Chapter Twenty-Three
I gripped the steering wheel as I drove toward Lakeshore Prep to pick up Mia. Apollo was curled in the backseat, snoring pleasantly.
I longed to call Detective King. To tell him everything. But I'd promised Zara she had until morning. And at Mia's interrogation Tuesday morning, the detectives had said DNA results would take seventy-two hours. That meant the earliest was Friday afternoon, maybe evening.
I had a small window. Not much, but enough to let Zara come forward first, to hand King something concrete instead of breadcrumbs that would just lead back to Mia.
The carpool line crawled along at a snail's pace. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at a cluster of middle school mothers chatting on the sidewalk. Their conversations hushed as I passed, eyes shifting toward me with a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled hostility.
I tried to ignore them. It didn't work.
My phone vibrated on the passenger seat. Another unknown number. Likely a reporter or another prank call. I let it go to voicemail, glimpsing the notification count: fifteen new messages. Threats, harassment, journalists circling. I left the phone where it was.
A minute later, Mia emerged from the school entrance, her backpack slung over one shoulder, head bowed, one of Marcus's old baseball caps pressed low over her face. She moved quickly, weaving through the throngs of students with practiced invisibility.
I grabbed my phone and moved it as she slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut.
"Hi, sweetheart."
Mia stared straight ahead.
I pulled away from the curb, the murmurs and stares of the other parents fading behind us. The silence in the car was heavy. Apollo uncurled himself and shoved his torso between the front seats. He nosed Mia's face until she gave in and scratched him between the ears.
"How was school?"
She let out a bitter laugh. "Fantastic."
"That bad?"
Mia's jaw tightened. "At lunch, I sat at the usual table. Peyton and Alexis got up and moved. Then the girls at the next table moved. Then the table behind them. Like I was radioactive." She swallowed. "I ate in the bathroom."
My heart ached. "I'm so sorry."
I checked the rearview mirror. A silver sedan had pulled out of the school parking lot and followed behind me, close to my bumper.
"Everyone stares at me like I did it. If I was a pariah before, I'm a piece of trash now."
"That's not true."
"That's how they act." She slouched lower in her seat. "Leah would've stood up to them. She was braver than me."
I twisted around, checking over my shoulder. The silver sedan was still there. Two car lengths back, matching every turn I made. Anxiety roiled through me.
"Mom? What are you looking at?" Mia followed my gaze and tensed. "Is that car following us?"
"It's fine." My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. I sped up and took a sharp right as the stoplight turned yellow. The sedan pulled out right behind me. He was too close, right on my bumper. My heartrate accelerated.
I scanned ahead for a turn, anywhere to lose him. The intersection loomed. A yellow light. I calculated the distance, the speed, the risk, but there were two cars already stopped ahead, blocking the turn lane. The light flipped red.
I hit the brakes. Trapped.
The silver sedan pulled alongside us.
The passenger window rolled down. A man with a camera leaned out, the lens enormous. The shutter clicked rapid-fire click-click-click-click, the sound like insect legs on glass.
"Don't look at them," I said sharply.
Mia turned her face toward the window, pulling her hood up. The camera followed, relentless. The man shouted something I couldn't make out over the blood roaring in my ears.
The light changed. I accelerated hard, weaving through traffic. The sedan kept pace. My heart hammered against my ribs. Apollo whined from the back seat, sensing my growing panic.
Finally, we reached the gates of Blackthorn Shores. The familiar cluster of reporters and camera crews clogged the street outside the entrance. White vans with satellite dishes. Photographers with telephoto lenses. At least a few dozen of them. More than yesterday.
"Oh, Jeez," Mia breathed.
The silver sedan pulled up behind us, boxing us in. Through the rearview mirror, I saw the passenger door open. The man with the camera climbed out, still shooting.
I had no choice but to slow as we approached the gate. Frank stood at the entrance, trying in vain to keep the reporters back. They surged forward the moment they recognized my car.
Bodies pressed against the windows. Fists pounded on the hood. Cameras flashed, blinding in the late afternoon sun. Faces distorted through the glass, their mouths moving, shouting, demanding.
"Ms. Kincaid! Did your daughter kill Leah Cho?"
"Mia! Mia, look here! Just one photo!"
Mia made a choked sound. She curled into herself, pulling her knees to her chest. Apollo leapt onto the seat and barked loudly at them.
"Don't look," I said again. "Just don't look."
A man slapped his palm against Mia's window. She flinched violently. Apollo growled. Anger and alarm thrummed in my chest. I wanted to punch him in his smug face for scaring my daughter.
"Get back!" Frank shouted, stepping between the car and the mob. "You're on private property!"
"It's a public street!" a cameraman yelled back.
Frank pulled out his radio, calling for backup. A second security guard arrived. Together, they physically pushed the reporters back, creating just enough space for me to edge the car forward.
The reporters surged forward one last time, someone pounding on the trunk, and then we were through. The gate closed behind us with a mechanical clang that sounded like a prison door.
My hands were shaking. I pulled into the community clubhouse parking lot, unable to drive home yet.
My breathing was ragged, my vision blurred. I couldn't cry, not in front of Mia, who was silently weeping beside me. "I'm so sorry, baby."
She didn't answer, just pulled her hood tighter and stared at her lap.
Anxiety thrummed in my veins. Instinctively, I touched my throat, found the ring beneath my shirt, and held it like a talisman. Breathe. Just breathe.
I glanced at Mia. "You're wearing Dad's hat."
Her hand flew to the brim, defensive. "So?"
"You only wear it when you're really upset. Or when you miss him." I kept my voice gentle. "Which is it?"
"Both, I guess." Mia pulled the cap off, turning it over in her hands, tracing the faded logo of Arches National Park with her thumb. "Do you think I'm a bad friend? Because right now I'm thinking about myself, and not her. And she's the one who's dead."
"Oh, honey."
"I should've done better." The words burst out. "I should've been a better friend."
I leaned over the console and pulled her into my arms. She buried her face against my shoulder. "You were a good friend. The best friend she had."
"I wasn't, though." Mia's voice was muffled. "I let her down. I failed her."
I held her tighter. "Leah knew you loved her."
Mia pulled away. Her expression shifted, something dark behind her eyes. Dread. Guilt. Apprehension. She turned the hat over again in her hands.
A mix of frustration and helplessness welled up inside me. I squeezed her shoulder. This time, she didn't pull away.
Apollo whined, his tail thumping the seats. "We should get back. Apollo wants his afternoon snack. I bet you're hungry, too. How about I make us some cheesy nachos, and then I'll help you with that English essay on Romeo and Juliet you've been working on?"
Mia nodded. We drove the rest of the way home in silence. We'd barely gotten out of the car when I saw it.
The front door wasn't latched. It rested against the frame, not flush.
I stopped so fast that Mia bumped into me. Apollo's head came up, ears forward. A low sound rumbled in his chest. I tightened the leash.
"Did you leave that open? Maybe this morning before you left?" My voice sounded wrong in my ears.
Mia shook her head.
"Stay outside the house," I said. "If I yell go, you call 911 and go to Camille's house."
Mia nodded, swallowing.
"Apollo, come." I pushed the door with the side of my foot. It swung without protest. The dog moved forward when I moved, silent, his tail level. He sniffed the rug by the sink, the air near the island, then pulled me toward the living room.
There was no mess. No drawers yanked out, no couch cushions flipped over. The house should have looked the same. It didn't.
Behind me, Mia gasped.
My gaze followed hers to the coffee table. Leah's painting, the Tiscornia Beach watercolor that had hung above Mia's bed, lay propped against the wood.
Someone had slashed it. Deep gashes carved through the sunset sky and wildflowers, the lighthouse and pier. Across the top, scarlet spray paint screamed a single word: "GUILTY."
Anger and fear churned in my gut. Someone had done this. Someone had invaded our privacy, our home, our sanctuary. Someone hated us this much.
Mia gave a short, wounded whimper. She moved past me, reaching for the canvas, then withdrew her hand like she'd touched a hot stove.
"Don't," I said quickly. "Don't touch anything."
"Why would…who would do this?" She stopped herself and looked at me, eyes glassy. "This was Leah's. She made it for me. It was hers."
"I know." My hand went to my back pocket. I tugged out my phone.
Apollo circled the room once, his nose down, tail wagging, not in alarm but curiosity. Did that mean that he recognized whoever had been here? Likely, he did. Not that he’d alert us to a stranger, either. All humans were friends to Apollo.
Mia swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "We have to call someone. Mom, we have to. This is…this is awful."
"I know." I unlocked my phone. I pictured uniformed officers in our living room, their gloves snapping on. The headlines: Psycho mother claims break-in without evidence. Daughter a suspect in classmate's death.
Was it the wrong choice to call 911? To bring the police into the sanctity of our home, the cops with their eyes on Mia as their prime suspect? I didn't know.
But our home had been violated again. Panic bit at my throat. I looked at my daughter's stricken, terrified face. I made the call.