Chapter Fifteen
Vivienne stood in the archway, her whole body vibrating with hostility. She gripped something in one hand. A bulging manila envelope, the edges crumpled.
"Vivienne, sweetheart." Rowan rose from the sectional, her voice hostess-smooth though it was Brooke's house. "Why don't you come sit down? Let me get you some water—"
"I don't want water! I want answers."
Camille tucked her phone into the pocket of her black slacks. Her posture shifted, her shoulders back, eyes sharp. "What's this about a diary?"
"Leah kept one. She kept it hidden. Secret.
" Vivienne's hands shook as she pulled papers from the envelope.
"I tore that house apart looking for answers.
The police looked, too, but they didn't find anything in her room.
" Her gaze flicked to me briefly. "Turns out she hid it behind a painting in the basement.
I found it this morning. I made photocopies for you. "
She marched to the coffee table in the center of the room and dropped the stack. The photocopied pages fanned out across the marble. Several slid onto the sisal rug.
I leaned forward, my heart in my throat.
Handwritten entries in different-colored ink, though the photocopies were in black and white.
Dates. Names. Words underlined and circled.
Leah's familiar doodling and drawings of flowers edged the diary entries—bleeding hearts, black-eyed Susans, forget-me-nots, Indian paintbrush, and wild roses.
Rowan moved fast. She came around the coffee table, placing herself between Vivienne and the rest of us. Brooke returned to the island and gripped her wine glass like it could protect her from something. Whitney sat frozen for once, her eyes locked on the pages.
I picked one up. "'December 12,'" I read. "'After school. Alexis cornered me by the lockers outside the art room. No one else was around. She grabbed my wrist so hard I thought it would snap. She shoved me into the locker. I couldn't breathe.'"
Brooke made a strangled sound in the back of her throat.
I read it again, certain I'd misunderstood, but the words stayed the same. I kept reading, a sick feeling hollowing my gut.
"'Then she dragged me to the bathroom and pulled out the art scissors.
She cut my hair. The one thing I was proud of.
A huge chunk right above my ear. Just cut it.
She held my head and cut off the rest. She said, "You're so ugly it won't even matter.
" Mom found the bruises. I told her I fell.
She wanted to go to the school. I begged her not to.
She did anyway. Nothing happened. Alexis's mom came in with her husband for a private meeting with the principal.
The principal said there wasn't enough proof.
That I agreed to let her do it and then changed my mind when I didn't like it, for attention.
They pressured me to change my story. Alexis said she could make me out to be the psycho one if I told everyone.
That Peyton, Chloe, and Zara would have her back. Mia, too.'"
Brooke shook her head, hard. "That is not true."
I stared at Brooke in shock. When I'd spoken with Vivienne, I hadn't realized it had been this bad. My mind flashed to the bruising on Alexis’s wrist. Her presence outside my house right after the break-in. Her access to my spare key. And now this—she'd physically harmed Leah.
My mouth went dry. "You knew your daughter was a bully. All this time."
"It wasn't like that. She didn’t mean it. It was just girls being girls. It got a bit out of hand."
Vivienne's eyes met mine. "Leah cried herself to sleep for a week."
Whitney stood abruptly. "This is completely out of line, Vivienne. You can't just barge in here and—"
"And what?" Vivienne demanded. "Tell the truth? Is that what you're afraid of?"
"We handled it," Brooke said. Her words blurred at the edges. "We talked to her. The school said that there was no proof. What were we supposed to do? Ruin her whole life over one stupid mistake?"
Whitney seized on that. "Exactly. We can't just take Leah's word as gospel. She was clearly troubled. She misinterpreted things. Twisted them."
"We are all grieving," Rowan cut in, her voice soft, empathetic. She moved closer to Vivienne. "Accusations won't help anyone. Perhaps we should speak privately, Viv."
Vivienne let out a bitter laugh. "So you can spin this? So you can protect your daughters like you always do?"
Brooke flinched. "That's not fair. Teen girls are dramatic. They fight and make up. It's messy. You can't blame us for every little thing they do."
"Cutting someone's hair off isn't a little thing," Vivienne snapped.
Whitney crossed her arms, chin lifting. "Do we even know if this diary is authentic? Anyone could have written this after the fact."
Vivienne's eyes sparked with outrage. "You think I forged my dead daughter's diary? Peyton's all over this diary, Whitney."
She snatched a page from the pile and thrust it toward us. "January 24. 'Peyton whispered it in the locker room when no one else could hear. You should suicide yourself. No one would miss you. You're so ugly and fat, I can't stand having to look at you every day.'"
Whitney blanched. Her hand went to her throat. "No. That's… Peyton would never say that."
"Your daughter is a monster," Vivienne said flatly.
"How dare you insinuate such a thing!"
"How dare I? Your daughters tormented mine for months. They smiled in her face and destroyed her behind her back."
Rowan picked up a page, glanced at it, and set it down. Her jaw ticked. "This is a child's diary. We don't know what was going on in Leah's head when she wrote any of this."
With a trembling hand, I grabbed the page Rowan had just discarded. "February 17. Swim team incident."
Rowan shot me a warning look. I ignored it.
"'Someone took my suit and hung it from the ceiling. They poured red dye or animal blood on the crotch to make it look like I'd started my period. When I got upset, Chloe said it was a joke. Peyton said I was being extra. Alexis recorded the whole thing. Zara just laughed. Mia looked away.'"
The words lodged in my throat. I couldn't breathe. Mia looked away. My daughter— quiet, sensitive Mia—had watched her best friend be publicly humiliated and said nothing.
When had that been? February, right after Valentine's Day. I tried to remember. Had she seemed different? Acted guilty or ashamed? I couldn't recall. I'd been working on a deadline. I'd missed everything.
"Leah had problems before any of this," Whitney said. "Everyone knew she struggled. She lied about things, Vivienne. She always wanted attention. Peyton told me all about her hysterics."
"She was scared," Vivienne shot back. "Because your daughters were tormenting her."
"Girls go too far trying to be funny," Whitney said. "It doesn't mean anything serious."
Their voices layered over each other, building a wall of rationalization. I watched them close ranks. Whitney shifted closer to Rowan's shoulder. Brooke straightened despite the alcohol. Even Camille took a half-step from the window.
"Stop!" I said. "Just stop it!"
The room stilled. There wasn't enough oxygen in the room.
"We failed them. All of them. We were so busy that we didn't see what was happening."
Brooke's voice rose. "That's not fair."
Tears tracked down Vivienne's face. "You all knew something was wrong. And you did nothing."
The unified front wavered. Brooke's gaze dropped, like she couldn’t bear to see Vivienne’s incandescent grief a moment longer. Whitney's foot resumed its anxious tapping. Rowan's mouth flattened, in frustration or perhaps remorse.
"These are serious allegations," Camille said. "We're not taking this lightly, Vivienne. Please don't think that."
Vivienne turned to Camille. "Your daughter was there, too, Camille."
Camille stiffened. Something flickered in her eyes, not quite guilt, not quite fear. She took a breath. "I understand you’re upset."
"Upset? You don’t know the meaning of upset." Vivienne sneered. "Your daughter was complicit. And so was Mia."
The words slammed into me. Shame flooded my face. Pure, scalding shame. Because Vivienne was right, I'd been so focused on protecting Mia, on believing in her innocence, that I'd never asked harder questions.
"She watched. She didn't stop them." Vivienne's eyes found mine. The fury had burned out, leaving only grief. "I thought you were different, Dahlia."
"Viv—"
"You're just like them. You'd rather believe your daughter is innocent than face what she did. Or what she watched and did nothing to stop."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?"
The realization settled like lead in my chest. I thought of Mia's silences. Her withdrawn behavior. Her refusal to meet my eyes. Not just grief. Could it be guilt? For what? For not stopping the bullying? Participating in it? Or something far worse?
What if the girl living in my house was someone I didn't know at all?
I wanted to say something, to defend my daughter the way the other mothers had defended theirs, while also acknowledging Vivienne's pain and any part my child may have played in it.
But no words came. I was in shock, blindsided. Horrified and appalled and sickened. I didn't know what to do or what to say. I said the only woefully inadequate thing I could think of. “I’m so sorry.”
Vivienne watched me, then nodded slowly to herself. As if I'd confirmed every terrible suspicion she’d held about me.
"They're not bullies," Brooke said, her voice shaking, gesturing wildly as if she were desperate for any scrap of evidence to defend her daughter from guilt she knew she deserved.
"They're just teenage girls. They screw up.
They'll grow out of it. You can't brand them for life because one girl couldn't handle it. .."
She stopped. Too late.
Vivienne's voice went hard and quiet. "Because one girl couldn't handle it? Leah couldn't handle it? And now she’s dead? Is that what you just said to me?"
Brooke's mouth worked, but no sound came out. Her face had gone bright red, whether in anger or shame, I couldn’t tell.
"Have you gone to the police with this information?" Camille asked.
"Of course." Vivienne spun and stalked back to the foyer. At the front door, she paused, looking back at each of us with loathing, like we were her mortal enemies. "My daughter is dead. And one of yours killed her."
The door slammed shut behind her.