Kairos

3.

"Well, don't just leave me hanging." Teddy's widened eyes looked even larger magnified by his horn rimmed glasses. The lighting of Lockers and Wardrobe wasn't as flattering as his station back in Hair and Makeup. Here, he looked way too much like our mother, ashen and severe, though I'd have rather jumped on a grenade than tell him. "Did they find any prints?"

Sliding out of my flats, I placed them in the bottom of my assigned locker. "No, nothing. He wore gloves. Just like all the other times."

"Oh my God," he murmured sympathetically, a hand to his mouth. "It's like something out of a true crime show. Wild. I'm so sorry, puddin' pop."

I shrugged with a defeated smile. After a week of dwelling on it, the incident had lost some of its edge. "I don't even wanna know what he was going to do with the mannequin."

Teddy shuddered. "Or what he did with the mannequin."

"Thanks, that was just the mental image I needed to get me through the night." Our conversation was interrupted by a wheeled rack of empire-waisted gowns as it rolled between us. I was immediately drawn to a soft rose-colored one. "Are these for me?"

"Fat chance," came the curt reply from another Kairos employee, pushing the dress just out of my reach. It made its way to the other side of the department, where a petite brunette was waiting for it.

"A simple 'no' would've been fine," I muttered, before looking to Teddy. "Where are my clothes, then?"

"Already waiting for you in the dressing rooms," he answered. "Let the lady know if something doesn't fit."

I blinked in surprise. "I don't get an attendant this time? Who's going to help me into my stays?"

"I dunno—maybe she's already in the dressing room." He waved dismissively, already on his way out. "Come find me when you're ready, mmkay?"

While I would be more than grateful for an evening that didn't involve squeezing into some kind of shape wear, something wasn't adding up. Shutting my locker with a shoulder, I watched my brother until he disappeared into the employee lounge. Hopefully he was right.

My path to the dressing rooms was blocked by a middle aged woman getting a crash course on maneuvering in a hoop skirt. I waited as she bobbed and swayed through a few awkward steps before finally spotting an opening.

Each dressing room door was set with a tiny chalkboard written with the name of the client it had been prepared for. I passed by three that were already occupied, marked with GALT, ARNETTE and SCHEU. Yet another had been recently erased and the door left hanging ajar, but the fifth was clearly mine.

BLOOM, the chalkboard read in cutesy, curly handwriting. The attendant had even gone the extra mile of turning the Os into daisies, underlining the name with a leafy vine. Too bad they hadn't put the same effort into spell checking.

Still, the Kairos dressing rooms were nice enough that I couldn't muster up much complaint as I locked the door, sealing the clamor of Wardrobe behind me. The small space was something like a well-appointed walk-in closet with its own antiqued dresser, plush ottoman and full-length mirror. There was no attendant to be seen.

The right side of the small space was dominated by a well-stocked rack of long satin dresses and woolen coats in a variety of understated prints. A few shelves held folded garments—sweaters and long skirts, I quickly discovered—along with a stack of polka-dotted hat boxes.

I shifted through the collection of hats and jeweled head wraps, eventually settling on a brown velvet cloche. Trying it on in the mirror, my reflection's faint smile soured with slow-dawning recognition. "Dammit, Ms. Little."