Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The interview room at the precinct felt like a freezer, the chill sinking deep into my bones, despite my Detroit Lions sweatshirt. The walls were painted an institutional gray, and the air reeked of coffee and sweat.
Mia sat beside me in a metal chair, her shoulders curved inward as if trying to make herself disappear. Her fingers twisted and untwisted in her lap. Dark shadows smudged her bloodshot eyes, evidence of the sleepless nights that plagued us both.
On her other side sat Camille Hayward, exuding a calm steadiness I didn't share. Anxiety curdled in my stomach. Even though Camille had gone over every detail with us earlier, I didn't feel any more prepared.
Still, if I wanted anyone by our side in this mess, it was Camille. At 45, she was striking and stylish, her warm brown skin glowing, her natural hair worn in a short coiled fro she often accessorized with colorful headscarves.
She wore bold colors and statement earrings like armor, owning any room she entered. Camille didn't waste time on fake pleasantries or pretending to like people, and her tolerance for nonsense was about two seconds long on a good day.
I admired her confidence, her boldness, her brutal honesty. She was impossible to intimidate, and we needed that brashness right now.
The door to the interrogation room opened. Detectives Judah King and Sarah Callahan entered, their expressions friendly, open, and sympathetic.
It was their eyes, though, that I feared, that they would turn their sharp suspicious gazes on my daughter.
"Good afternoon, Mia, Ms. Kincaid, and Ms. Hayward." Detective King pulled out a metal chair across from us. Callahan settled beside him as Detective King reached across the table and turned the little black recorder on. An ominous red light blinked on.
He leaned back, his posture deliberately casual. "Mia, you're here voluntarily. You can leave anytime. Your mom and your lawyer are here, and you don't have to answer anything you're not comfortable with. We're just trying to understand what happened to your friend. Okay?"
Mia nodded, barely perceptible. "I understand."
To the camera, he said, "This is Detective Judah King and Detective Sarah Callahan with the St. Joseph Police Department.
It is 10:03 a.m., on Tuesday, April twelfth.
We're in Interview Room Two with minor witness Mia Kincaid, her mother, Dahlia Kincaid, and their attorney, Camille Hayward. This interview is being recorded."
"Let the record reflect that Mia is here voluntarily as a witness, not a suspect." Camille's hand tightened on Mia's forearm. "Mia will answer questions she feels comfortable answering. If this becomes adversarial or coercive, we will terminate this conversation and leave."
King said, "Understood."
Camille said to Mia. "Answer only what you know. If you don't know, say you don't know. Look at me if you need a break."
Mia nodded again.
My heart raced, my palms clammy. I wanted to gather her up, tuck her under my arm like when she was little, and run with her out of this grim, soulless place.
"I'm right here," I said under my breath, just for Mia.
King pulled a pen from his pocket and flipped open his leather notebook. "Okay, Mia. We just have a few questions we'd like to go over with you."
Callahan clasped her hands on the table and leaned forward. "We know this is a difficult time for you, and we're sorry for the loss of your friend, Leah. We really appreciate your help."
Mia's jaw tightened. "Okay."
"We've talked with the other girls as well, and now we'd like to hear from you, in your own words, what happened that night," King said.
Uneasiness slithered through me. What had the other girls said? Did their stories match Mia's? What would happen if they didn't?
"Can you tell us what happened when you arrived at Chloe's house?" King asked.
Mia took a shaky breath. "We got there around 5 p.m. We got ready in Chloe's bathroom, did our hair and makeup, put our dresses on, and went out to the bluff.
I took a bunch of pictures of all the girls.
Then we went back inside and ate the chicken tacos that Mrs. Westinghouse ordered from Azul Tequila.
We watched the newest Hunger Games movie, talked about school and the dance, and went to bed around 11:30 p.m."
"Did you go down to the beach for photos?" King asked.
"No, we stayed on top of the bluff. It was more dramatic high up with the lake in the background."
"So, you never went down to the beach?"
Mia shook her head. "No."
I went still, thinking of Mia's sandy slippers in her closet.
"Mia," King said mildly, "did you and Leah have any disagreements Friday night? Even a small one? It's okay if you did. Friends argue. That's normal."
"We… we were fine," Mia said. "Everyone was just laughing and goofing off. Taking pictures. No one was fighting." She blinked and looked down at the table.
I glanced at Camille. She maintained her composed facade, her expression unreadable. Her gold hoop earrings glinted under the harsh lights. She looked unflappable, while my heart hammered in my chest, each beat echoing loudly in my ears.
"Did you or the other girls drink any alcohol or smoke some pot or anything else?" Callahan asked.
"Not that I know of."
"Have you ever sleepwalked or are you on any sleep medication like Ambien?" Callahan asked.
"Don't answer that, Mia," Camille said. "Detective, you told us this was a witness interview. If you consider Mia a suspect, we're done here."
Callahan smiled, showing too many teeth. "We're simply trying to determine if there was any impaired behavior that may have affected memory or altered normal behavior with anyone at the sleepover."
Mia jumped in. "No, we didn't do anything like that."
Camille gave the detectives a sharp look. "You have your answer. Now move on."
"What time did you go to bed?" King asked, though Mia had already answered that question.
"Around 11:30 p.m., I think. Around then. We were tired. It was a busy week."
"And you stayed in your sleeping bag all night?" Callahan asked.
"Yes," Mia said. "I was tired. I didn't get up."
"And you didn't see Leah again after you went to sleep?" King asked.
"No. She was in her sleeping bag when I fell asleep. That's all I know."
"Alexis mentioned waking up around 12:30 in the morning to get a drink of water," Callahan said. "She says your sleeping bag was empty."
"Alexis is wrong," Mia said quickly. "She must've… gotten confused."
"She was quite specific," Callahan said. "She remembers being annoyed that she had only slept for an hour, and she claims Leah's sleeping bag looked empty, too."
Mia looked affronted. "Alexis was the one not in her sleeping bag, not me!"
"I thought you were sleeping the whole time?" Callahan asked.
"I—I woke up once, I guess, to adjust my pillow. I saw her bag was empty then."
Camille cut in, "We don't know what Alexis saw or didn't see in a dark basement with other girls moving around."
"That's what we're trying to clarify." King spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "We're not accusing anyone. We're just seeing some patterns we'd like your help to understand, Mia."
"Move along," Camille said.
"There are also some things we heard from the neighbors," Callahan said. "Specifically, Mrs. Atkins, who lives next door to the Westinghouse home."
Camille cleared her throat. "If you have a statement, we'll review it later. But you know as well as I do you can't treat neighbors' gossip like fact."
"Mrs. Atkins called the non-emergency line Saturday," Callahan continued as if Camille hadn't spoken. "She reported that she heard voices out by the bluff around 12:15 a.m., early Saturday morning. Female voices, talking loudly. Whose voices, Mia?"
The room chilled. Mia's gaze snapped up, wide and startled, meeting Callahan's for the first time. Raw panic flared for a moment before she forced her gaze back down to the table. "I don't know who that was."
"Mrs. Atkins is seventy-nine years old," Camille said. "I will need to see her auditory records before I accept the reliability of her hearing from two hundred feet away. Next question, detectives."
"Let's talk about your camera," Callahan said, changing tactics. "A Nikon D780, correct?"
"Yes," Mia said. "My dad gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday. It was his before."
"Sounds like it's special to you."
Mia nodded.
The missing Nikon had been a constant ache in my chest since Saturday. His last birthday gift to her. The way he'd placed it in her hands with exaggerated ceremony. How she'd thrown her arms around his neck, nearly knocking them both over, laughing with delight.
Mia wouldn't misplace it. I knew that with all my heart.
Callahan said, "You took your Nikon to the Westinghouse property on Friday night, correct?"
"Yes," Mia said.
"And you used it for the photo shoot by the bluff. And then took it inside, right?"
"Yes."
"Where is it now?"
"I don't know. It wasn't in its case in the morning."
"When was the last time you saw it?"
"When I came in from the photo shoot. I put it in the case, next to my overnight bag, beside the patio doors. Maybe someone took it out by accident, and it got left somewhere."
I could picture Rowan's spacious walk-out basement. It was the size of another house, with an open floor plan that included a game room with ping-pong, air hockey, and a pool table, a movie room with a giant screen, a full-sized kitchen, and a second family room.
Plenty of space for something like a camera to disappear without anyone noticing.
"The problem is," Callahan said, "we did a thorough search of the basement with the homeowners' consent. We didn't find your camera. Not in the basement. Not near the bluff. Nowhere."
A buzzing started in my ears.
"It's a camera," Camille interjected. "Portable. Handheld. It could've been moved. It could've been stolen. One of the other girls could have taken it."