Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Ipulled into the parking lot of Lakeshore Prep ten minutes early, so I parked rather than join the queue of luxury SUVs, sedans, and sports cars waiting to collect their students.
My brain buzzed. My skin felt electrified. Homicide. Someone had killed Leah. I thought of Viv and what she must be going through. I knew how violence could utterly destroy you.
I had to go see her again; I couldn't let her do this alone.
I tugged my phone from my oversized white faux-leather purse and called her. It went to voicemail, no surprise. I left a message, then sent her a quick text: Viv, I just heard. I'm so sorry, I'm here for whatever you need.
I stared at the phone for a moment, hoping for a response that didn't come. I'd text her again later tonight.
Before I put the phone away, a text from Camille appeared: Detectives pushing hard to interview Mia now. I've held them off until tomorrow. Make sure Mia eats and gets sleep. See you then.
I swallowed hard. The words blurred on the screen. She didn't say everything would be okay or offer any reassurances. That wasn't her style. Still, part of me wished she had.
A million thoughts whirred anxiously inside my head. Had someone sneaked onto the Westinghouse property that night? Who? For what reason? And how? The community was gated and secure, although someone might have come up from the beach access stairs. Or was the killer lurking closer to home?
And what did all this mean for Mia? The scratches on her arms. The suspicious way the detectives had looked at her when they saw the blood on her dress.
It was too much. I had to focus on what I could control: picking up Mia from school, keeping her safe, and getting home and cocooning ourselves away from the madness.
I exited the car and headed toward the school. From inside their cars, I felt the stares of several mothers I recognized from the PTA meetings Rowan encouraged me to attend.
Without Rowan, Brooke, or Whitney by my side, I was pretty much invisible here among the wealthy and privileged families of St. Joe.
Which was fine with me. I didn't care. At least, I told myself I didn't.
Let them gossip. I had bigger things to worry about.
I knew better than to enter the school. Mia would be mortified, so instead, I waited outside beneath the portico.
Through the glass doors, I spotted Mia standing by the drinking fountain, her shoulders hunched, head down in a way that tore at my heart. Peyton Alistair leaned in next to her, whispering in her ear while Mia nodded, her face blank.
At least her friends were on her side, still talking to her. At least they had each other.
Peyton patted Mia's arm, then turned and headed back into the building, on her way to debate club, maybe, or swim practice. Whitney kept her daughter's schedule packed tighter than her own.
Jerome Hayward pushed through the double doors, leather satchel over one shoulder, a folder of math papers in his other hand. Tall and lean with close-cropped graying hair, he had the practiced calm of someone who'd spent twenty years teaching middle school math.
When he spotted me, he crossed over in a few long strides, his expression somber. "Dahlia. I'm so sorry. Zara's just heartbroken. I can't imagine what Mia's going through."
I'd always liked Camille's husband. Where she was bold and commanding, Jerome was steady and reserved, except at games, when he was the loudest parent in the stands, whether it was Zara's volleyball or Zion's basketball games.
"Leah and Mia are in my pre-algebra class. They always partnered up for group work. They're good kids." He cleared his throat and winced, as if realizing his mistake. "Leah was a good kid."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"If there's anything Camille or I can do," he added, "you let us know."
"I will, and Camille is already helping us immensely. Thank you, Jerome."
He gave a small nod and headed toward the parking lot, papers shifting in his grip.
A minute later, Mia exited the front doors. Conversations buzzed around her, along with hushed whispers and pointed glances. She strode through the crowd of students as if she were oblivious, but she wasn't. Her shoulders hunched, head bowed as if she felt their suspicion like burrs on her skin.
Indignation burned in my chest. I wanted to yell at her classmates, but that wouldn't do any good.
"Hey, you," I said when we were both back in the car. She slumped in the front seat, backpack at her feet, her phone clutched in both hands.
"Mia, I need to tell you something. About Leah. The police announced—"
"I already know, Mom. It's all over Instagram. It's all anyone is talking about."
She angled the phone away from me, but not before I glimpsed that familiar pink emblem on the screen. Captions and images scrolled past too swiftly to read. Her knuckles were white around her phone case.
"I'm so sorry you had to find out that way."
Her voice was flat. "They're saying it was murder. That she—that someone killed her."
"The police will figure out what happened," I said carefully. "They'll find the truth."
"What if they don't?" She turned to look at me, her eyes glassy, unfocused, like she'd been crying. "What if they think…" She cut herself off and stared down at her phone.
"Mia—"
"Can we just go home?"
My chest tightened. I didn't want to push her. I didn't know what to say, how to make any of this better. "You want to stop at Forté Coffee for some hazelnut lattes on the way?"
It was usually her favorite treat. She shook her head and slumped deeper into the seat.
The rest of the car ride home was silent. At the Blackthorn Shores security gate, several white vans were pulled off to the side of the road. A dozen people stood on the berm, setting up video cameras and microphones.
I drove past them and pulled up at the security gate. "Great, the media is here."
Frank Hastings, the head of security, gave me a friendly smile as he waved us through.
In his late fifties, with a beer belly and salt-and-pepper beard, Frank had always treated Mia and me with the same easy warmth he gave everyone else, regardless of our tax bracket.
"Vultures, more like it. Don't worry, we won't let them in. "
"Thank you, Frank. I appreciate that."
He smiled at Mia, but she didn't look up from her phone. "You have a nice day now."
"You, too." I drove down maple-lined Cliff Harbor Drive, past the clubhouse and the playground, where a few nannies watched their charges climbing the jungle gym. Alexis sat on the bench, scrolling on her phone while her younger brother Falcon played on the swings.
"You want to head to the playground to hang out with Alexis for a while? I bought cinnamon rolls at Martins, so you could bring her and Falcon one."
"I'll pass."
"Just a thought."
"I'm fine, Mom."
A minute later, I turned left onto Wyld Wood Lane. At Camille's house, Zion was practicing basketball on their circular driveway.
Mia slung her backpack over her shoulder as we exited the car and approached the house.
Something wasn't right.
I couldn't name it at first. Just—wrongness. A prickle at the base of my skull.
I unlocked the front door and stuffed my keys in my purse. Inside, the house felt too quiet, too still. Mia dropped her backpack by the stairs. She glanced back at me, her features tense; she felt it, too.
"Apollo?" I called.
The dog appeared from the kitchen, his tail wagging. Apollo trotted over immediately, circling Mia and whining softly before sitting at her feet and placing one heavy paw on her shoe, his way of saying I'm here, love me.
For the first time since we'd left Rowan's house on Saturday morning, something in Mia's face softened. She patted his head, then headed straight for the stairs. "I've got a ton of homework."
"Wait." I grabbed her arm gently. "Stay here for a second."
"Why?"
"Just… stay here. Let me check the house."
She rolled her eyes. "Mom. Are you for real right now?"
It was so like her old self, I could have cried. "Humor me."
I moved through the house, checking everything.
Living room: nothing disturbed. Kitchen: dishes still in the sink from this morning.
Mia's bedroom: jeans and sweatshirts scattered across the floor, textbooks piled on her desk.
My gaze lingered on the empty spot on her closet shelf where her Nikon usually sat, then moved on.
Everything looked normal.
It didn't feel normal.
I checked every window. Every door. All locked. No signs of forced entry. Nothing missing that I could see.
In my office, papers sat in a messy stack on my desk, a huge oak monstrosity I'd found at Goodwill. On my desk sat the coffee mug I still needed to wash, my laptop, the blue composition notebook, and the desk lamp.
I turned to leave, stopped, and glanced back.
The window was open. Just a few inches. A cool draft slipped through and rustled the papers on my desk.
I stared at it for a moment. Had I opened it this morning? I couldn't remember. The forecast had been cool and cloudy, though the sun had peeked out by midday. Perhaps I'd cracked it before that.
I crossed the room and pulled it shut. Locked the latch.
Then I went back downstairs.
Mia stared at me as if I were out of my mind. "Mom, it's fine. Everything's fine."
"I know."
"Nothing's going to happen here, that's what you said, right? We're safe here."
I nodded absently. It was PTSD from the stress. Had to be. That's what the grief therapist we saw after Marcus's death used to say. Just breathe. Be calm, be steady. Breathe through it.
"Mom?" Mia looked at me, concern on her face mingled with teenage impatience.
"I know, you're right. Old habits." I forced a smile. Slowly, my heartrate decreased. "Are you hungry? Want me to whip up our favorite grilled cheese and tomato soup combo?"
"I'm not hungry. I just want to finish my algebra and English assignments and go to bed."
"Okay." I watched her climb the stairs. Apollo padded faithfully after her. His nails clicked against the hardwood floor. A moment later, her bedroom door closed with a soft thud.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty staircase, then I forced myself to move, to do something productive.
The freelance article wouldn't write itself. It was due in three days.
In my office, I opened my laptop and stared at the blinking cursor. The title mocked me from the top of the screen: "Effective Communication with Teenagers: Five Ways to Connect."
I'd written variations of this article a dozen times for different parenting magazines and websites. The advice always came easily: active listening, open-ended questions, creating safe spaces for tough conversations.
All the things I was apparently failing to do with my own daughter.
My fingers hovered over the keys. Nothing came. Maybe looking at my notes would jog some inspiration loose.
I reached for the blue composition notebook I always kept beside my laptop.
It wasn't where I'd left it.
I always set it to the right of my laptop, my pen clipped neatly to the top. Now it lay skewed at an angle, next to the desk lamp, with the pen out of its clip, lying on top of the notebook instead.
A prickle of unease ran along my scalp.
I hadn't noticed the placement when I'd checked a few minutes earlier. Had I moved it? This morning felt like a year ago. Perhaps I'd flipped it open to jot something down and forgotten.
I took notes longhand, old-school, ink on paper. Writing by hand slowed my thoughts, allowed me to make sense of them, and anchored them in my memory.
I glanced at the window over my desk. Still closed. Still locked. I needed to get hold of myself. I couldn't spiral, not now when Mia needed me most.
This was what stress did. What grief did. It made you forget small things, invent patterns that didn’t exist, and made your mind spiral with paranoia, unsure which fears were real or imagined.
My therapist had warned me about hypervigilance after Marcus died, how trauma could make you see threats everywhere.
But what if some of those threats were actually real?
I slid the notebook back into its proper place and flipped it open, but I couldn't focus on any of the notes I'd written for the current article.
Instead, I tried to focus on the screen. When your teen shuts you out, that's often when they need you most...
The sentence felt hollow. Cliche. I deleted it and tried to write it again.
My phone buzzed on the desk. Vivienne's name lit up the screen: I need to talk.
I responded that I'd be right over. A second later, another text appeared: I can't take another minute in this house. Can I come to you?
I was already on my feet and headed down the hall toward the kitchen and the back door, texting as I walked: Meet me on the patio.