Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
"It's okay," I said, even though nothing felt okay. "I'm here. I've got you."
Mia clung to me desperately. "I'm so sorry," she choked out between sobs. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."
I smoothed her damp hair. "We'll find a way through this."
She pulled back. "You don't understand. Everyone thinks I did it. Even you might think so."
"Mia, look at me." I waited until her eyes met mine. "I love you more than anything in this world, and I don't believe you killed Leah, not for a second."
She wiped at her cheeks angrily. "I should've been there for her. I should've been better…"
"No, don't blame yourself."
The rain drummed on the roof of the car. I wasn't sure if I should say anything else, or if she simply wanted my presence, my comforting touch.
I tried not to think about the damp slippers stuffed at the bottom of her overnight bag, the crusted sand, the way they'd felt cold and heavy in my hands.
We went inside. All of us. Together.
That's what Mia had told the detectives. That's what she'd sworn.
My throat tightened. Maybe I should have mentioned the slippers, should have told King and Callahan, or asked Mia right there in the interrogation room, with Camille present, with everything on the record.
But I hadn't.
I'd kept my mouth shut and let my daughter lie.
The questions the reporter had screamed at me echoed in my skull. What kind of mother are you, anyway?
Did keeping quiet make me a better mother? Or a terrible person?
I replayed Mia's story in my mind, testing each piece against what I knew. If they'd all gone inside and no one had gone to the beach that night, then why were Mia's slippers damp with beach sand?
The bluff consisted of clay, dirt, and rocks. The beach was a hundred feet down a steep slope, accessible only by wooden stairs or a perilous scramble down slick clay, through scrubby underbrush and thornbushes.
Why would Mia go down to the beach?
When would she have gone?
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. She sat motionless, staring out at the rain, her profile small and shadowed.
"I need to ask you something. Be honest with me, no matter what it is."
"I am being honest."
"Last night, I went through your overnight bag."
Her eyebrows pinched. "You what?"
"You told me you didn't go down to the beach that night." I kept my tone clinical, detached. I didn't want to make her more upset or defensive. "You said everyone stayed at the top of the bluff."
"Yeah. It'd be too hard to go down all those stairs and back up again in our dresses."
"I found your slippers stuffed at the bottom of your bag, damp and full of sand."
Whatever color had come back to her face faded again. Even her lips went pale. "What?"
"When did you go down to the beach, Mia?"
The denial was instant, reflexive. “I didn't."
"Then how did your slippers get wet and sandy?"
"I don't know. I didn't end up wearing them. I slept in my socks, so I never took them out of my overnight bag. Ask the girls."
I watched her closely, hardly daring to breathe. "Where was the bag?"
"By the patio doors, beside my camera case. Anyone could have borrowed them." She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers digging into her elbows. Her sleeves slid up her arms, revealing the scratches. "I didn't go to the beach that night. I know how bad it looks, but I swear, Mom, I didn't."
My heartbeat thudded in my ears. She was telling the truth, or she had grown into an excellent liar, which frightened me more than I wanted to admit. I used to know with absolute certainty whether she was keeping something from me. Now, I wasn't certain at all.
"Okay." Still, something bothered me, like I wasn't getting the complete picture yet, but pushing her harder would only make her withdraw further from me than she already had. "Okay, honey."
Mia exhaled shakily. Some of the tension leaked from her shoulders. Her tears had subsided. "Can we just go home?"
"Of course." I started the car again, pulling back onto the slick road. The wipers beat a steady rhythm against the windshield. Rain sheeted down in waves, turning the world beyond the glass into a smeared watercolor.
I swallowed and focused on the road through the windshield. The heater blasted warm air that smelled faintly of mildew.
Seventy-two hours. Three days until the DNA results came back.
Three days to find out if my daughter was telling the truth. To decide what I was going to do with the evidence I was hiding. Should I wash the sandy slippers? Throw them out? What was on the camera? How was I supposed to find it?
Apprehension, doubt, and worry pressed like heavy stones on my chest.
We slowed as we approached the Blackthorn Shores security gates. Security lights cast harsh white pools across the wet pavement. A cluster of reporters stood right behind the private property line, their umbrellas tilted against the wind, cameras at the ready.
The reporters surged forward, shouting questions I couldn't hear through the glass. Frank waved us through quickly, stepping between our car and the mob.
I nodded my thanks and drove past the security gates, then headed west on Cliff Harbor Drive. Inside the gates, the neighborhood felt different from before, like we were being watched from every direction.
The Cromwell's front door opened and two small faces peered out. Mrs. Cromwell appeared behind her twins, saw our car, and pulled them inside. The door slammed shut.
"Great," I muttered. "The rumor mill is in overdrive."
Mia sank lower in her seat. "They're all gonna hate me. Everyone at school. Everyone here."
"Let them think what they want." The words came out sharper than I had intended. I softened my voice. "We know the truth. That's what matters."
But even as I spoke the words, doubt gnawed at me.
Did we know the truth?
At the community playground, the swings sat empty and forlorn. The rain lightened to a soft sprinkle.
I kept my eyes forward. Almost home. Almost safe.
We passed Whitney's house, then Camille's. As we approached our house, I spotted Alexis at the foot of our driveway, in front of our mailbox.
The hood of her sweatshirt was cinched over her head, obscuring her face. She watched us approach, then lifted her phone and aimed it at our windshield.
The sleeve of Alexis's sweatshirt slipped down as she raised her phone, revealing a bruise on her wrist. Deep purple. Circular. As if someone had grabbed her arm hard.
I blinked, looked again. It was still there.
Alexis lowered the phone and waved. The bruise disappeared beneath her sleeve. The smile that spread across her face was slow, deliberate. Something cold in it.
"Do you see that?" Mia asked, her voice ragged. "She's taking pictures. Of us."
"Yeah, I see her."
"She knows those reporters are out there. She's going to send them the photos. Or worse, post them on… " Her voice trailed off.
"Post them where?"
"Never mind."
My stomach sank. "Alexis is your friend. Why would she do that?"
"Ugh, Mom. Whatever gets her more likes, okay? She pretends she hates her mom, but they're the same like that. That's all she cares about."
I forced my foot to stay steady on the gas pedal, to refrain from slamming on the brakes, rolling down the window, and demanding Alexis delete the pictures she'd just taken.
It wouldn't matter. The damage was already done.
What I really wanted to do was to ask her a few pointed questions about that suspicious bruising. Had the police seen it? They must have. "Did you know Alexis has a bruised wrist?"
"I dunno, Mom. What does it matter? Just let it go, okay?"
Alexis stalked down the street toward Driftwood Terrace and her house.
I bit my lip. What if that bruise was from Leah?
What if Leah had grabbed Alexis as she fell?
Was Brooke's daughter the one who pushed Leah?
And why did it look like Alexis had been walking down our driveway when we'd turned the corner?
Questions swirled in my mind. But I wouldn't get them answered right now, so I forced myself to let Alexis go, like Mia wanted. As she disappeared around the corner, I pulled into our gravel driveway.
The cottage sat dark and silent. Beyond the bluff, the lake had disappeared in the spitting rain, the horizon blurred, as if the edge of the cliff was the edge of the world itself.
From our cottage, I couldn't see Rowan's house. But I could imagine it blazing with light, every window glowing. I could picture it perfectly: the mothers clustered around Rowan's marble island, wine glasses in hand, voices low and urgent as they discussed the latest rumors surrounding the case.
I killed the engine. The tick of the cooling motor broke the silence. "Once the police find out what really happened, this will go away."
"What if they don't?"
"They will." I hoped I sounded certain, for Mia's sake.
She stared straight ahead. "I'm tired. I just want to go inside."
I reached over to squeeze her hand before we stepped out into the rain, then we hurried to the front door. Our shoes splashed through shallow puddles on the uneven driveway.
I fumbled in my purse for my keys. Then I saw it.
I seized Mia's arm. "Wait."
The front door was ajar.