On the night before my birthday, my late father suddenly appeared in a dream and said, “Don’t wear the green dress your husband gave you!” When the seamstress brought the dress, I froze when I realized that the dress was green exactly as in the dream – and that was only the beginning of everything.(2/6)

“Your husband insisted that everything be made from the finest materials. And by the way, he asked for hidden pockets in the side seams in case you want to put your phone or a tissue in there.”

Liv nodded, only half listening. She was still trying to figure out what was wrong, but she couldn’t find anything.

Maybe she really was just overly worried. “I think everything is excellent,” the seamstress concluded. “If you have no questions, I should run.

I have another client waiting.”

“Yes. Thank you very much for your work,” Liv said politely. She took off the dress, changed back into her clothes, and walked Ms.

Reed to the door. Left alone, she hung the dress on a padded hanger in the closet and stood for a long time, staring at it. Beautiful.

Expensive. Sewn with love and care. Or not.

Don’t wear the dress from your husband. Her father’s voice rang in her head again, and Liv realized she couldn’t just forget the dream. There was something so urgent, so real about it that she simply couldn’t ignore it.

She closed the closet, moved away, and sat on the bed. She had to decide what to do next. Tomorrow was the party.

And this damned dress. Mark returned home for lunch, as promised. Liv heard the front door slam, heard him walk into the hallway, kicking off his shoes.

She was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of cold tea and flinched at the sound of his footsteps. “Well, did the dress arrive?” he called from the hall. “Yes.

Everything’s fine,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. Mark walked into the kitchen, kissed her on the top of the head, and sat down across from her. “Did you try it on?”

“Mhm.

Ms. Reed said it fit perfectly.”

“That’s great,” he said, nodding contentedly. “You’ll be stunning tomorrow.

Listen, I have to run over to see my friend Kevin this evening. He’s dropping off some documents for the deal. Probably for about three hours.

You don’t mind?”

“No, of course not,” Liv said with a shrug. “Go ahead.”

Mark ate lunch, watched a little TV, then got ready and left. Liv walked him to the door, and when the lock clicked behind him, leaving her alone, she felt a strange relief, as if she could finally exhale.

She walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. The dress hung on the hanger, serene and beautiful. Liv reached out and ran her fingers over the fabric.

What could be wrong with it? Maybe she should just examine it more closely. But what exactly was she looking for?

She took the dress off the hanger and laid it on the bed. She sat next to it, examining every seam, every stitch. Everything looked flawless.

Ms. Reed truly was a master of her craft—straight seams, neat finishing, no loose threads or wrinkles anywhere. Liv turned the dress over, inspecting the lining.

The silk felt smooth against her fingers. She ran her palm over the inside and suddenly it seemed like the fabric near the waist was slightly thicker than in other places. Or was it her imagination?

She stood up, turned on the desk lamp, and held the dress closer to the light. She squinted. No, she hadn’t imagined it.

In the lining near the side seam at the waist, there was a small irregularity, as if something had been sewn inside. Her heart skipped a beat. Liv put the dress down and walked around the room, clenching and unclenching her fists.

What foolish thoughts are creeping into my head? It’s probably just a double stitch or reinforcement so the fabric doesn’t stretch. Just regular tailoring.

But her father’s voice wouldn’t stop ringing in her ears. Don’t wear the dress from your husband. She returned to the bed, picked up the dress, and carefully felt the spot again.

There was definitely something there—something thin, sewn between the layers of fabric. Her hands started to tremble. Liv sat down on the edge of the bed, hugging the dress to her chest.

What should she do? Rip the seam? If there was nothing there, she’d ruin the seamstress’s work, and then she’d have to explain to Mark why she’d cut up his expensive gift.

But what if there was something? She closed her eyes, trying to calm down. She remembered her father’s face from the dream, his serious gaze, his voice, which had held not a hint of doubt.

He had never spoken just for the sake of it. Even in life, when he warned her about something, he always turned out to be right. The decision came naturally.

She stood up, went to the dresser, and took a small pair of sewing scissors from the top drawer. Then she returned to the bed, turned on the bright lamp, and spread the dress out, inside out. She found the place where she’d felt the irregularity—in the side seam, closer to the waist, where in normal wear no one would pay attention to a slight thickening.

Liv took a deep breath, picked up the scissors, and carefully picked at a single thread of the lining seam. She pulled. The thread gave way easily, and a small slit appeared in the silk.

She carefully widened the opening, trying not to damage the main fabric of the dress. Her fingers were trembling so badly she had to stop and put down the scissors to compose herself. Then she took up the task again.

The slit grew larger. And suddenly something white spilled out of it. Fine powder, like flour or cornstarch, dusted the dark bedspread.

Liv froze, unable to believe her eyes. The powder kept spilling—just a little, a pinch, maybe a teaspoon. White.

Fine-grained. Odorless. What is this?

Why? She recoiled from the bed, dropping the dress. Her breathing turned shallow.

A pounding began in her temples. This couldn’t be an accident. Someone had deliberately sewn this inside the lining.

Mark. Mark had done this—or he had ordered the seamstress to do it. But why?

What was this powder? Liv walked to the nightstand, picked up her phone with shaking hands, and dialed her friend’s number. Iris was a chemist who worked in a hospital lab.

If anyone could help her understand, it was Iris. “Iris… hey.” Her own voice sounded foreign, scared. “Can you talk right now?”

“Liv?

What happened? You sound strange,” Iris said, instantly alert. “I—I need your help immediately.”

“Is something wrong?

Where are you?”

“Home.” Liv swallowed. “Iris, I found some white powder in the dress. It was sewn into the lining.

I don’t know what it is, but I’m really scared.”

Silence hung on the line. Then Iris asked softly, “Which dress?”

“The one Mark ordered for my birthday.”

Another pause, longer this time. “Liv, listen to me carefully,” Iris said.

Her voice turned harsh, professional. “Don’t touch that powder anymore. Don’t touch it at all.

If you touched it with your hands, go immediately and wash them with soap several times. Put the dress in a plastic bag and seal it. And collect a small amount of the powder into a separate bag, but do it with gloves on.

Understood? Do you have gloves at home?”

“Yes. Rubber gloves for washing dishes.”

“Those will work.

Collect a sample and bring it to the lab. I’m at work now. Come as soon as you can.”

“Iris, you’re scaring me.”

“I don’t want to scare you, but this could be anything—from harmless talc to something very dangerous.

We just need to check. Get dressed quickly and come here.”

Liv hung up. Her hands were shaking even harder.

She went to the bathroom, soaped her hands, and began scrubbing them under hot water. She soaped, rinsed, soaped again. Her skin turned red, but she kept washing, as if trying to wash away not just the powder, but the terror that had seized her.

Then she returned to the bedroom, retrieved rubber gloves and plastic bags from the kitchen, pulled on the gloves, took a small resealable baggie, and carefully collected a pinch of the white powder from the bedspread. She sealed it and put it in her jacket pocket. She carefully folded the dress, trying not to scatter the remaining powder, and packed it into a large trash bag.

She tied it shut and hid it in the closet. Then she took off the gloves, washed her hands again, got dressed, and rushed out of the house. On the way to the lab, she tried not to think about what was happening.

She turned on the radio to drown out the voices in her head, but the music irritated her, and she soon turned it off. She silently watched the road, the traffic lights, the pedestrians. Everything seemed unreal, as if she were watching a movie about someone else’s life.

Iris met her at the entrance to the lab building. She was in a white coat, her hair pulled back, her face serious. “Give it here,” she said, taking the baggie with the powder.

“Wait right here. I’ll do a quick preliminary analysis.”

Liv remained standing in the corridor, leaning against the cold wall. Time stretched out agonizingly slowly—ten minutes, twenty, then half an hour.

She was about to knock on the lab door when it opened and Iris stepped out. Her face was pale. “Let’s go talk in my office,” she said quietly.

They went into a small office at the end of the corridor. Iris closed the door, sat down at the table, and gestured for Liv to sit across from her. “Liv, this isn’t talc or cornstarch,” she began.

“This is a very dangerous substance.”

“What?” Liv whispered. “I ran an express test, and it indicated the presence of toxic compounds. To determine exactly what it is, we need a full analysis.

But I can tell you with certainty—it’s poison.”

The word hung in the air like a blow. “A poison that is activated upon contact with moisture and heat,” Iris continued. “Meaning when a person sweats.

If you had worn that dress and spent several hours in it, especially moving, dancing, getting excited—that is, during a party—your skin would have secreted sweat and the poison would have started to absorb.”

“What… what would have happened then?” Liv asked. “First weakness, dizziness, then nausea, rapid heartbeat—and then, depending on the dose and exposure time, a cardiac arrest could have occurred,” Iris said. “It would have looked like a natural death from heart failure, especially in a fifty-year-old woman at a celebratory event where she’s excited, drinking wine, experiencing emotions.”

Liv covered her face with her hands.

This couldn’t be real. This had to be a nightmare. Another dream from which she would soon wake up.

“Liv, listen to me.” Iris moved closer, taking her hands. “I understand this is a shock, but we need to act. You have to go to the police immediately.”

“The police?” Liv raised her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Iris, that’s Mark. My husband. We’ve been together for twenty years.

How could he—”

“I don’t know how or why,” Iris interrupted gently, “but the fact remains: someone wanted to kill you and make it look like an accident. He ordered the dress, right?”

“Yes… but maybe the seamstress,” Liv said desperately. “Maybe it was her.”

“Why would the seamstress kill you?

Does she even know you?”

Liv fell silent. Of course she didn’t. Ms.

Reed was just a seamstress recommended by Nikki. They had no reason for enmity. “Liv, you have to go to the police,” Iris repeated firmly.

“I’ll give you an official report on the composition of this substance. I have a detective friend—a good man. Call him, meet with him.”

Liv nodded, unable to speak.

Iris dialed a number, spoke to someone, then handed Liv a slip of paper with a phone number on it. “His name is Detective Leonard Hayes. I explained everything to him.

He’s waiting for your call.”

Liv took the paper with trembling fingers, stood up, and left the office. In the corridor, she stopped, leaned against the wall, and tried to gather her thoughts. Mark wanted to kill her.

Her husband, the father of her child, the man she had spent the better part of her life with. How was this possible? She dialed the detective’s number.

After a few rings, a man’s voice answered. “Leonard Hayes speaking.”