Chapter 5 - THE ENVELOPE UNDER THE CHAIR
Finley took five swift steps across the polished marble floor before his sharp eyes caught something out of place.
He froze.
Directly beneath the mahogany chair where Piper had been sitting just moments ago—the chair right beside Rowan’s wheelchair—lay an object on the white marble floor. It had been obscured by the dark velvet seat cushion and the shadow of the table, but from Finley's angle near the center aisle, it was clearly visible.
It was a thick, square envelope made of heavy, cream-colored linen paper.
Finley crouched down with surprising agility for a man of his size, his right hand resting instinctively near his jacket lapel while his left hand picked up the envelope. It was unsealed, crisp, and unmarked except for a single name written across the front in dark, elegant black fountain-pen ink.
Finley stood up, turned around, and walked back to the head table. He held out the envelope to Rowan.
"She dropped this," Finley said quietly. "Or someone left it where she was sitting."
Rowan lifted his eyes from the cake and looked down at the cream-colored linen envelope resting in Finley’s large palm. The moment Rowan’s eyes locked onto the black ink on the front of the paper, his breath caught in his chest.
The handwriting was distinct, sharp, and unmistakable—a slanted cursive with elongated loops that he had not seen in seven years. It was handwriting he knew better than his own name.
The cold, controlled composure that Rowan had maintained for months shattered in an instant. His chest heaved as he reached out his hand, his fingers trembling slightly—a motion Finley had never seen in all their years together—as he took the heavy envelope from Finley’s grip.
Rowan slid his thumb beneath the unsealed flap and pulled out its contents.
It was an old, glossy photograph, its edges slightly yellowed with age.
Rowan held the photograph in his palm, keeping the glossy front turned entirely toward himself so that Finley could only see the plain white backing.
May you like
Rowan stared at the image. His jaw went completely slack. The dark grey of his eyes widened, swimming with a shock so profound, so visceral, that his knuckles turned white as his grip tightened around the edges of the cardstock, slightly creasing the photographic paper.
"Boss?" Finley asked, stepping half a pace closer, his hand dropping closer to his weapon as he reacted to Rowan's visible distress. "What is that?"
