbed the brass doorknob. I twisted it.
It didn't budge. The heavy latch was locked from the outside using the small deadbolt built into the handle—a lock meant to keep guests out of dangerous cleaning chemicals.
"Emily?" I shouted, slamming my palm against the wood.
The kicking stopped instantly. A small, trembling voice filtered through the heavy paneling.
"Daddy?"
"Step away from the door, sweetheart," I ordered, my voice tight and commanding. I braced my shoulder against the frame, but before I could throw my weight into it, Laura reached down and spotted something on the floor right beside the threshold.
It was a small woven wicker basket. Inside lay a neat pile of pink and white rose petals, untouched. And resting right beside it was a sparkling silver hair clip shaped like a butterfly—the exact one Vanessa had pinned into Emily’s hair that morning.
"Andrew, look at the lock," Laura whispered, pointing to the small brass keyhole. The key wasn't in it. Someone had turned it from the outside and pulled it out.
"Emily, can you open it from the inside?" I asked, struggling to keep the rising panic out of my voice.
"I tried," she whimpered, her voice cracking. "The little turny thing doesn't work from in here. The lady... she told me I had to stay until everyone was gone."
The air left my lungs as if I had taken a physical blow.
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"What lady, Em?" I asked, dropping to my knees against the cold industrial floor, pressing my ear right up against the crack of the door.
"Miss Vanessa," Emily whispered, the sound breaking into a sob.
