The Guilty Ones

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Vivienne's door opened six inches, the chain on. My chest tightened as I inhaled the familiar scent of sizzling beef bulgogi, a Cho household favorite meal.

Daniel stood in the crack. He wore a gray T-shirt and sweatpants, his feet bare. His eyes were red and swollen. Several days of beard growth stubbled his face. He looked tired, the kind of tired you couldn't scrub off. "Dahlia."

"We wanted to check on you and Viv, to see if there's anything we can help with."

Daniel blinked at us. "You didn't have to."

He looked down at Mia. Took in her hunched shoulders, zip-up sweatshirt, and the gray rims under her eyes. She stared at the welcome mat.

The chain slid back with a small metallic scrape, and the door opened wider. "Viv?" Daniel called. "Dahlia and Mia are here."

Something clinked in the kitchen. The house was wrong. Too quiet. No strains of music from Leah’s playlist drifting down from upstairs. No rapid-fire Korean from Viv on the phone.

Mia's hand slid into mine. Her palm was damp with nervous sweat.

Vivienne entered the foyer from the kitchen. She wore the jade pendant at her throat, Leah's Mother's Day gift to her. She'd told me the jade was for protection. For health and good fortune.

Her hair was up in a clip. Her face was bare without makeup, a collapsed, stricken version of itself.

She saw me first. For half a beat, her expression softened.

Then she saw Mia. Everything in her went rigid.

Mia's fingers crushed mine.

My tongue felt too big. Words slid sideways. "Viv."

Vivianne's eyes didn't leave Mia. "How could you come here?"

Mia's shoulders folded in. "Mrs. Cho, I…"

Viv's nostrils flared. She looked up at the ceiling, blinked twice fast, as if shoving tears back by force. When she dropped her gaze, her eyes were dry. Cold. "I can't look at her."

"Viv," I said again. "Mia wanted to apologize. To explain."

"I'm not interested in her apology."

"It's not like that—"

"The police told us where they found Mia's DNA," she said. "Do you know that, Dahlia? Under my daughter's fingernails."

Mia made a raw sound in her throat.

"Don't." Vivienne lifted a hand, her palm out. She turned to Daniel, who hovered behind her. "I can't do this."

Mia's chin dropped. "I loved her. I loved Leah. I would never try to hurt her."

Viv's face pinched as if the word itself hurt. "Don't say her name."

Daniel took his wife's elbow. He stood near her, attentive, protective, his face creased in concern. "Viv," he said gently. "Maybe this isn't the best conversation to have right now."

"I can't do this." She stepped back. "Please leave."

Mia flinched like she'd been struck.

"I'm so sorry," I said to Viv and Daniel. The words felt like stones in my throat. "I didn't mean to make either of you upset."

"I know." His red-rimmed eyes darted to Mia again. He looked like he might be about to say something. Instead, he shut the door in our faces.

I stared at the painted wood six inches from my nose. The spring wreath hung there, its fake leaves brittle. A spiderweb ran from the brass knocker to the trim in a thin silver string. A bird chirped somewhere, too brightly.

Beside me, Mia's breath hitched. I squeezed her hand. I kept my voice light, though I wanted to curl up into a ball and weep. "We'll try again, some other time."

We trudged down the front path like we were leaving a funeral. Mia shuffled half a step ahead with her hands jammed in her pockets. "It's not your fault."

She didn't answer.

We walked in somber silence. Mr. Handler was kicking a soccer ball around in the front yard with his five-year-old son. He averted his gaze and ignored us as we passed.

At our driveway, I stopped. I couldn't go inside yet. My chest still ached from Vivienne's house. "Let's walk the beach. You need air. So do I. Apollo, too."

Ten minutes later, we had Apollo leashed and walked to the beach access, then descended the stairs to the sand. The wind off the water had more teeth down here. The gray sky pressed low over choppy slate water as gulls argued overhead.

Mia walked beside me, chin tucked down. The wind had pulled strands of hair free. They whipped her cheeks.

Ten minutes later, someone called my name.

I turned. Rowan and Chloe came down from the public access stairs. Rowan wore black leggings and a long cardigan, sunglasses perched on top of her highlighted hair. Chloe wore ripped jeans and a cropped sweatshirt.

Their expressions were careful, like they were approaching an injured animal.

"We were hoping we'd find you down here," Rowan called.

Mia's spine straightened. Her gaze went back to the water.

"Hey." My voice came out more guarded than friendly.

Apollo circled Rowan, nose to her calves. She reached down, patted him once, eyes still on Mia. "I'm so glad we ran into you. I was going to text, but you know, we didn't want to overwhelm you."

Chloe shifted from foot to foot. She stepped closer. She glanced at me, then back at Mia. "Can we talk for a sec? Just us?"

"I'll keep your mom company," Rowan told Mia, brightly. "Go ahead."

Mia followed Chloe up toward the drier sand. Chloe slowed so they walked side by side, their heads tilted toward each other.

Rowan moved in beside me, facing the water, her arms folded, her hands under her elbows. "Don't worry about collecting the photos for the memorial on Sunday. You've got plenty on your plate. We're covering it."

"I'm happy to do it."

"Chloe's going to speak. She loved Leah so much. She wants to celebrate her. Share good stories. Sleepovers. Beach days. Normal girl stuff. She's been so… haunted. She needs closure. We all do. It'll be good for the community."

Images from the Instagram account flashed through my mind. The cruel words from Leah's journal. How could anyone find closure with Leah's killer still out there? With our daughters all bearing at least some culpability? But I didn't say anything. I wasn't sure how to form the words.

Up the beach, Chloe and Mia stood facing each other, their heads down. Chloe's hand hovered near Mia's arm, not quite touching her. Their mouths moved, the wind shredding their words.

"You said you were looking for us," I said.

"Yes." Rowan shifted. Sand squeaked under her sandals. "Chloe's been struggling. Her nightmares are getting worse. Her therapist is calling them night terrors. She's waking up crying, screaming. It's like they're real to her when she's trapped in one."

"What happens in her night terrors?" I asked.

Rowan's skin was ashen, dark circles makeup couldn't conceal shadowing her eyes. "She keeps seeing Leah falling, and she can't save her, over and over. Last night, Mia was in her nightmare, too. They were both trying to reach Leah, but they couldn't."

"That sounds awful. I hope the therapy helps her soon."

"I'm sure it will." Rowan forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

She stepped closer and lowered her voice, though the beach was empty.

"But how are you? Brooke told us she saw a police cruiser passing by when she was at the playground with Falcon yesterday, and she heard from Whitney that it went to your house. "

"Brooke hears all the gossip, I guess."

She rolled her eyes. "You know Brooke. She made it sound like SWAT."

"Someone broke in sometime on Thursday while we were out. They vandalized a painting of Mia's that Leah had painted for her."

Rowan's hand fluttered at her collarbone. She looked appalled. "Dahlia. Why didn't you call me?"

Because I didn't know which side you were on. I didn't say the words aloud. "It's been a lot. We've changed the locks."

"You should get security cameras. Honestly. I hate saying that about our neighborhood, but here we are. And after Leah, after what happened at your place. I'm genuinely worried for you two."

"The detective suggested the same thing."

"If you want Gregory to recommend anything, just text. Or I'll send links. Honestly, he'd be happy to come over and help you install them."

Rowan's husband worked so much that hardly anyone ever saw him. I doubted he had time to help me with anything. "That's a generous offer, but I think I'll tackle this project myself."

"I admire that about you, Dahlia. I don't think I could tackle anything on my own."

"Sure, you could. You're stronger than you think. You realize something has to be done, and you find a way to do it."

A wave surged higher than the last and broke at our feet. I sidestepped the water and glanced at our daughters, still with their heads down, speaking in low urgent voices.

"We're coming on Sunday," I said to change the subject. "What can I bring for food?"

She brightened. "Could you do your brownies? The sea salt ones? They're amazing."

They were out of a box, just add eggs and butter, but I matched her smile. "I'll make a double batch."

Rowan waved at the girls. "Chloe! We're going to head back. Say goodbye, okay?"

Chloe and Mia jogged back toward us, brushing sand off their jeans. "Thank you for talking to me," Chloe said to Mia. "It really helps."

Mia managed a tentative smile. "Yeah."

"See you Sunday," Rowan said. "Text if you need anything before then."

They headed for the stairs. As soon as they hit the first step, Chloe's hand went to her phone. I watched them disappear up the stairs.

Was Rowan genuinely interested in our well-being, or did she have an ulterior motive in mind when she and Chloe followed us down to the beach?

I hated how paranoid I felt, as if I couldn't trust any of my friends, not Rowan, Whitney, Brooke, or even Camille. Everyone seemed to be hiding something, concealing their true motives.

We climbed the stairs back up from the beach. My calves burned. Apollo pulled ahead, eagerly sniffing every single step. It felt like someone was watching us, even now. I shivered and glanced up toward the top of the bluff, but there was nothing but trees, bushes, and grass.

At home, I unlocked the front door with the new key. Mia headed upstairs to take a shower, and I went into the laundry room to finish the load of linens I'd started that morning.

The dryer hummed, then beeped. I opened the door. Warm air puffed out. Inside, a tangle of towels, sheets, and—

Mia's sloth slippers.

I pulled them out. The soft pink fleece was clean and dry. The embroidered cartoon sloth faces stared up at me.

My stomach dropped. The damp, sandy slippers I'd found in her overnight bag. The ones that suggested she'd gone to the beach that night, despite her claim that she hadn't.

"Mia!" My voice came out sharp. " Come down here, now!"

Footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, Mia appeared in the doorway, still in her sweatshirt and jeans. Her face went white when she saw what I was holding.

"These had sand in them. From Friday night."

Her jaw tightened. "They were dirty. I washed them."

"You could have destroyed potential evidence."

"It's not evidence!" Her voice pitched higher. "I told you, anyone could've used those slippers. They were by the patio door. It wasn't me! I told you that."

I stared at her. "When did you put these in the laundry?"

"This morning, right after you put the load in. Before we left."

Before the second interview with the police.

"Why?"

"Because! Because I'm scared, okay? Because everything I do, everything I say, those detectives twist it. They make it sound like I'm guilty. But those slippers—" She sucked in a breath. "They made me look like I'm lying when I'm not. You thought so, too."

I set the slippers on top of the dryer and stared at them, warm, clean, and innocuous. She wasn't wrong. I couldn't tell if I was relieved or appalled, or both.

Apollo sat between us, looking from me to Mia and back again with concern. He hated it when we argued.

"Go take your shower," I said.

Mia lurked in the doorway, her expression hesitant, uncertain. "Mom, are you mad at me?"

I sighed. "I don’t know."

After she left, I stood alone in the laundry room, staring at those slippers. I didn't know what I was doing anymore. I didn't know who to trust. Not the mothers. Not the police. Not even my own daughter.