Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Vivienne Cho sagged as if her body's internal structure had collapsed, and she could no longer hold herself upright. Rowan rushed forward and gripped Vivienne's arm to keep her on her feet.
"Where's Leah?" Vivienne screamed. "Take me to my baby! Please! Take me to her!"
Everyone watched in horrified silence as Detective King strode across the room and placed his hand gently upon Vivienne Cho's other arm. He leaned in and spoke gravely to her in soft, comforting tones, his head bowed.
"No, no, no!" Vivienne moaned as the detective and Rowan led her to the dining room and helped her sit down. Her face blanched. She kept shaking her head, denying the awful news that her beloved only child was dead.
She bent in on herself, clutching her stomach. Her petite frame trembled violently as Rowan rubbed soothing circles on her back. A low broken sound escaped Vivienne's throat, a keening cry of strangled grief, the sound of an animal caught in a trap.
My heart shattered into pieces. We were friends. I wanted to go to her, to hug her, to offer comfort, but I couldn't leave my child, either. I could only watch, appalled and horrified.
Only minutes before, it was I who had panicked, certain Mia was in mortal danger, that I had lost her, that something terrible had occurred.
That dreadful intuition hadn't been wrong. Only it had been my friend's daughter, not mine. Guilt silted the relief that flooded my veins. How could I rejoice while Vivienne suffered unimaginable pain?
Whitney looked away, biting her lip, as if Vivienne's suffering might be contagious. Brooke swayed on her feet, her face pale, like she might faint.
Two female officers went to Vivienne and spoke to her in soft tones. "Your husband is outside," one of them said in a kind voice. "He's asking for you."
I turned and glanced through the front windows behind me. Leah's father stood on the drive next to several police cars, speaking to another officer. His shoulders stooped, his stricken face a garish mask in the flashing lights.
In the kitchen, the police officers helped Vivienne stand, supporting her on either side, and escorted her from the house. Vivienne howled her sorrow, her suffering, her outrage, her pain so close to the surface of her skin it was nearly incandescent.
She shuffled like an old woman, her back bent, shoulders slumped like the weight of her grief had broken something elemental that could never be repaired. I understood her new reality better than anyone here, how nothing would ever be the same again.
The front door closed, followed by a stunned silence. The girls looked at the floor while the mothers looked at each other in disbelief, in horror, in pity.
Rowan and Detective King returned to the living room. Rowan swept across the room and gathered Chloe into her arms again. She sank against her mother as if her legs had forgotten how to hold her up.
A moment later, Callahan came up the basement stairs and through the arched hallway. A police officer in his twenties was beside her, holding several gowns on hangers. Their fabric shimmered under the chandelier's lights.
Callahan took a dress from the officer and held it up.
It was Mia's.
The beaded rose-gold mermaid gown I had helped her pick out just two weeks ago, the one she had tried on in the mirror at the resale shop with a hesitant smile, tracing the delicate beadwork with her fingertips.
She had thought she looked fat. I'd told her she was stunning. It wasn't an expensive designer gown, but it was nevertheless beautiful.
Now, it was no longer pristine. The hem was torn. Dirt smudged the entire front of the dress, and the fabric was snagged in several spots as if it had caught on something sharp.
Along the delicate beading on the bodice, dark against the soft blush fabric, was a stain. Small, scattered droplets dried to a dark brown.
It looked like blood.
My breath caught in my chest.
Detective King stepped forward. "Whose dress is this?"
"Mine," Mia said.
His gaze settled on Mia. On the scratches on her arms. Something dark beneath her fingernails, crusted in the creases of her skin. Dirt. From what? From where?
My pulse stuttered. Instinctively, I moved closer to Mia's side. To protect her, shield her, save her. To whisk her away from the horror and grief.
A sudden, vivid flashback hit me—the police arriving at the scene of my husband’s death. The flashing lights. Voices blurred together. A police officer speaking in low, steady tones. Frantic sobbing. The sirens wailing.
Mia kneeling, her hands clenched into fists, her breathing too shallow. Marcus, limp on the kitchen floor, blood pooling across the linoleum.
I'd been screaming. Or perhaps I had only felt the scream, trapped inside me, lodged deep in my ribs. Now, standing beside Mia, the same scream clawed up my throat.
"What’s your name?" the detective asked.
"Mia," my daughter said in a small voice. "Mia Kincaid."
Detective King narrowed his eyes. "Mia, where did you get those scratches?"
Mia stiffened. "Um, we were all out on the bluff. I was kneeling on the ground, getting a low shot with my camera, and I slipped. I fell a few feet down the bluff, into the bushes. The branches scratched my arms."
"Stop right there." Camille's voice cut through the room like a scalpel. "That's enough."
Detective King raised his hands, his expression neutral. "We're simply trying to ascertain what happened."
"I know exactly what you're trying to do, detective," Camille said. "This is an unfortunate, tragic accident. Nothing more."
Detective Callahan's expression hardened. "With all due respect, a girl is dead. We'll need to speak with each of the girls to determine what happened."
Rowan straightened to her full height, commanding and authoritative, the gracious but cut-throat PTA president again. "Detectives, these children have been through a trauma. They need rest and comfort. A calming environment, not more stress."
"Which is why we need their accounts while memories are fresh," Callahan said. "Before details get confused."
"Not without our lawyers present," Whitney said.
Mia stared up at me in alarm, as if I could save her. But I couldn't. I couldn't afford a lawyer. I could barely afford Netflix after our monthly bills. My whole body went numb.
Camille shot a questioning glance at Rowan. Something unspoken passed between them, then Rowan moved swiftly to my side. She put her arm around my shoulder, bent, and whispered in my ear, "Don't worry."
I nodded stiffly. The room seemed to contract around me. It was difficult to breathe.
Camille stepped between the detectives and Mia. "I am a defense attorney with Hayward and Monroe, and I now represent Mia Kincaid. All communication should go through me. If you'd like to speak with Mia, we can agree on a time that's conducive to the Kincaid's schedule."
Callahan's eye twitched. "We'll need to speak to her as soon as possible."
"My client will make herself available for an interview at a mutually agreed-upon time, with counsel present," Camille said.
The detectives didn't look happy, but they grudgingly agreed. I'd never been more relieved to have Camille at our side.
King said, "At your earliest convenience, then."
Camille's jaw tightened, but she nodded curtly.
King took a step closer to Mia. "In the meantime, we'll need to photograph those injuries and take samples of the substance under your fingernails, Mia."
My gut clenched. "No. Absolutely not."
Callahan glowered at Camille. "We either take the samples right now, or we detain Mia and transport her to the station, where an officer will watch her in a cell until we get a search warrant, probably within the hour. Your choice."
Dizziness washed through me. It felt like everything had gone distant and fuzzy, like this wasn't really happening; it was a bad dream, unreal. Detaining Mia? A search warrant? For what?
"Go get the search warrant then," Camille snapped, "and I'll slap you with a lawsuit so fast your heads will spin."
"You're welcome to try." Callahan nodded at a nearby uniformed officer, who took out a set of handcuffs. "Cuff her and take her to the car."
Mia let out an alarmed gasp. "Mom!"
"Wait, no!" I said. I couldn't imagine the trauma to Mia, to be dragged out of Rowan's house for all the neighbors to see. For what? For a terrible accident she had no part in? That couldn't happen. I couldn't let it happen. "We consent. Don't take her anywhere. Do it here."
Camille shook her head. "Dahlia—"
But she didn't understand. It wasn't her daughter. It was mine.
My throat closed. I looked at Mia. Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide and glassy. She looked utterly terrified.
The thought of them photographing her like evidence made me physically ill. But what choice did we have?
"Fine," I said. "Just... make it quick."
King made a call, and a few minutes later, two evidence technicians arrived. They brought Mia to Rowan's den, with Camille and me present, where they swabbed her and took scrapings from beneath her nails.
The technician brought out a camera. "I need you to hold out your arms, Mia. Palms up first, then palms down."
Mia's breath hitched. She gave me an anxious, pleading glance. I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. My hand strayed to Marcus' titanium wedding ring, which I wore on a silver chain beneath my sweatshirt. As if that could hold me together.
I watched as my daughter extended her arms. The scratches appeared worse under the den's bright overhead lights, more red, angrier.
The camera clicked. Once. Twice. Three times.
Each flash was like an accusation.
"Palms down now," King said gently.
Mia turned her hands over. More clicks. More flashes. I wanted to pull her away, to cover her arms and make this all go away, but I stood rigid, forced to watch as they documented every mark on my daughter's skin.
As if she were already guilty of something terrible.
And there was nothing I could do to stop it.