The Guilty Ones

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Blackthorn Shores Clubhouse gleamed in the late afternoon sun. I paused at the entrance, gripping Mia's hand. I had already dropped off the brownies at the clubhouse kitchen earlier in the morning.

Now, my pulse quickened. Marcus's funeral flashed across my mind. The grief and heartbreak. The devastation.

I squeezed Mia's fingers. "You ready?"

She nodded, her jaw set, her father's stubbornness in her chin.

Inside the clubhouse, wildflowers erupted from every surface: wild pink roses bursting from vases, white trillium woven into wreaths, sprays of columbine, purple coneflower, and wild lupine scattered across white linen. Leah's favorites.

The moment we stepped inside, the conversation snagged. Heads tipped our way. The room shifted toward us like a tide, then pretended not to. I swallowed the urge to flee.

Beside me, Mia went rigid. I straightened my knee-length black dress, shifted my oversized purse on my shoulder, and lifted my chin. "We can do this. We're Kincaids."

We moved to the memorial table. Framed photos traced Leah's life. Stuffed animals formed a half-moon around notes and cards.

Nearby, Jerome Hayward stood with Daniel Cho. Their heads were close, their voices low. Jerome's hand touched Daniel's shoulder briefly, then fell away. Daniel's face was slack with grief, his orthopedic surgeon's hands hanging useless at his sides.

They stood apart from the rest of the mourners, Jerome remaining at Daniel's side to offer support and comfort. They were good men. Marcus would have liked them.

Mia touched one of the photos. "None of these people cared about her. They couldn't be bothered when she was alive, but now they loved her?"

I squeezed her shoulder. "She was loved. You loved her."

Mia nodded like she didn't believe me.

"You remember the plan?" I'd recruited Mia to help me get Zara alone. In a few minutes, she would text Zara and ask her to meet in the clubhouse kitchen. I would be there instead.

Mia nodded. She stayed at the table, small and alone among flowers and apologies.

Over by the dessert spread, Chloe, Peyton, Alexis, and Zara clustered in a tight circle.

With a start, I realized that Sunday was supposed to be the night of the Sadie Hawkins dance.

Instead of glittering evening gowns, nervous excitement, and first dances with boys, these girls were mourning, dressed in black, their mascara smeared.

Or at least, they all did an excellent job of pretending. The heat of their gazes scorched my back as I crossed the room, searching the crowd for Vivienne.

A hand clamped my arm. It was Whitney. Her hair was shellacked into a French twist, her charcoal dress poured over her like paint, her diamond tennis bracelet glinting at her wrist.

Her fingers bit into my skin. "You have some nerve showing your face here. Digging through our trash. Accusing Brooke of abuse. Pointing the finger at Camille's daughter for the murder that your child committed. Who do you think you are?"

I yanked my arm free. "I could ask you the same. Why was Peyton's name all over Leah's diary? What did your daughter do?"

"Are you going to accuse all our children, one by one? Desperation doesn't suit you, Dahlia."

"Did Peyton bully Leah to death?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You should stop before it's too late."

I kept my spine straight. I couldn't let her see my anxiety, my dread, my rising terror. "Too late for what, Whitney? If Peyton is so innocent, why are you so worried?"

She didn't answer. Her gaze flicked over my shoulder. Peyton stood across the room, watching us.

Whitney's posture shifted as a couple waved at her. Her icy smile instantly warmed. Without a backward glance, she sauntered away to greet several of the swim team moms.

Near the memorial table, a high keening sound cut through the murmur of voices. Brooke's son Falcon stood rigid beside a flower arrangement, his hands clamped over his ears, rocking back and forth. The string quartet's violins faltered, hitting a discordant note.

Brooke materialized beside him, her smile fixed for the watching crowd, a wineglass in one hand. Her other hand gripped his shoulder. Her voice was harsh, clipped. "Falcon. Not here!"

He didn't stop rocking. His cries grew louder.

Before Brooke could tighten her grip, Alexis appeared. She crouched beside her brother, her movements careful and deliberate. She didn't touch him, just stayed close, her voice low and steady. "Hey, Falcon. It's too loud in here, isn't it? Let's go outside. You and me."

His rocking slowed. His hands stayed over his ears. His breathing evened slightly.

"Come on," Alexis said. "We'll get you somewhere quiet. Away from all this noise."

Falcon nodded, a small jerky movement. Alexis rose and held out her hand. He took it. She guided him toward the side door near the kitchen. Her touch was gentle, her pace unhurried.

Brooke stood frozen, wineglass suspended mid-air, that fixed smile still plastered across her face. The watching crowd turned away, satisfied that the disruption had been handled.

I thought of Mia at that age, how gently Marcus had guided her through meltdowns. Alexis had learned tenderness somewhere, perhaps despite her mother, not because of her.

The dichotomy between her tenderness toward Falcon and her cruelty toward Leah was striking. My heart went out to her, but she was still a suspect. I couldn't let anything cloud my judgment.

I spotted Vivienne near the center of the room, standing within a circle of people offering condolences. Her grief was a black void around her. Every few seconds, her gaze slipped to the photo pyramid, all those smiling reminders of everything she'd lost.

Our eyes met across the room. Hers held no forgiveness, only exhausted grief. I looked away first.

Next to Vivienne, Rowan extricated herself from a knot of housewives around the punch bowl.

She paused, looking around as if searching for someone.

Her gaze landed on her husband, Gregory, who moved among the clusters of mourners with practiced ease, his tall frame cutting a sharp silhouette in his black suit.

He shook hands, leaned in with warm murmurs of condolence, and clapped another man on the shoulder. He looked every bit the somber host. He never looked her way.

Rowan pressed her lips together and spun, heading in the opposite direction, toward the clubhouse kitchen. I followed, an excuse to escape the press of the crowd. Plus, I wanted to be in the kitchen anyway.

The steel counters gleamed under the cool fluorescent lights. The music and talk outside muffled to a hum. I braced my palms on the counter and drew a long breath.

"Dahlia!" Rowan said warmly. "I'm glad you came. Thanks for the delicious brownies."

I didn't have it in me to pretend. "I'm surprised you're even speaking to me."

She smoothed her floor-length black dress, the warmth never leaving her expression.

Her hair was pulled back in a glossy chignon.

She looked stunning as usual. "Now isn't the time or place to air grievances.

Let's keep it together for Vivienne and Daniel's sake, shall we?

" Rowan said, her voice soft, but there was iron underneath.

"You seem unsettled. Take a few moments to gather yourself before you head back out there. "

I nodded numbly. My grief wasn't only for Leah. I hated that I still wanted her approval while simultaneously questioning whether she'd framed my child. I hated that I could no longer trust my closest friends. Would I ever regain those friendships, or were they gone forever?

"Yeah," I managed. "Good idea."

"Rowan! Oh, there you are." Brooke appeared, cheeks flushed, eyes too bright. Her wineglass was empty. Her expression darkened when she spotted me. "They're ready for speeches. They want you to start." Her eyes narrowed. "Everything good in here, Rowan?"

"Thank you for your concern, Brooke." Rowan gave me a sympathetic smile. "We'll talk later."

Rowan floated out of the kitchen. Brooke scowled at me before flouncing after her.

My phone buzzed. I tugged it from my purse. A message from Mia: Z coming to u.

A moment later, the kitchen door opened. Zara slipped in. She spotted me and froze.

"I need to talk to you," I said. "About Leah."

From the main room, Rowan's voice rose and fell, poised and perfect, shaping a story about a girl her daughter's friends had mocked and bullied.

Zara glanced nervously over her shoulder like a rabbit prepared to flee. "I'm not supposed to talk to you."

I gestured toward the adjacent bathroom that connected the kitchen to the pool area. "Please. Just a minute."

Zara hesitated, then sighed. She followed me into the bathroom, and I shut the door behind us.

The pool house bathroom glittered with excess, with marble floors so polished they mirrored us in dark glass, black-and-white tile laid like a chessboard, and gold fixtures that threw fractured rainbows across the walls.

I got right to it. "I know about the spray paint."

Zara pressed her back to the quartzite counter. She looked at me blankly.

"I found it in your trash yesterday morning."

She gaped at me. "Uh, I literally don't know what you're talking about, Ms. Kincaid."

If I hadn't known better, I'd have said she was genuinely baffled. "I know it was you who broke into my home. You took Leah's painting from Mia's room, slashed it, and painted GUILTY over it."

She shook her head, hard. Her braids swished around her narrow shoulders. "No! That wasn't me. I'd never do that to you or Mia. I was on Leah's side!"

"It was in your trash bin. The same color was used on the slashed painting. You want to tell me that's a coincidence?"

"Someone must have put it there. I didn't use spray paint. It wasn't me. I wouldn't—" Her face cleared, as if something had clicked in her mind. "Wait. What the actual—"

I leaned forward. "What?"

Her hands clenched into fists. She looked like she wanted to punch someone. "Are you kidding me? She dumped it in my trash to cover herself. So nothing would trace back to her. That backstabbing—"

"Who, Zara?"

Zara met my gaze. "Thursday before swim practice, I saw red stuff under Peyton's nails. I teased her about it. She told me to mind my own business. Then she left practice early. She didn't say why."

I sucked in a breath. "Peyton."

"Yeah, that witch just framed me. "

"I believe you." I did. I believed every word. Zara was clearly upset.

"I can't believe she'd do that to me." Her eyes narrowed. She chewed on her bottom lip, like she was considering something.

"What is it?"

"I, uh, left some stuff out before."

"Tell me."

"I'm sorry, I should've said something earlier. I don't even know why I was protecting her. Peyton sure doesn't deserve it."

I slid my purse off my shoulder and set it on the counter. The mirrors multiplied us, two figures caught in a glittering box.

"You told me before that you heard sounds at 3:30 a.m." I didn't mention that the noises Zara heard was from Leah, still alive, struggling to climb the bluff. She would find out soon enough when the information was released to the media.

"I lied about not seeing who it was. I was too scared to say anything before. I thought if I just said I heard someone, that would be enough. But it's not. Mia could literally get arrested. I… I can't just stand by and do nothing. Not again."

I went very still. My mind spun. Someone else had actually been on the bluff?

Zara's shoulders tensed. She grasped the edge of the counter to steady herself.

"If they find out I told you… you know what they do.

LakeshoreTea. The girl last year, the one who got brain damage.

I can't end up like her. I can't live like that, with a target on my back.

What Leah went through? I can't do that. "

"You're doing the right thing. I promise, you are. We'll figure out how to handle it."

She nodded. Her breath hitched. "I didn't go back up to Chloe's house.

I just stayed on the beach. I was freaking out about why Leah missed our meeting.

Like, imagining all kinds of terrible things.

I kept thinking Peyton found out, or Alexis, and what they'd do to me.

So, I decided to just stay and watch the sunrise.

There's that big piece of driftwood by the seawall to sit on. "

"What time was this?"

"Just before dawn. So, like, 5:15 a.m.?"

"Okay. What happened?"

"I heard this scratching sound. I got scared and hid behind that big oak at the base of the bluff. Someone came down the stairs holding a plastic bag with something in it. She buried it just past the seawall, covered it with leaves and twigs, then went back up."

The taste of adrenaline went metallic on my tongue. "What was in the bag?"

"It was small. Dark. Weirdly shaped. It had this brightly colored strap. Hard to see from where I was hiding, but I'm pretty sure it was a camera."

My breath stilled in my chest. The mirrors caught us from every angle—her eyes huge and hollow, my posture angled toward her, breathless with hope. "Mia's camera."

She nodded. "I waited until I couldn't hear her footsteps anymore.

I should've dug the camera up, I know that now, but I didn't. I went back up.

Then I saw something shiny in the grass where we took pictures the night before, so I walked over.

It was getting lighter out. It was Leah's phone.

I looked down and…" Her face crumpled. "That's when I saw her. Leah, lying there."

I handed her a paper towel. Our fingers brushed. Hers were ice cold. She wiped at her eyes, then tore the towel into neat strips.

"Zara," I said. "Who was on the beach?"

"I didn't know at first. When she came up the stairs, she passed right by me. I couldn't see her face, but…"

I could barely breathe. "Who?"

Zara's eyes shone with tears under the lights. The moment stretched, taut as a wire, our reflections echoing on all sides.

"I recognized the purple Stanley."

The air left my lungs.

"Peyton," she said. "It was Peyton."