Chapter Twenty-Four
The squad car lights bled blue and red through the front windows, strobing against the slashed canvas. The word GUILTY appeared as though it was pulsing blood.
Apollo padded to the door before the knock came, his tail wagging. I opened it to two uniformed officers in their late twenties, both in jackets with nametags reading RUIZ and HARRIS.
They examined the canvas as I explained that the door had been unlatched when we returned, even though I had locked it, that Apollo had been calm inside, that the house had looked normal until we found this.
Mia hovered in the hallway, eyes too big in her pale face, her arms wrapped around herself. I reached for her hand and found it colder than mine.
Ten minutes later, Detective King arrived with another unmarked car. The squad lights had been cut, but I could still feel the neighborhood watching from dark windows.
King wore a camel overcoat, the collar turned up, a dark suit underneath, smelling faintly of coffee. His eyes swept the room.
I led him through the kitchen. He crouched, studying the jamb, the latch plate. He ran a gloved finger along the painted wood.
"No splintering," he said. "No pry marks."
"I told you, it wasn't forced. I think whoever did this had access to my spare key."
Before I could say more, Whitney and Peyton appeared in the opened doorway. They hovered on the threshold, their cheeks flushed from the chill.
"Everyone okay in here?" Whitney called out. "We have dinner plans at the Bistro on the Boulevard with the new Whirlpool CFO, but I wanted to make sure you were okay first. We saw the cruisers as we were driving by."
Whitney wore a fitted cream sheath dress with a gold belt and matching heels. Peyton wore a navy cocktail dress with cap sleeves, her purple Stanley in one hand as usual.
Through the living room window, I caught sight of Whitney’s husband Graham waiting in the idling Mercedes at the curb. His blond head was bent, his clean-shaven jaw clenched as he scrolled through his phone. He didn't look up.
"We’re okay, thanks," I said.
Whitney glanced between King and me, her eyes wide. Her gaze dropped to the painting, and she gasped. "Oh Dahlia, that’s awful."
"Yep," I managed.
"Okay," King said to Ruiz. "I'll take it from here."
The uniformed officers filed out.
Peyton's gaze was glued to the slashed painting. "Wow. Was that one of Leah's?"
"Yes." I watched Peyton. I hadn't been this close to her since the Saturday morning of Leah's death. Peyton Alistair was tall and lean, all sharp angles, with her square jaw and prominent features mirroring her mother's, her high ponytail pulled tight. Her blue eyes were sharp, calculating.
She was the leader of the group, the one who set the pace and expected everyone to keep up. Driven, motivated, constantly in motion, always busy with practices, meets, lessons, races, and competitions, living at a sprint to meet Whitney's impossible standards.
But I recognized a darker, simmering energy in the clench of her jaw, the way her knuckles went white around her Stanley. She was strung too tight, wound like a rubber band ready to snap.
"Who would do such a thing?" Whitney asked, drawing my attention away from Peyton.
Appalled, she pressed a hand to her sternum.
The diamond bracelet on her wrist glinted.
"With everything you're already dealing with, and now someone breaking into your home, vandalizing Leah's painting.
" Her voice dropped in sympathy. "It's almost like someone wants you to know they can get to you whenever they want. How awful."
I could only nod numbly. They'd entered our house. Gone to Mia's bedroom. Someone who knew our routines. Someone most likely with a key. I thought of Alexis once again, outside our house, videoing us with her phone.
"You have my spare key, Whitney. I'd really like it back, now."
King's attention shifted to Whitney. "You have a spare key?"
Color rose in her cheeks as she fumbled in her Prada bag. "I've been meaning to give it back since, well, with everything happening. You understand."
She held the key with the Isle Royale key chain out to me like an offering.
I took it and slipped it into my pocket. "Thanks."
She gave a high-pitched, nervous laugh. "I hope you don't think I had anything to do with this."
"Any copies of that spare?" King asked her.
"No. Just this one. Brooke had it before I did.
Though the girls have used it before to walk Apollo when Dahlia and Mia are out of town.
It's been through… well, let's just say a lot of people.
" She laughed again, glancing back at her daughter.
"I can't vouch for what anyone did with it before it got back to me, of course. But I didn't make copies. Peyton?"
Peyton's eyes flicked to her mother, then to King, then back to the painting as King dusted for prints and then slipped the canvas into an evidence bag. She shook her head, her face a careful mask. "Not me."
King turned back to me. "Anything like this happen before? Threats? Messages? Vandalism?"
Whitney's eyes were on me. Peyton's, too.
I recalled the notebook stolen from my desk. Items rearranged. That feeling of violation, of invasion, that had haunted me for days. "Well, yes, actually—"
"Oh, Dahlia, don't you remember?" Whitney said. "Didn't you say that someone broke in? On Tuesday?"
The detective's gaze lifted to mine, questioning. His eyes narrowed. "Someone entered your house before?"
I rubbed my face, rattled. And more than a little irritated.
Whitney had somehow made me look deceptive, even though I was about to tell the detective myself.
Had it been intentional, or was I reading into things?
"On Tuesday, after Mia's interview. I'd locked the door. I came home, and it was open."
"Anything taken?"
"A notebook I use for my freelance articles. Things were moved around."
He raised his brows as he jotted something down, probably that he thought I was crazy. Who only steals a worthless notebook? I bit my tongue.
Whitney flashed him a winning smile. "I hope you find the hooligans who did this quickly. This is a safe neighborhood. Or at least, it used to be."
"We'll see what we can do," King said.
Whitney lingered in the doorway. "Call me if you need anything, Dahlia. I can stay. Or take Mia for the night, if you want. She could come to dinner with us. It'll give you a break."
The offer sounded generous. Reasonable. Like something a good neighbor, a good friend, would say. Peyton's smile matched her mother's.
Beside me, Mia stiffened. I thought of Zara's voice: Peyton's done stuff like this before. Hurt other girls.
Right or wrong, the thought of Mia in anyone's house but mine made my skin crawl.
"Thank you. We'll be okay."
Hurt flickered across her face. She suppressed it quickly. "All right. I'm just down the street if you need me."
"I know," I said.
She strode from my house with Peyton right behind her, silent as a shadow. She glanced back once, her gaze catching mine. There was something there I couldn't read. Then her eyes shifted, and it was gone.
The door clicked shut behind them. A moment later, their Mercedes pulled away from the curb.
"Please find who did this," I said. "Before they do something worse. I'm getting the locks changed tomorrow morning, but that won't stop someone who truly wants to get inside."
"Ms. Kincaid, I promise we will investigate.
" He looked past me to the dishes in the sink, the knife left on the cutting board, pausing on the family photo on the fridge.
All of us, grinning and happy. "We'll need Mia to come to the station tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. There are some inconsistencies we need to address. "
Ice water trickled down my spine. My throat closed. "I'll text Mia's lawyer."
At the door, he looked back at me, the painting held carefully in one hand. "Oh, and Ms. Kincaid, I suggest you also get some security cameras immediately."
The door closed behind him. I locked the deadbolt. I listened to the hum of the refrigerator. The distant rush of a car somewhere on the main road. The old ticking clock.
Mia sank onto the couch. I sat beside her and pulled her into my arms. She was stiff for a moment, then she sagged against me, boneless with exhaustion.
Apollo settled at our feet with a soft grunt.
Mia snuggled into me. "I'm scared, Mom."
"It'll be okay," I lied. "I promise."
"Are we safe?"
"You're safe," I lied again.
I would sit up all night keeping watch until those locks were changed. Tomorrow morning, we'd be back in front of those detectives, Mia lined up in their sights.
What did they want from her now? What did they know that we didn't?
The key Whitney had given me lay cool and heavy in my pocket. I curled my fingers around it and stared at the space on the coffee table. Though the police had removed the painting, the word GUILTY was burned in my retinas.