The heavy black garment bag, usually plump with layers of tulle and satin, hung limp. The zipper was dragged halfway down, revealing a dark, gaping maw. It was empty.

“No,” I whispered, the word scraping against my throat. “No, no, no.”

I fell to my knees, frantically patting the floor of the closet, as if a ballgown could simply shrink and hide in a corner. Nothing. My heart began to hammer a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I ran to the master bedroom.

“Adam!” I screamed, shaking him awake. “Did you move it? Did you take the dress?”

He blinked, disoriented. “What? No. Elena, what are you talking about?”

“It’s gone. My wedding dress. It’s gone.”

The color drained from his face. We tore the house apart, checking the attic, the basement, the trunk of the car. It was nowhere. Then, the logic of the situation settled over me like a cold shroud. There was no forced entry. Nothing else was missing. Only one other person had a key.