Chapter 6
Chapter Six
"Come in, Come in." Rowan beckoned me inside with an elegant wave of her hand. "Oh, honey, you look wrecked. You could use a break."
I managed a smile. In her presence, I felt myself straightening, smoothing my frumpy jeans, desperately wanting her approval. "That’s one way to put it."
Effortlessly commanding and gracious, Rowan wore a soft taupe turtleneck, black cigarette pants, and leather loafers. She moved with the confidence of someone who'd never doubted her place in the world.
At 41, she was beautiful, with pale ice-blue eyes that could shift from warm to glacial in a heartbeat, high aristocratic cheekbones, a defined jawline, and that luminous porcelain skin she shared with her daughter Chloe.
There was steel beneath her beauty, though. Rowan was a woman who knew what she wanted and how to charm and cajole others into getting it.
While her husband Gregory worked as a hedge fund manager for Blue Star Capital, a financial firm based in St. Joseph, Rowan volunteered constantly, as the PTA president at Lakeshore Prep and the HOA president of Blackthorn Shores, as well as serving on the board of directors at the Krasl Art Center, the Humane Society, and the Boys and Girls Club in Benton Harbor.
I stepped inside. The warmth of the house enveloped me as she led me through the formal living room, past the cream sofas and oil paintings that cost more than my car, and into the gleaming all-white kitchen.
Whitney and Brooke were in the glassed-in breakfast nook off the kitchen, bathed in late-morning sunlight. Lake Michigan glittered through every pane of glass. They both smiled when they saw me.
"Hey, Dahlia." Whitney stood, one hand braced against the table's edge, doing a calf stretch. She wore athleisure wear, rose-pink leggings with a matching jacket zipped to her throat and bright white sneakers.
Her sleek white-blonde ponytail swung as she switched legs, her cobalt blue eyes tracking the movement with the same precision she brought to everything else.
A former college athlete and tennis state champion, she was obsessed with optimization: her fitness regimen, her ketogenic diet, her alkaline water intake, and her daughter's rigid academic and athletic schedule.
"For heaven's sake, Whit, sit down," Rowan said, her tone light but firm. "You're practically cleaning my floor. I have a cleaning service for that."
"I'm almost done." Whitney reached for her pearl-white Stanley and gulped water.
At 43, her intense energy filled every room she entered.
Her strong jawline was set in perpetual determination, her straight nose and thin lips giving her face a lean, hungry quality, as if she were always measuring, calculating, ardently pushing toward the next goal.
"Whitney," Rowan said. "For all our sakes, please."
With a sigh, Whitney sank into her chair but kept tapping her foot. "I need to keep moving. It's the only thing that distracts me."
Brooke sat next to Whitney. She flashed me a tight smile as she nursed a mimosa, two empty wine glasses on the table at her elbow. She wore a creamy cashmere sweater with high-waisted black pants, a Gucci belt, and nude Louboutins, designer brands I only knew because she'd told me.
Whitney's fingers drummed against the table. "How is Mia?"
I slid into the chair Rowan indicated. I wasn't sure how much to share. Normally, I would tell these women everything, but something held me back. That disquieting unease swirling in my gut hadn't let up. "She's upset."
Rowan reached across the table to squeeze my hand. Her touch was warm, reassuring. "Leah and Mia had such a close relationship. She must be devastated."
"She is," I said.
"Mmm," Brooke murmured into her glass.
Rowan strolled to the beverage niche with the fancy espresso machine and returned a moment later, handing me a steaming latte in an oversized mug, the foam art a perfect rosette. "Extra honey, almond milk, no Stevia, right?"
"Right. Thanks." That she remembered warmed something in my chest. Somehow, she'd instantly eased the sting of being left out. Rowan had a way of making you feel seen. Special. That warmth was Rowan's gift, and everyone wanted to be included in her orbit.
Of course, being chosen meant that you could also be unchosen.
Brooke twisted the massive diamond on her ring finger. Her words were careful, over-enunciated. "We were just talking about... everything."
I sat stiffly, the mug warm between my palms. Something felt off. The women seemed cool, distant. Whitney's foot kept tapping, quick little movements that made her knee bounce. Brooke kept glancing at her near-empty mimosa like she wanted another but didn't dare ask.
"How are you holding up?" Rowan settled into the chair opposite me with practiced grace and took a sip of her cappuccino.
"Okay, I guess," I said automatically, then corrected myself. "Awful, actually. I can't stop thinking about how Leah died. How tragic and meaningless it is. To die from a fall, from getting too close to the edge. It's terrible."
"Leah was behaving strangely lately, even if no one wants to admit it." Brooke's gaze flicked to Rowan as if seeking permission for something, then away. Her words came out slightly thick. "What if Alexis was right? And she got upset and did something reckless?"
Whitney's brows lifted. "Are you saying you think it was on purpose?"
A timer dinged in the kitchen. Rowan rose smoothly, moving to the oven. She pulled out a tray of cinnamon scones and transferred them to a crystal platter. "Vivienne said Leah was depressed. She hadn't come over to the house in weeks. Even Chloe noticed, and that girl is oblivious."
She set the platter on the table, adjusting it until it sat perfectly centered. "Eat up, ladies. They're keto."
I took a sip of the latte. Perfect as usual. But the creamy sweetness did nothing to lessen the growing knot in my stomach.
Whitney looked at the scones as if carbs were poison.
She fingered the Cartier tennis bracelet on her wrist, a recent gift from her husband, Graham, who worked as the executive vice president of Strategy and Development at Whirlpool Corporation's headquarters in Benton Harbor.
"I can't even imagine what Vivienne is going through right now. "
"We should get the girls into therapy." Brooke lifted her glass, found it empty, and set it down with a forceful clink. "Alexis is a wreck. I hear her crying in the middle of the night. But she won't talk to me."
Rowan gave Brooke a weighted look. "Another mimosa, Brooke?"
Brooke flushed but nodded. "Just a splash."
It was barely eleven in the morning. A pang of sympathy struck me. Brooke tried so hard to look the part, to say the right things. At 37, she was the youngest of the mothers, and three years younger than me. Though she was naturally beautiful, she never seemed to believe it was enough.
Her brunette waves were freshly highlighted, her heart-shaped face sharpened by microbladed brows, lash extensions, and strategic fillers, every detail calibrated for the invisible camera that followed her everywhere as a lifestyle influencer.
She was fun and spontaneous when she let her guard down, fiercely loyal to her friends, quick with a joke or a story that could turn the blandest committee meeting into a juicy tale everyone leaned in for.
But lately it seemed like she couldn't relax without a drink in her hand, her smile rarely reaching her eyes, her laugh coming too quick and too bright. The effort showed in every gesture. It had to be exhausting to feel like you had to telegraph perfection continuously, every second of every day.
Rowan refilled Brooke's glass without comment, then returned to her seat. She picked up a scone, took the smallest bite, and set it back down. "Chloe thinks it's all her fault because it was her party. She's taking it very hard. She had terrible nightmares all night."
"Mia did, too." I took a scone and nibbled it. It was delicious, but I had little appetite. I glanced out the window. Outside, yellow crime tape fluttered between two trees on the edge of the bluff.
Brooke followed my gaze and took a long gulp of her mimosa, her hand unsteady. "How long is that going to be there? I can't imagine how you must feel, seeing that reminder every day. That she… that a girl died right there. I would want to move."
Rowan's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"They finished processing the area this morning.
I asked the detectives to remove the crime tape, but they're taking their sweet time.
I'm sure it'll be taken care of by tomorrow.
And this is my home. While what happened is tragic, I could never consider moving somewhere else. "
"Of course, " Brooke murmured, not meeting Rowan’s probing gaze.
An awkward silence descended. Whitney’s anxious foot-tapping accelerated.
"Have any of you seen Mia's camera?" I asked.
All eyes turned to me, questioning, curious. They shook their heads.
“I haven't," Rowan said, "and the police did a most thorough search of our house. Why do you ask?"
I shrugged and tried to appear nonchalant, though my heart was racing. "Mia seems to have misplaced it, I guess." Though I wasn't sure I believed that.
Rowan's phone dinged on the counter. She pushed back her chair, rose, and went to the counter, then frowned down at the screen. "It's Camille. She says to turn on the news right now. It's about Leah."
We rose hurriedly and moved to the living room. Rowan commanded the TV to switch on, her voice tight. "Turn to the local news."
Detective King filled the screen as he stood at a podium, surrounded by several detectives and officers, including Detective Callahan and the police chief. His expression was grave.
Cameras flashed in his face as he spoke. "Leah Cho's death has been ruled a homicide. We are asking anyone with information relating to this case to please contact the St. Joseph Police Department immediately."
No one moved. No one spoke.