Chapter Twenty-Eight
The house pressed in around me. Too quiet. Mia's door at the top of the stairs had been shut since we got back from the beach last night, since I confronted her about the washed slippers.
I looked out the window at the predawn street. The trash bins lined the curbs like obedient soldiers under the weak halo of the streetlights. Collection day. Blackthorn Shores paid extra for Saturday pickup so no one's trash ever overflowed.
An electric current snapped through me. People tossed incriminating evidence in their garbage all the time. This was my slim window of opportunity, while the neighborhood slept.
I had to do something before they arrested my daughter.
If Mia was telling the truth, something out there could exonerate her. If she wasn't, something out there might prove that, too.
My oversized faux leather purse hung on the back of the chair. Before I could think better of it, I grabbed the purse and crossed to the hook where Apollo's leash hung.
Apollo trotted over, his tail wagging in anticipation. "Need to go out, buddy?"
I opened the front door quietly so as not to wake Mia, then we slipped out into the predawn dark. I locked the door behind us.
The air had a wet chill that seeped under my clothes. A streetlight hummed overhead. Insects whirred in the grass.
Apollo tugged at his leash. I turned off Wyld Wood Lane and headed southeast on Driftwood Terrace.
Vivienne Cho's grand sage-green Craftsman sat silently ahead. My stomach knotted. I stopped on the sidewalk. My hand tightened around Apollo's leash.
I couldn't do this one. There was a line even my desperation couldn't cross.
Apollo whined softly, tugging toward home. "Not this one, buddy."
The next stop was Brooke August.
My heart hammered as I crouched by the black bin. The lid was gritty under my hand. I glanced over my shoulder at the dark windows facing me, then lifted.
The smell hit me first. Sour wine, rotting food, fermented sweetness.
I kept my jaw clenched, breathing shallowly through my nose.
Empty wine bottles rolled against each other inside, along with greasy pizza boxes, takeout containers with congealed orange sauce, and wadded tissues speckled with mascara smears.
Nothing that said murder. Nothing that said Mia.
I closed the lid. The plastic thunk echoed too loud in the sleeping street. I held my breath, waiting for a light to flick on.
Nothing happened.
Apollo and I continued on Driftwood Terrace until it intersected with Cliff Harbor Drive, then turned west and headed up the road back toward Wyld Wood Lane, making a circle. At the top of Cliff Harbor Drive, I decided to hit Camille's on the way back to my house after Whitney's.
I approached Whitney's house on high alert. The white house gleamed even in the predawn dark, its porcelain floors visible through the windows, the multi-tiered deck overlooking the pool stretching behind it.
I flipped back the blue recycling lid. Sephora bags with black-and-white stripes, Lululemon packaging, and tissue paper folded into neat squares greeted me.
I moved to the black bin and slipped my hand into a doggie bag. The lid made a scraping sound as I eased it up. My pulse spiked. I glanced at the second-floor windows. Still dark, luckily.
I inventoried the trash: bagged kitchen waste, a broken candle, and paper towels soaked with something reddish. Ketchup, maybe. Then I saw it. Half-buried along the side, a plastic orange cylinder bright against dark coffee grounds.
A prescription bottle.
I reached inside, pinched it by the cap, and lifted it into the glow of my phone's flashlight, keeping the light shielded low against my leg.
LORAZEPAM 3 MG
Patient: AUGUST, brOOKE
Prescriber: DR. SARAH CHEN
I sucked in my breath. Why was Brooke's medication in Whitney's trash? Lorazepam was a benzo, a downer, a sedative used for insomnia, anxiety, and panic attacks. Otherwise known as sleeping pills.
Before I could overthink it, I slid the bottle into the doggie bag and knotted it tightly. It was in the trash, so it wasn't stealing. I tucked it into my purse.
A dog barked somewhere down the street. My heart jackhammered. I jerked upright, scanning the dark yards.
In front of me, one of the two double-car garage doors rattled to life.
I froze. Yellow light flooded the driveway. The mechanical hum grew louder as the door lifted to expose the gleaming black Mercedes parked inside the garage. Whitney's husband Graham was about to leave for his executive job at Whirlpool.
Apollo's collar jangled. He started for the car. I yanked his leash, dragging him as close to me as I could, and ducked behind the recycling bin. I crouched low, my pulse hammering in my ears.
The engine started with a purr. Headlights swept across the pavement mere inches from my feet.
Eager to make a new friend, Apollo strained at his collar and stuck his big head past the recycling bin.
"Apollo!" I whispered. "Come on, get back!"
To my horror, I realized my elbow and half my leg stuck out past the bins.
The Mercedes backed out.
It was too late to move. I froze.
Through the gap between the bins, I could see Graham's shiny blond head behind the wheel. He was dressed in a charcoal suit and was already talking on his Bluetooth device, his hand making a chopping gesture at the air as if to emphasize a point. Business at 5:58 a.m.
My breath caught in my throat. If I could see him, Graham could see me. And Apollo. If he glanced at his trash and recycling bins or his mailbox, I was toast.
The car rolled past me. He never glanced toward the bins. Never looked left or right. Whitney always complained he couldn't be bothered to pay attention to anything unless it was business, tennis, or sex, in that order.
The taillights flared red at the end of the driveway. The Mercedes turned and headed down the street as the garage door descended with a mechanical whine.
I remained crouched for two full minutes. My right leg cramped. Finally, I stood on unsteady legs and shook it out. "Thanks for nothing, Apollo."
Apollo happily licked my hand. His tail wagged with enthusiasm, ready for the next game.
I pulled the dog toward the next house, continuing north to Rowan's. The big house loomed dark, its wraparound deck empty. The bins sat centered exactly at the edge of the driveway.
I lifted the recycling lid. Yogurt containers rinsed clean, kombucha bottles, and a collapsed box. In the trash, coffee grounds, vegetable peels, and a cracked mug. Everything ordinary, typical, expected.
I closed the lid and doubled back on Wyld Wood Lane, passing Whitney's again until I reached Camille's. The indigo sky was starting to lighten. Whitney and Peyton often went jogging together at 6:30 a.m. for some God-forsaken reason, so I was running out of time.
In front of Camille's house, I paused. If Camille found out what I was doing, she might drop us.
I did it anyway. I was too committed now.
Apollo nosed at the grass while I lifted the recycling lid. Juice boxes. Cereal boxes. A graveyard of LaCroix cans. I moved to the black bin. The lid stuck, then gave with a damp sucking sound.
Something bulky wrapped in newspaper sat on the top. I slid my bagged hand down and eased the bundle up. The newspaper crackled. A thin smear of red streaked the outer layer.
I peeled the paper back. A spray paint can. The metal was cold and tacky, its rim crusted with dried pigment, the exact angry scarlet shade that had spelled GUILTY across Leah's painting.
The world narrowed to the cylinder in my hand.
A light flicked on inside the house, on the second floor. My heart stopped. Quickly, I glanced at the time on my phone. 5:57 a.m. Garbage pick-up was in less than five minutes. If I called the police now, the contents of Camille's trash would probably be in a landfill by the time they arrived.
Besides, if I called the cops on Camille's daughter, she would absolutely fire Mia, and we desperately needed her right now.
I had to be careful how I went about this. And I had no time to figure out a better solution.
Before I could change my mind, I shoved the spray paint into a fresh doggie bag, double-layered, fumbling the knots. I shoved it into my purse, backed away from the bin, and hurried down the street with Apollo.
My shoulder blades itched with anxiety. I half-expected a shout behind me. A door opening. Someone demanding to know what I was doing.
The light stayed on, but no one came out.
Every window I passed felt like an eye watching me. The weight of the purse dragged at my shoulder. It grew heavier by the minute.
The sky had softened to a bruised gray by the time we reached my cottage. Birdsong started up in hesitant notes.
I fumbled with the new keys, my hands shaking so badly I dropped them. The metal clatter on the concrete was too loud. I snatched them up, unlocked the door, and pulled Apollo inside.
I locked the deadbolt behind me and leaned against the door, breathing hard.
The clock on the stove read 6:04 a.m. Upstairs, Mia's door remained closed.
I went to the coat closet next to the stairs and shoved the purse behind the winter coats, wedging it between an outgrown backpack and a garment bag. Out of sight, for now. I needed to figure out how to present it without incriminating myself first.
I made it. I hadn't been caught.
But I had evidence, which I'd just stolen, then hidden, that implicated Zara Hayward. And I had no idea what to do with it.