Chapter Thirty
I faced Camille at the top step of my porch. "I've been texting you. Come inside, and I'll make some coffee—"
"Dahlia." Her tone was sharp, clipped. Her courtroom voice.
"Is everything okay?"
She halted with one heel braced on the bottom step. "Brooke's Ring camera caught you. This morning. Going through her trash. Whitney's, too."
My heart dropped to my stomach.
"You were trespassing on private property. You contaminated potential evidence." She held up her phone. "I have the footage. Time-stamped. Clear as day."
"I wasn't stealing—"
"You took items from Whitney's trash. And mine!" She lowered the phone. "What the hell were you thinking?"
My mouth went dry. Clearly, I wasn't. "I was looking for evidence. Something that could help Mia."
Her voice vibrated with barely repressed anger. "You talked to Alexis. And Zara, my daughter. You questioned minors without their parents present. You pressured them for statements. That's witness tampering, Dahlia. Do you understand what you've done to your daughter's case?"
"I was trying to help her."
"You've made everything worse. The DA can use your interference to discredit every witness statement. Every piece of evidence. They could argue the entire circle has been contaminated by a desperate mother coaching testimony."
Heat crawled up my neck. "I didn't coach anyone."
"It doesn't matter what you did. It matters how it looks.
" She shifted the folder under her arm. "The other mothers know.
Rowan. Whitney. Brooke. They are all aware that you have been interfering.
They are not happy, Dahlia. They are, in fact, united in their assessment that you have become a problem. "
Fear hooked in my throat. "A problem."
"They're concerned. Concerned you are not acting rationally. Concerned that you are desperate." She paused. "And that makes you dangerous."
I felt the word like sharp little shivers under my skin. "Dangerous? I asked questions—"
"You trespassed. You stole. You harassed their daughters. Whitney's considering a restraining order."
My vision blurred. I fought back tears of frustration. "I am trying to defend Mia. Since no one else appears to be!"
"You're not her lawyer. I am."
"I'm not trying to play lawyer," I said. "I'm trying to be a mother."
"And I am trying to be both." The words slipped out of her. Emotion flared in her face, a flash of something human. Apprehension. Worry. "Which is exactly why I am here."
"Zara heard something that night," I said. "At 3:30 a.m. She has information about the Instagram account."
Camille's face closed. "Leave Zara out of this."
"She's a witness. She could help."
"Zara is done talking."
"The red spray paint can was in your trash, Camille. Yours. That means Zara broke into my house, defaced Leah's painting, threatened Mia and me—"
"Enough!" Camille's face contorted. "Just stop. Stop it. There will be no more conversations between you and my daughter, or Mia and my daughter. That's non-negotiable."
"You're protecting her from what? The truth?"
Her shoulders dropped a fraction. The mask didn't fall, it never would with her, but it shifted. She looked sad, defeated. "I am not your enemy, Dahlia. I am Zara's mother. I am also…" She stopped herself. "I am trying to help you."
Desperation tinged my voice. "It doesn't sound like help."
"It is." She lowered her voice enough that I had to lean closer. She held my gaze. "Take my advice. These women will protect their children at any cost. You need to understand what that means."
"They're afraid," I said. "They're hiding something."
"They're mothers," she said, as if that was an answer.
In a way, it was.
Camille pulled a paper from the folder. "I'm withdrawing as Mia's attorney."
The ground shifted beneath my feet. Nausea churned in my stomach. I thought I might vomit. "What?"
She held the form out. "There's a conflict of interest. My daughter is a potential witness. I believed it was manageable until you started contaminating the witness pool. This is my notice of withdrawal. I'm filing it on Monday morning."
I didn't take it. "You can't do this now. Not to Mia. Be mad at me, but don't make Mia suffer."
"Dahlia, please. Let's not make things harder than they already are. I'm giving you names of attorneys who can step in. You'll need to call them soon if you want someone at the station with Mia when they bring her in again."
She thrust the paper at me. I took it with numb hands.
"Please, Camille." My voice came out high, panicked. "This is when we need you most. I can't. I won't be able to…" I couldn't bear to say the words aloud. I could barely afford groceries, let alone an experienced, high-cost criminal defense attorney to defend my daughter against murder charges.
"Then the state will appoint one for you," she said crisply. She looked somewhere over my shoulder, avoiding eye contact. Pretending Mia was just another client, that we hadn't shared coffee dozens of times.
"The system will eat Mia alive."
"That is no longer my concern."
The paper in my hand crinkled. I couldn't keep the sarcasm from lacing my voice. "And what is your concern, then?"
"My concern is my child."
I wanted to ask her whose version she believed at night when she closed her eyes, when the house went quiet, and she could hear her own thoughts.
Had she stood at the foot of Zara's bed and watched her ribcage rise and fall as I did with Mia.
Had she felt that absolute clawing terror that you were losing the flesh of your flesh, that there was nothing you could do to protect them?
Perhaps she had, which was why she was doing this to me, to us.
"I am sorry about Leah," Camille said. "I am sorry for Vivienne. And I am sorry for you. Truly, Dahlia. I hope someday you believe me."
Before I could respond, she was moving. Down the steps, down the gravel drive, to the street. Then she was gone. And with her, our last ally.
I looked at the paper in my hand. Three names, neatly printed. With fancy firms whose retainers probably cost more than I made in a year. Beside one, in Camille's slanting script: Try her first.
I let out a bitter laugh. Like I could afford any of them. I set the paper flat on the console table next to the photo of Mia at seven with her cheeks stuffed with marshmallows, laughing and wriggling in Marcus's arms.
I put my hand flat against the glass and felt its coolness leech into my skin. I rubbed my thumb over the ridge of the frame.
I thought of Vivienne, the devastation etching her face. I thought of Rowan, Whitney, and Brooke, of the gleam of their countertops and the tidy way they'd closed ranks, united against a perceived enemy.
They would protect their children at any cost.
They weren't the only ones.