“Combs are historically symbols of intimacy—someone else touching your hair, tending to you, loving you. What do you think about, Hiro, when you see these antique combs?”
“Back in the day, they were given as courtship gifts.”
“Oh. Super interesting and very romantic.” I studied the pins again. “These don’t feel like objects she uses. They feel like objects shewishes she deserved to use.”
Still no makeup.
I checked the drawers—empty.
Every single one.
A chill rolled down my spine.
Do a full assessment and make sure you don’t miss anything.
If I accused the wrong girl. . .or trusted the wrong one. . .someone could die.
Maybe me.
Maybe Kenji.
“My guess. . .this isn’t about beauty. . .it’s about denial. Becoming the kind of woman she thinks Kenji would want—one who exists quietly, decoratively, without making demands.”
The thought hit harder than I expected. “She keeps things super neat and minimal too.”
“What does that tell you, Nyomi?”
“Order like this isn’t just neatness, it’s anxiety management. People who feel watched—or evaluated—keep everything pristine so they never give anyone ammunition to judge them.”
Hiro’s jaw flexed.
“I wonder who judges her and why does she care?” I crouched and checked under the bed: plastic storage bins, labeled and arranged by topic.
More books.
More opera programs.
Shoe boxes, each labeled with the brand and style, lined up in a perfect row.
"I don’t think Yuki is a spy, she’s just someone who has built an altar out of Kenji."
Hiro didn't contradict me.
I moved to the bed, the gray duvet smoothed so perfectly it could've been ironed after every nap. Four pillows were on top—three standard, one decorative with embroidered cranes in silver thread.
For some reason, I picked up the pillows and touched them.
My fingers brushed the first pillow.
Nothing.
Second and third pillows.
Nothing.
Curious, I lifted the decorative one—and my hand brushed against something firmer than down. "Hmmm. What’s this?”
Hiro got to the bed.
