Chapter Fourteen #2
"Come on, Dahlia. Don't hold out on us," Brooke said, pushy as usual.
The words caught in my throat. I hadn't planned to say anything else. I didn't want to. But the silence stretched. Their expectant faces—all of them, watching me, waiting for the rest—pulled it out of me.
"There was a break-in." I kept my attention on Brooke, watching for any twitch, any sign of recognition, guilt, or realization.
If it was Alexis who'd entered my house, did Brooke know?
Did she suspect her own daughter? "Someone was in my house on Tuesday morning. While Mia and I were at the precinct."
All four of them spoke at once.
"What? What happened?"
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"That's terrible!"
Whitney rose abruptly and began pacing behind the sectional. "I can't believe it. Here? Really?"
"The front door was open when we got home. Whoever it was, they went into my office. They moved things. The lamp on my desk, a family photograph."
A faint ringing started in my ears. Saying it out loud made it feel less like a bad dream and more like a real thing that had happened to us.
"What did they take?" Camille asked.
I hesitated. "Just the notebook on my desk."
Brooke's brows pulled together. "That's all?"
"I know it sounds weird, but it was like they wanted me to know they'd been there. Inside my house. Like they were messing with us, trying to make us afraid."
Whitney cocked her head. "Are you sure you didn't just leave the door open? Forgot where you put your notebook last?"
I wanted to tell her I had felt the violation, deep in my bones. "I'm sure."
"Did you call the police?" Rowan asked.
"I thought maybe it was some kind of…" I searched for a word that didn't sound insane. "Misunderstanding. I wanted to ask if any of you had been over to my house and forgot to tell me."
They all looked offended at once. It was almost funny. Only I was beyond laughing.
"I haven't been anywhere near your house," Whitney said.
"Me, neither," Camille said.
Rowan shook her head. "Only when you've been home."
All eyes went to Brooke.
"You have a key, don't you?" I already knew the answer. "From fall break last year."
Brooke blinked. "Oh. Right. Yes. From when you went to Grand Rapids with Mia. I forgot I even had it."
I watched her intently. "Do you still have it?"
She shifted her weight, glass tight in her hand. Her face was smooth, blank. "I think so."
"You think so?"
"I'm not sure where it ended up," Brooke said. "It might be in my junk drawer. I'm sure I put it back on your hook when I returned Apollo."
"You didn't." I could picture the empty spot on the key rack clearly, along with the spare key with the green and yellow Isle Royale keychain, another of Marcus’s purchases from our hiking trip to the island four years ago. "I never got it back."
Brooke let out a shaky laugh. "Then I must still have it. I'm sorry. Things have been… I can barely remember what day it is." She set the wine glass down a little too hard. "I'll look for it after we're done here."
"Could you check now?" The question slipped out before I could modulate my tone. I heard the edge in it and winced. "I'm sorry. I just, I'd feel better having it back."
Brooke's gaze darted to Rowan. "Actually, I think I gave it to Rowan."
Rowan smiled. "I think you're mistaken."
"No, I remember, I gave it to you before Thanksgiving, because Jason and I went to visit his parents in Aspen."
"Don’t you have a copy of everyone’s keys?" Whitney rolled her eyes. "It’s like you collect them."
Rowan smiled. "A few. But in this case, I don’t. Brooke, you gave it to Whitney, remember? Around Christmas, wasn't it?"
After a moment, Brooke's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh, right. I gave it to Whit. I mean, I had Alexis bring it over to Whitney's house right before Christmas break, when we went to Tahiti. In case someone needed to get into your house while I was gone. For Apollo."
I went still. "Alexis?"
Whitney played with her diamond tennis bracelet. "I completely forgot. Alexis gave it to Peyton. I told her to put it on the hook by our back door with the rest of our keys. I'll bring it by tonight. I haven't used it. We don't even notice it anymore."
Alexis had handled the spare key at some point. Alexis had been standing outside my house right before we discovered the opened door.
But Alexis wasn't the only one with an opportunity. The key had passed from Brooke to Alexis to Peyton to Whitney. Two of the girls knew its location and whose house it belonged to. Any of them could've used the key yesterday morning.
Plus, it was Brooke who'd told Vivienne about Mia's scratches and the blood on her dress. For what purpose? To insinuate that Mia was guilty to a grieving mother? Simply to gossip behind my back?
Brooke loved a salacious scandal, as long as it didn't involve herself. It hurt to think of her speaking of Mia like that, though.
I looked from one face to the next. Brooke, sweating into her wine glass. Whitney, her heel tapping an anxious rhythm into the rug. Camille with her jaw tight, eyes unreadable. Rowan calm and composed, as if she were moderating a PTA meeting.
I didn't detect any signs of guilt. That didn't mean there weren't any. I filed the information away to consider later and forced my voice to remain steady. "Thanks, Whit. I didn't think anyone had done anything. I just wanted to know where it was."
"Of course," Rowan said smoothly. "I'm sure you'll feel better once you have your key back safely, but we should get back to the reason we're here.
The memorial." She picked up a notepad from the counter.
Her handwriting already filled the top few lines in tight, slanted script.
"Flowers. Music. Venue's obviously the clubhouse.
Pastor Ramsey confirmed the date works with Daniel. "
"I'll handle the program," Whitney said. "Order of service, speakers, printed handouts. I know a printer who can turn it around fast."
The doorbell chimed.
We all flinched.
"Were we expecting anyone?" Rowan asked.
"No." Brooke frowned. She set her wine glass on the counter and glided from the great room down the hallway to the foyer. Muffled voices. A woman's voice, strained and sharp. Brooke's response, accommodating, then pleading.
The others looked at each other. No one spoke. Whitney had gone still; even she seemed to forget to move.
Then rapid footsteps sounded and Vivienne appeared in the doorway. She still wore her pajamas. Her eyes were swollen, her black hair uncombed. But it was the expression on her face that made my blood run cold.
It was pure rage.
"Vivienne?" Camille stepped forward. "What's wrong?"
Vivienne's sharp gaze swept over us. "I found Leah's diary."
My heart stopped.
Viv said, "And your daughters are all in it."