Chapter Twenty-Five
The second interview room was colder than the first. The same steel table anchored to the floor, the same hard chairs, and the same detectives, staring us down.
King started the recorder, then went through the formalities, advising Mia of her rights and confirming her verbal consent to be interviewed.
King glanced at Callahan. She gave the smallest nod. Neither of them mentioned the break-in last night, the slashed painting, the accusation in dripping red letters that had haunted my sleepless night: GUILTY.
"Mia," King said, looking at my daughter. "We've been reviewing the evidence from the night Leah died. Crime scene analysis. Forensic reports. Witness statements. Some new information has come to light, and we need your help understanding it."
Mia's hands twisted under the table. I kept my own hands flat and still on my thighs. Camille sat stiffly at my other side.
Camille had warned us they'd have more. That this wasn't just "a follow-up."
The first interview had felt exploratory, almost clinical. Fact-gathering. Now the air vibrated with something else. Direction. Anticipation. Suspicion.
They had something, something that implicated Mia.
"The preliminary autopsy findings." King looked down at the file, then up again, directly at Mia. "We know that Leah didn't die right away."
My spine went rigid. Sound thinned around the edges, as if the room was wrapped in cotton.
Mia's head came up. "What… what do you mean?"
"Leah sustained a severe head injury when she fell from the bluff. But the medical examiner determined that she hemorrhaged for several hours, probably two to three, before she died."
Mia folded forward, as if the information had physical weight and it was pushing her down. "For… for hours?"
"Evidence at the scene supports that timeline," King said. His voice was almost gentle. "Blood patterns, the extent of the hemorrhaging. She did not die immediately upon impact."
Callahan said, "She regained consciousness for a period. We can't give you an exact duration. But it's clear she was moving."
My mind flashed to Zara's testimony. The sounds she'd heard at 3:30 a.m. Scraping, rustling in the bushes, something heavy moving.
It wasn't another person, as we'd thought.
Those sounds must have been Leah, injured and disoriented, trying to crawl back up.
Trying to save herself while everyone slept a few hundred feet away.
Camille's face had gone ashen. "Moving how? Where?"
Callahan said, "The crime scene technicians found drag marks, blood smears. Disrupted leaf litter. Compressed vegetation. Patterns consistent with someone attempting to crawl up the bluff."
I felt like I might float away. Zara had been on the beach at 3:30 a.m. Three hours after Alexis heard the scream at 12:40 a.m. Leah had been out there for three hours. I imagined her waking in the dark, pain exploding in her head, covered in blood. Alone. Bewildered. Frightened.
Had she called out for help? Had her voice been too weak, the wind too loud? How many times had she tried to stand, to crawl, before collapsing again?
A wave of nausea roiled through me. The taste of metal rose in the back of my throat.
"Could she have survived, if someone had found her earlier?" I asked.
King hesitated. "She was bleeding heavily from the blow to her head.
Brain swelling would have begun immediately.
It was a catastrophic injury. However, if emergency medical services had reached her within the first hour, she probably would have survived.
We can't say with absolute certainty, but her chances would have been significantly improved. "
Beside me, Mia made a sound. Not a sob. Something lower, primitive, torn from her throat. The hair on my arms stood up.
"I didn't know," Mia said in a choked voice. Her lips were gray. "I didn't know… if I'd known… if I'd known she was out there…"
I rubbed her back, the only comfort I could give. "You couldn't have known, honey."
Camille cut in. "Detective, my client was a fourteen-year-old at a sleepover. Unless you're suggesting she had a duty to provide medical care she didn't know was needed, I'm going to object to this line of questioning as designed to elicit guilt rather than information."
"Fair enough," King said mildly. "The evidence indicates Leah was alive for a period of time after you last saw her. That's important for understanding what happened. That's why we're talking about it."
Mia nodded jerkily, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. She was trembling, pale from shock.
King said, "The medical examiner collected biological samples, including scrapings from under Leah's fingernails. Those were submitted for DNA analysis. Given the circumstances, the lab expedited some of the testing."
I knew what was coming before they said it. Maybe some part of me had been braced for this from the moment I first saw Mia's arms.
Callahan slid a photograph out from the file and turned it around. I forced myself to look. A close-up of Leah's hand, fingers curled slightly, nails caked with dirt and rust-colored blood.
"The DNA profile developed from the epithelial cells under Leah's fingernails is a match to Mia's."
Cold went through me down to the bone. Sound seemed tinny and far away. Next to me, Mia shivered uncontrollably.
"Transfer happens in all kinds of ways," Camille said. "They were friends. Leah bled on her. Your DNA proves nothing."
Undeterred, Callahan flipped to a second page. "We've also documented superficial linear abrasions on both of your forearms, Mia. The ME noted that they're consistent with forceful physical contact between two people. For example, someone clawing or grabbing at another person."
Mia's voice was thin and high. "I told you about that. The first time. I slipped when I was taking pictures. On the bluff. Into some thorny bushes. That's all."
King nodded. "Okay. Then why do you think your skin cells are beneath Leah's fingernails?"
"When she… when she had the nosebleed. When she got dizzy. That must be how it happened."
"Let's go over that again."
Mia's frantic gaze darted to Camille. Camille's expression was neutral, professional, but I caught the quick movement of her throat as she swallowed. The reveal that Leah hadn’t died immediately had rattled her, too.
Mia took a shaky breath. "It was during the midnight photoshoot. When we went out, after everyone else was sleeping. Me, Chloe, and Leah. We went to the bluff to take pictures. It was… sometime after midnight. I don't know exactly."
"And what happened out there?"
"Chloe wanted Leah to stand near the edge," Mia said.
"I got scared and told her not to go so close.
Then her nose started bleeding. Like, a lot.
She got really pale and said she felt dizzy.
She grabbed my arms to steady herself. That's when she…
when her nails—" Mia glanced at her own forearms, as if expecting to see fresh blood there.
"Maybe she scratched me then a little, I don't know. "
"She grabbed your arms," Callahan repeated, skepticism in her voice. "Deep enough that your skin cells were embedded under her nails."
Mia's pupils were too wide. "Yes."
Camille interjected, "That's the medical examiner's interpretation, not fact.
My client has explained the circumstances of the DNA transfer to the point that your DNA evidence seems useless.
While I appreciate your help with the defense of my client, Mia has said all she's going to on the subject. Move on."
I could tell the detectives didn't believe her story. I wasn't sure that I did, either. I wanted to believe her. I needed to. The blood on the dress she'd explained away. But the scratches, only sort of. But not the missing camera, or the sandy slippers. Little lies that kept adding up.
"No argument on the bluff?" Callahan pressed. "No shoving, no grabbing?"
"No," Mia said. "I was trying to help her."
"Did you hear anything later?" King asked. "A scream? Leah calling for help? Did anyone leave the house after lights-out that you know of?"
"I told you everything. We took pictures. Her nose bled. We went in. I went to sleep."
King exchanged a weighted glance with Callahan. Something passed between them that I couldn't read. My stomach churned.
King flipped another page in the folder and pushed a glossy photograph at us. The blue cover of Leah's diary, every inch covered in drawings and sketches in colored ink. "We've also reviewed Leah's phone, computer, and her diary. Her mother gave it to us earlier this week."
Mia's shoulders hunched. Her breathing went shallow.
"There are multiple entries documenting extensive bullying. Did you participate?"
"No, of course not! Leah was my friend."
"You let it happen, though," Callahan said.
Mia's voice was a frayed thread. "I didn't do any of it!"
"But you didn't stop it."
"I…I'm sorry."
Callahan leaned forward. "Did Leah tell you she was keeping records of what her bullies were doing?"
"No. I mean, I guess. I know she wrote about stuff in the diary."
"Plus, you’d witnessed it."
Mia winced. "Yes."
Callahan asked, "Were you worried that whatever Leah said might implicate you? That your silence made you complicit?"
Mia's hands twisted in her lap. "No! I… I'm the one who told my mom where Leah hid the diary! I didn't help her, I know, but I didn't hurt her. I wasn't like the others."
"But if Leah exposed the bullying," Callahan continued, "your name would be in that story, too."
Camille cut in sharply. "Detective, you're testifying again. Ask a question or move on."
Mia shook her head hard. "That's not why… If I tried to protect Leah, they'd turn on me, too, okay? I wasn't upset about the diary. I already knew about it."
King nodded. "Okay, Mia, did Leah seem angry with you? In the days before she died?"
Mia's voice was barely audible. "No. I don't think so."
"Was anyone angry with Leah? Upset enough to hurt her?"
"I—I don't know."
"Leah documented months of harassment. Did she tell you she was planning to report it?"
"I don't know."
"Did she confront the other girls at the slumber party? Tell them she was going to report their behavior? Were they angry with her? Anyone in particular?"
Mia fidgeted, clearly agitated. "No! I don't know. I don't remember."
Camille cleared her throat. "My client has more than thoroughly answered your questions on this topic. Move along."
King said, "We conducted multiple searches of the bluff area and the Westinghouse home. We have not found your camera."
"I don't know where it is," Mia said.
"Is it possible," King said slowly, "that you went back out to the bluff to look for it? After everyone was asleep?"
"No." The denial was instant, reflexive. "I told you. I didn't go back out there."
"Mia," Callahan said. Her name, just that, but the way she said it made my skin crawl.
"We have Leah's blood on your dress. We have your DNA under her fingernails.
We have scratches on your arms in a pattern the medical examiner says is consistent with defensive wounds.
We have a missing camera last seen in your possession, and we have your sleeping bag empty around 12:30 a.m."
As she listed each item, she tapped a fingertip lightly on the folder, as if stacking bricks to create an impenetrable wall. A case against my child. "Taken together, that paints a different picture than the one you've given us."
Camille gave a hard smile. "The missing camera proves less than nothing. If you're so sure you have a case, charge Mia right now."
I recoiled. Mia gaped at Camille in horror. She was shaking harder now, tiny tremors running through her shoulders, her neck, her hands.
The air in the room crackled as if electrified. For half a beat, no one moved. King watched Mia intently. Callahan sat back. A subtle shift in her body language sent a jolt of terror through me. She'd decided Mia was guilty. I could see it in her face, her posture, and those sharp eyes.
"No?" Camille said. "I didn't think so. We're done here."
Chairs scraped as everyone stood. My legs felt unsteady. Callahan walked us to the door. Her gaze flicked to me, intent and assessing.
Camille turned to the detectives. "If you are contemplating any change in my client's status—"
"The prosecutor will review the evidence," King said. "But this is an active investigation. It's moving quickly."
"In other words," Callahan said with the slightest smirk, "don't leave town."