Then he asked for the relevant materials to be preserved while the report was reviewed.
There was no immediate arrest.
No miraculous discovery of fingerprints proving everything.
But the incident was formally documented.
And when I finally went to bed, I locked my bedroom door.
I hadn’t felt the need to do that in my own home for years.
Michael called the next afternoon.
He sounded different.
Not merely embarrassed.
Exhausted.
“Mom, I spoke to Sabrina.”
I sat down.
“And?”
He took a breath.
“She admitted it.”
I gripped the telephone.
“Admitted what?”
“She shaved your head.”
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Then I asked, “Did she tell you why?”
Michael’s voice broke.
“She said she wanted you to miss the wedding.”
He explained that after I left the reception, he’d confronted Sabrina about the church recording and the changes to the program.
At first, she’d insisted the remarks were jokes.
Then he asked why she’d instructed the coordinator to prepare for my absence that very morning.
She claimed I’d said I wasn’t feeling well.
Michael asked when I’d said that.
Her explanation changed.
Finally, confronted with the timeline, she admitted she’d entered my room during the night and used a small electric trimmer she’d brought among her wedding preparation supplies.
