Chapter Thirty-Five
The distant murmur of eulogy speeches filtered through the bathroom door. I stared at Zara's reflections in the sparkling mirrors, searching carefully for any sign of deception. I saw none. "Are you certain it was Peyton?"
Her eyes met mine in the mirror. "It was definitely her. The purple Stanley with all the stickers from her swim meets. She literally never goes anywhere without that thing. It was definitely her."
My vision tunneled. Peyton. Whitney's perfect, polished daughter, the one who stood in my living room with that spare key, who watched the police photograph Leah's painting on Thursday night. The same painting she'd slashed and defaced. Who probably planted the bloody rock in Mia's room, too.
And she'd buried the camera. The one piece of evidence that might save Mia.
There could be time-stamped photos that might show exactly what happened on that bluff. And Peyton had taken it, hidden it, let Mia take the blame while it lay buried a hundred feet from where Leah died.
Adrenaline surged through my veins. My tongue felt thick and alien in my mouth. I could barely form proper sentences. "When you came up the stairs, did you see Peyton anywhere?"
"When I screamed. They all came running out of the patio doors. Peyton, too, with that Stanley in her hand."
My pulse roared in my ears. I had to get to that beach. Now. Before Whitney figured out what Zara had told me. Before Peyton dug it back up.
"This is huge, Zara. This could help clear Mia's name."
"I can't tell the police," she said, distraught. "If the other girls find out I snitched…" She shook her head violently. "They'd, like, destroy me. You don't understand what they're like."
Part of me wanted to shake her. A girl had died, and her fear of social rejection shouldn't matter more than justice. But I recalled being fourteen, how the world narrowed to the opinions of peers, how exclusion felt like death.
Hell, sometimes it felt that way now.
"What if I tell the police without involving you?"
Hope flickered across her ashen face. "How?"
"I'll dig up the camera myself." I touched her arm. "Thank you for telling me. That took courage."
She gave a bitter laugh. "No, it didn't. Courage would've been standing up for Leah when she was alive. Courage would be going to the police myself."
"You're being brave now. That's what matters."
Zara tore more small shreds of paper towel. The pieces floated to the floor like confetti. "Do you think Peyton… do you think she actually did this? That she pushed Leah?"
I thought of Mia, alone and afraid, blamed for something she didn't do. My fear hardened into resolve. "I have to find the truth, no matter who it hurts."
Zara nodded numbly.
The bathroom door suddenly rattled. The handle turned.
My pulse jumped. Instinctively, I moved to shield Zara from the door. Luckily, I had locked it.
"Zara? Are you in there?" Camille's voice filtered through the door, sharp with impatience. "Your father noticed you were missing. He's been looking for you."
Zara's eyes widened in panic. "One sec, Mom!"
"Hurry up. The other girls are speaking. It's almost your turn."
She quickly wiped her face, trying to erase the evidence of tears smudging her eyeliner.
"Zara, what are you doing? Is someone in there with you? I thought I heard voices."
Zara's eyes met mine, panicked. "No one, Mom. I swear, it's just me."
"Go," I mouthed.
Zara unlocked the door, opened it just enough to slip through, and slid out to join her mother. The door closed behind her.
I exhaled and wiped my damp palms on my dress. That had been close, too close. I remained in the bathroom for a moment, collecting myself, steadying my nerves.
I stared at my reflection in the gilt-framed mirror. The woman looking back at me had eyes I didn't recognize. Flat, calculating. Hard.
The memorial speeches continued outside. Brooke was speaking now, dramatically, through copious tears.
I had to find that buried bag before someone else did. But I had to be careful. Peyton had hidden it for a reason. Did Whitney know about it? Did she know what her daughter was capable of?
I picked up my purse and slid it over my shoulder. I stepped out of the bathroom, made my way through the immaculate industrial kitchen, and back to the memorial service.
Near the hallway, Graham Alistair leaned against the wall, head down, phone glowing in his hands. His thumb scrolled mechanically. Whitney's handsome husband was present but also absent.
I moved past him and scanned the room for Mia. It was time to go. Now.
Chloe stood at the microphone, giving a teary, heartfelt eulogy. Her voice quavered with emotion that seemed genuine. She dabbed at her eyes with a damp tissue.
"Leah was one of my closest friends," Chloe said. "I remember this one afternoon last fall, we were supposed to study for a big science test, but instead we ended up at the beach for hours, just talking. She told me about her dream of becoming an art teacher someday."
A murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd. Heads nodded. A few people wiped at their eyes.
"She had this incredible way of seeing beauty in everything. Even on her hardest days, she'd find something to draw, something to paint, like her sunsets and flowers. She made the world brighter just by noticing it."
Chloe's gaze swept across the crowd, pausing on faces here and there as she spoke. I found myself nodding along, caught in the current of Chloe's words. They felt true. They sounded like Leah.
Across the room, Mia stood transfixed. Her face had gone pale, her hands limp at her sides. But it was her posture that sent alarm skittering down my spine. Her shoulders drawn up, rigid, like she was bracing for impact.
"I wish I could've helped her," Chloe said, her voice breaking. "I keep having these terrible nightmares about that night. Night terrors, really. I wake up screaming, and my mom has to calm me down. But then my therapist helped me understand—they aren't nightmares at all."
The room went dead silent. Even the waitstaff froze mid-step. Someone's fork clattered against a plate, the sound obscenely loud.
Mia's throat worked. Her fingers twitched at her sides.
Chloe's gaze landed on Mia. Her pale blue eyes gleamed with something that didn't fit the tears on her cheeks, the tremble in her voice. "They're memories. And they're real. My mind had blocked them out because of the trauma. But they’re coming back. In pieces at first, but now—"
We needed to leave.
We needed to leave right now.
I moved through the crowd toward Mia, weaving between bodies, trying not to draw attention. The plush carpet muffled my footsteps. It felt like wading through water, every step too slow, the distance between us stretching impossibly.
Mia's eyes found mine across the room, wide and terrified. Her mouth formed a single word: No.
I couldn't reach her in time.
"I remember," Chloe said. "I remember everything."
Whitney's hand flew to her mouth. Rowan stood frozen, her face carefully blank. Brooke gripped her champagne flute, and Camille pulled Zara closer, her arm a protective bar across her daughter's chest. Peyton shifted beside Alexis, her jaw tight.
Vivienne stood at the front, her spine rigid, her hands folded in front of her stomach. As Chloe spoke, Vivienne's head tilted as if straining to catch every syllable. Daniel leaned toward her, his hand finding hers.
All eyes were on Chloe.
It was like watching a slow-motion car crash. I knew what was coming, knew it in the sick churn of my stomach, the cold prickle across my skin. I could only watch, utterly helpless.
Chloe's voice rang out, clear and damning: "I saw Mia push Leah."