Chapter 5: The Blue Room
By the time I reached Auburn Avenue, the rain had turned into a steady downpour.
Marcus had offered to send a security officer with me, but I refused. I needed to see the building for myself before another person could tell me what it meant.
He had insisted on one condition.
"If anything feels wrong, you leave," he said outside the venue.
"And you call me.""
"I will.""
"I'm serious, Nia. Whatever happened tonight, don't assume the people involved will stop simply because they've been exposed.""
I slipped the brass key into my pocket.
"I understand.""
He studied my face for a moment.
"Your mother was braver than most people I knew. If she left you that key, she believed you'd need it someday.""
I drove through downtown with the photograph resting on the passenger seat.
Atlanta's streetlights blurred across the windshield. I kept glancing at my phone, expecting Dad to call, but the screen remained dark.
At a red light, I finally dialed him.
He answered after the fourth ring.
"Nia?""
His voice sounded exhausted.
"Dad, where are you?""
"At home. What's going on? Vanessa called me saying there's been some terrible misunderstanding at the competition.""
"A misunderstanding?""
"She said you accused Maya of stealing your work.""
"She did steal my work.""
He sighed.
"Sweetheart, please. I don't want you making decisions while you're upset.""
I gripped the steering wheel.
"Did Mom own a design studio on Auburn Avenue?""
Silence.
It lasted only two seconds, but it told me more than his next words did.
"Why are you asking about that?""
"Because I found a key.""
"What key?""
"A key Mom left for me. I'm going to the building.""
"Nia, don't.""
The urgency in his voice made my skin prickle.
"Why not?""
"That property has been closed for years. It's unsafe.""
"Then come with me.""
"I can't.""
"Can't, or won't?""
He exhaled sharply.
"Please come home. We can talk about this tomorrow.""
I stared through the windshield at the building appearing ahead.
Its windows were boarded up, and a faded sign hung crookedly above the entrance. Weeds had grown through cracks in the pavement. A rusted chain crossed the side gate.
But the building was still standing.
And in the upper-left window, behind a sheet of plywood, I saw a thin line of blue paint.
"Dad," I whispered, "what did Vanessa do to Mom's studio?""
His breathing changed.
"Nia, listen to me. There are things about your mother's business you don't understand.""
"Then explain them.""
"I can't do this over the phone.""
"Fine. I'm standing outside the building. Come here.""
He said nothing.
Then the line went dead.
I stared at my phone.
For the first time in my life, my father had hung up on me.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and approached the entrance.
The front lock was too large for the key, but a narrow side door stood beneath a rusted awning. I inserted the brass key.
It turned.
The door opened with a long, protesting creak.
Inside, the air smelled of dust, damp wood, and old fabric. My flashlight swept across overturned chairs, empty shelves, and a cracked mirror leaning against the wall.
I stepped carefully over a broken lamp.
The hallway led toward the back of the building.
Then I saw it.
A blue door.
Its paint had faded around the edges, but the brass handle remained polished, as though someone had cleaned it recently.
I approached slowly.
The key fit the lock.
When I turned it, the door swung inward.
I forgot how to breathe.
The blue room was still there.
Not untouched, exactly. Dust covered the floor, and several garment racks stood empty. A chandelier hung crookedly from the ceiling. But the walls were painted the same deep cobalt blue I remembered from childhood, and along the far wall stood a row of glass cabinets filled with carefully preserved sketches.
My mother's sketches.
I walked toward them as if afraid they might disappear.
There were dozens.
Wedding gowns, evening dresses, jackets constructed from reclaimed denim, coats made from scraps of silk. Every design carried her distinctive signature: a tiny embroidered star hidden somewhere in the finished piece.
I pressed my fingertips against the glass.
"Mama.""
A small desk stood near the window.
On it lay a sewing machine, an old laptop, and a framed photograph of my mother holding me as a baby.
Beneath the photograph was a notebook with a blue fabric cover.
I recognized it immediately.
It was the notebook I had spent years searching for after Vanessa packed away my mother's belongings.
I lifted it carefully.
The first pages contained sketches and fabric measurements. Then came handwritten notes about suppliers, clients, and potential investors.
Halfway through, the writing changed.
The lines became sharper, more urgent.
Vanessa came to the studio again today. She says the family needs money and that my designs could solve everything. I told her the business is not for sale.
I sat down.
The next entry was dated six months before my mother died.
Richard believes I should consider a partnership. He says Vanessa has connections that could help us expand. I don't trust her with the original patterns.
Richard.
My father.
I turned the page.
I have discovered that several of my designs have been presented to a potential buyer without my permission. Vanessa insists she was only trying to help. But she used my signature on documents I never approved.
My hands began to tremble.
The next page had been torn out.
Only a jagged strip remained near the binding.
I flipped through the rest of the notebook.
More entries. More warnings. Notes about missing sketches and unexplained withdrawals from the business account.
Then, near the back, I found a letter addressed to my father.
Richard, if you love our daughter, you will not let Vanessa take this from her.
I read the words again.
Then I turned to the final page.
If anything happens to me, Nia must know that the blue room belongs to her. The designs are hers to inherit when she turns twenty-three. I have left the legal documents with the attorney, and the original archive is protected by the account I created for her.
My twenty-third birthday had been four months ago.
I stared at the page.
The room seemed to grow colder.
My mother hadn't simply left me a sewing machine and a collection of memories.
She had left me a business.
A body of work.
A future.
And someone had spent years making sure I never discovered it.
A noise came from the hallway.
I froze.
Footsteps.
Slow, deliberate footsteps crossing the floorboards.
I switched off my flashlight and slipped behind a garment rack.
The door opened.
Light spilled into the room.
"Hello?"" a woman called.
I knew that voice.
Vanessa.
She stepped inside wearing a black coat, her heels clicking against the floor. She carried a leather handbag and a small flashlight.
She looked around, then walked directly to the desk.
She wasn't searching.
She knew exactly where everything was.
Vanessa opened the drawer and removed a folder. She flipped through the pages quickly, muttering under her breath.
"Where is it? Where did she put it?""
She slammed the drawer shut.
Then she pulled out her phone.
"She's been here," she said quietly.
"The key worked.""
A pause.
"No, I don't have the original documents. They're missing.""
Another pause.
Her voice dropped.
"Then we have a problem. If she finds the trust papers, everything changes.""
My fingers dug into the fabric rack.
Trust papers.
Vanessa turned toward the cabinets.
"And if she finds out what Evelyn was planning before she died, Richard won't be the only one who loses everything.""
I stopped breathing.
Vanessa stood perfectly still, listening to the person on the other end of the phone.
Then she said the words that made my blood run cold.
"I told you nine years ago that the girl would never see those documents.""
She ended the call.
For several seconds, she stared at my mother's photograph.
Then she lifted it from the desk and turned it over.
A small envelope had been taped to the back.
Vanessa tore it free.
Her eyes widened.
"No," she whispered.
She ripped the envelope open, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and began reading.
I couldn't see what was written on it.
But I could see her hands shaking.
She crushed the paper in her fist.
Then she whispered a name.
Not mine.
Not my mother's.
My father's.
"Richard, you promised me you'd destroyed this.""
She turned toward the door.
I pressed myself deeper behind the rack.
Vanessa walked past me, carrying the paper and folder.
Just before leaving, she stopped.
Her head tilted slightly.
Then she looked straight toward the garment rack where I was hiding.
"I know you're in here, Nia.""
My heart slammed against my ribs.
May you like
She smiled without warmth.
"Come out, sweetheart. We need to have a little family conversation.""
