Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
The interview room went in and out of focus. It was difficult to breathe. I couldn't take my eyes off my daughter.
"Careful," Camille said to Mia, looking flustered for the first time. This was not what we'd gone over in our pre-interview meeting. "If you're going to change anything about your earlier statement, we need to take a break now—"
"No," Mia said with more force than anything she'd said all morning. "No breaks. If I stop, I won't say it. I just need to say it."
A vein pulsed in Camille's temple. "Mia—"
Mia looked at me, desperation in her eyes. "I want to, Mom."
I looked between them, uncertain whether to agree with Camille or defend Mia. Camille was the expert, but Mia wanted to unburden herself, and I only wanted to support her, however I could. The truth mattered. For Leah, for her grieving family, for all of us.
Tremulously, I nodded. Camille scowled in irritation but waved a hand for the interview to continue.
"When did you go back out to the bluff?" King asked, his voice low and gentle, coaxing.
"After everyone went to bed." Her words tumbled out now, tripping over each other in their rush to get out. "For another photoshoot. A midnight photoshoot. Chloe said the moon was bright and that it would look better. She wanted… she wanted different vibes. Just us."
Callahan leaned in. Her eyes were glinting and laser-focused on Mia. "Who's 'us'?"
"Me, Chloe, and Leah," Mia said. "The three of us."
"What time was this?" King asked.
"After midnight. Everyone else was asleep. Chloe came over to my sleeping bag and kicked it, like, gently. She said, 'Wake up, Kincaid, we're doing Round Two.' She said the moon was perfect."
"And Leah?" King asked. "How did she end up going with you?"
"She was awake," Mia said. "Or half-awake. Chloe said we needed her. She had us get dressed again in the downstairs bathroom. Then we snuck out."
"How?"
"Through the patio doors, in the basement."
The image unfolded unbidden in my mind: three girls tiptoeing through a sleeping house, their whispered giggles, their phone screens illuminating the dark. Moonlight pouring silver over the backyard with the bluff looming, the lake like a black mouth.
"You took your camera?" King asked.
"Yes."
"Did Zara or Alexis or anyone else wake up?" Callahan asked.
"I don't think so," Mia said. "No one said anything. We were quiet."
"Then what happened?" King asked. "Take your time."
Mia gulped for air. Her hands shook. "I took pictures of Chloe posing, then Leah, and then Leah took a few pictures of me.
Leah said she was dizzy. She… she would get like that.
With heights. Chloe wanted, like, edgy shots.
She told Leah to stand closer to the edge, to lean back a little, like she wasn't scared.
Leah kept saying she hated heights. It happened sometimes when she was nervous. She got these stupid nosebleeds."
"How bad was the bleeding?" King asked.
"It was dripping," Mia said. "Down her lip. Onto her chin. And onto my dress. I was holding her arm. She grabbed me when she got dizzy. It—" She gestured helplessly. "It got on me. That's why…"
"That's why Leah's blood is on your dress," King finished for her.
"Yeah."
"The match proves nothing." Camille scribbled on a notepad. "Leah got nosebleeds. You can confirm this with her parents and friends."
Camille was right. Leah had the occasional bloody nose, especially when the air was cold and dry, or when she was nervous or stressed. I'd helped her a few times when it happened at my house.
I studied the detectives, trying to ascertain whether they believed her. It was plausible. Mia was telling the truth. They had to believe her.
"Leah said she was fine," Mia said. "She just needed a tissue. She kept pinching her nose. We weren't, like, fighting or anything."
"And then?" Callahan prompted when she didn’t continue.
"And then we went inside, all of us, together.
We shut the door. We wiped the blood off.
I changed into my pajamas, they went to the bathroom, and we went back to the basement.
I got into my sleeping bag. That's it. I didn't see Leah again.
I thought she was in her sleeping bag, asleep like everyone else. "
I exhaled. Something released inside me. It made sense. It made horrible sense. The blood on the dress, the second photo shoot, the neighbor hearing voices, and even the scratches on Mia's arms. It fit if you smoothed the edges and didn't look too hard at the gaps.
Except for the missing camera. And the sandy slippers, which only I knew about. Those pricked like burrs beneath my skin.
"You're saying," Callahan said, careful, like she was handling something volatile, "that all three of you—Chloe, Leah, and you—went back inside together after Leah's nosebleed. That you saw Leah walk back into the house."
"Yes. She was right there, behind me."
"You're certain of that," Callahan pressed. "She wasn't left outside. She didn't go somewhere alone."
"She was with us," Mia insisted. "Ask Chloe. She'll tell you."
"We're interviewing you right now, not Chloe," Callahan said, her voice cool.
Mia glanced at me, her face flushing. "Leah must have gone out later, alone. When we were all asleep. I didn't see anything. I didn't do anything!"
"Mia," King said. "You've done the hard part. Just help us understand what happened at the bluff. You say you didn't push Leah. Okay. Then did anyone touch her? Did she slip? Did she climb over the edge? Did you see or hear anyone else outside during that time?"
Tears spilled down Mia's cheeks. Her breath came in shallow gasps. "I didn't see anything! I told you, I didn't do anything!"
"That's enough," Camille said, sharper now. "My client is clearly overwhelmed. Detectives, we're done here."
King held up a hand. "Ms. Hayward, if we could just… "
Camille stood. "This interview is over."
Callahan leaned forward. "In about seventy-two hours, we're going to have DNA results back.
Fast-tracked due to the publicity and the sensitive nature of this case.
DNA from the blood on your dress. From the skin cells under Leah's nails.
From anything she touched. If your story doesn't match what the science shows, it will be a lot worse than telling us the truth now. "
Camille snorted. "Save the dramatics for a jury.
When the DNA comes back, you'll have nothing.
To recap, Detectives, you may lose the dress in a motion to suppress, there's a viable explanation for the blood of the victim on the dress, and your eyewitness is so old she could have worked in a factory during the Second World War, making ball bearings for B-17s. Hardly a slam dunk case."
She turned to Mia now. "Stand up. We're leaving."
As she stood, Mia's desperate gaze landed on me. For a moment, there was nothing else in the room. Just my daughter's teary eyes and the questions she didn't have words for. Can you believe me? Can you still love me if you don't?
My throat closed. Despite Camille's bravado, anxiety curdled in my gut. I didn't share a shred of her confidence. Seventy-two hours, Callahan had said. Three days.
Camille's hand pressed into the small of my back, guiding me toward the door. Mia moved woodenly beside me.
As we exited the interrogation room, the world came rushing back. Officers watched us with suspicious gazes. The precinct buzzed with activity: murmured conversations, an officer laughing too loudly at something in a cubicle, the distant bark of a dispatcher's orders.
Mia clung to my arm as Camille strode down the hallway, her gaze fixed straight ahead. She looked capable, formidable. Once again, I was incredibly grateful she was on our side.
A knot twisted in my stomach. Did she believe Mia? Or was she already doubting her decision to take on our case?
"Mom," Mia whispered. "I'm sorry I lied."
I squeezed her hand. "We'll talk later."
Camille halted a few steps ahead, glancing back at us before scanning the hallway.
Satisfied that no one was within earshot, she lowered her voice.
"There will be reporters outside. Someone tipped them off that Mia was at the station.
They'll assume she's a suspect, even without an arrest. We need to discuss our next steps, but here's what happens next.
Go home, stay off social media. Dahlia, consider keeping Mia home from school.
Don't talk to anyone about this case. If the police call, you call me.
If a neighbor asks a single question, you say 'no comment'.
'No comment' is the only thing you say from now on. Both of you. Understood?"
Dread settled like a stone in my stomach. "If they think Mia did it, what are they waiting for?"
"Mia is only fourteen," Camille said. "This case could draw national attention, and the police are treading carefully.
Arresting a grieving eighth grader without solid, indisputable evidence could very easily backfire on them, the mayor, and the D.A.
And in an election year, too. They're building their case methodically.
But make no mistake, they are building it. "
"What does that mean for us?"
"It means," Camille said, "that we need to build a vigorous defense. Gather our own evidence, line up character witnesses, anything that can help."
"The blood, her fingernails… "
"We concede nothing without the actual DNA results or context. They're attempting to intimidate us into revealing information. We don't give them anything more. We make them work for it. Leah and Mia were together, and transfer happens in a dozen ways."
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it and swore under her breath. "They're moving fast. An article in the Detroit Free Press just released. The story is gaining traction, which is attention we don't need."
"How bad is this?" I asked.
Camille's eyes met mine. Something like sympathy flickered for a moment, then vanished. "It's bad enough. Keep your head. Protect your kid. And Dahlia?"
"Yes?"
"Find that camera before the authorities do."
Mia's grip on my hand tightened. Her nails dug into my skin.
I nodded numbly. "Thank you, Camille. For everything."
"Don't thank me yet." A commotion in the foyer drew our attention. The muffled sounds of voices grew louder, more insistent. Camille's expression hardened. "The media. We have to get through them."
I peered toward the glass doors at the front of the precinct. The exit doors waited, panes of glass reflecting our warped shadows. The sky had transformed into a drab, dreary gray.
Beyond the doors, a cluster of reporters pressed against the barriers, camera lights flashing. Rain slicked the sidewalks. Umbrellas bobbed like dark mushrooms in the crowd.
Mia's face paled. "I—I can't. I don't want to go out there."
"Just keep your head down and stay close to me." Camille adjusted her coat, her gaze steely. "I'll lead the way. Do not engage with them. No comments, no reactions. Understood?"
We both nodded. Taking a deep breath, we pushed forward. The moment we stepped outside, the icy rain hit us. The scent of wet pavement and exhaust filled my lungs.
Raindrops spat against my face as I blinked against the blinding flash of cameras. Two dozen reporters swarmed us, their mics thrust forward, lenses clicking, voices overlapping.
Questions bombarded us from all sides:
"Did your daughter push Leah Cho to her death, Mrs. Kincaid?"
"Mia, do you have anything to say to the victim's family?"
A reporter thrust a microphone an inch from my face. "Mrs. Kincaid! Is your daughter a murderer?"
Alarmed, Mia reeled toward me. I folded her behind my body, my arms a makeshift barricade. My entire body thrummed with anger and humiliation.
I couldn't summon the words to respond. I knew how this worked. They would twist whatever I said anyway.
"No comment!" Camille cut a path through the crush of jostling reporters. "Back up!"
A reporter with spiky blond hair stepped directly into our path, his eyes lit with rabid glee. "Mrs. Kincaid, did your daughter murder her best friend? How does it feel to be the mother of a monster? What kind of mother are you, anyway?"
I couldn't hide the tremble in my voice. "Get out of our way!"
He smirked. "Mia, did you kill your best friend?"
Outrage surged through my veins. I wanted to punch him in his smirking face. Before I could respond, Camille forced her way between us. "This is harassment. Back off or I'll taser you."
We finally reached the car. Mia scrambled inside, and I followed. My hands shook so hard I fumbled with the seatbelt twice before it clicked. Camille shut the driver's side door, acting as a shield from the mob.
I locked the doors. The reporters pressed against the windows, their faces distorted through the streaming rain. I accelerated hard, scattering the crowd as I screeched out of the precinct parking lot. The man with the spiky hair jumped back and glared at me, shouting expletives as we passed.
In the rearview mirror, the clumps of jostling reporters grew smaller as we drove down M63. The tires hissed against the wet asphalt, and rain splattered the windshield, the streetlights like smears of amber in the downpour.
The town slid past: brick storefronts, a flag snapping on the pole outside the courthouse, a couple wearing ponchos darting into the Copper Pot diner. Normal life marched on.
My hands gripped the wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. I blinked rapidly as tears of anger and frustration welled up.
"I can't believe those animals," I muttered, more to myself than to Mia. "How dare they ambush us like that?"
A soft whimper came from the passenger seat. I glanced over. Mia was curled in on herself, the sleeves of her sweatshirt drawn over her hands as her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
I remembered her chubby toddler hands cupped around a lightning bug, the careful way she'd opened them to let it go.
Without thinking, I pulled into the parking lot of a hardware store. The neon sign flickered weakly. I turned off the engine, reached over, and pulled her into my arms.
"I would never try to hurt her."
"I know, honey. I know."
Still, I couldn't stop the thought that speared through my mind: someone had killed Leah Cho.
The prime suspect was my daughter.