Chapter Thirty-Six
The community clubhouse erupted into chaos. Whispers slithered through the crowd like smoke. I lunged through the sea of bodies, my pulse thundering in my ears, and grabbed Mia's wrist.
People stepped back as we passed, brows raised, mouths open in shock. Their eyes narrowed with an unspoken accusation that burned like acid against my skin.
I wanted to turn and scream at them all, to defend my daughter, but urgency propelled me onward.
"Mom." Mia's fingers dug into my forearm. "Everyone's staring."
"Just keep walking," I said under my breath. "Head up. Don't run."
Mia's face had gone chalk-white, her gaze unfocused. "Mom!"
I pulled her closer. "Not here."
Across the room, I caught a glimpse of Whitney and Peyton locked in an apparent argument. Whitney's hand on Peyton's upper arm, Peyton shaking her head.
Next to them, Vivienne and Daniel slipped out a side door. Daniel's hand on her back, guiding her away from the chaos.
Only minutes remained before Whitney, Brooke, or Rowan called the police and offered my daughter up on a silver platter.
We reached the heavy oak doors. I shoved them open.
Mia stumbled, blinking against the sudden brightness. Her breath came in shallow bursts. "Are they gonna arrest me? Am I going to prison forever?"
The answer clogged in my throat. I wanted to reassure her, to promise everything would be fine. I couldn't. "They have an eyewitness now. They might arrest you." I squeezed her hand. "I'll get another lawyer. I'll do whatever it takes."
We hurried past pristine lawns and perfectly trimmed hedges. The neighborhood felt hostile and alien.
Mia's phone buzzed in the pocket of her dress. She tugged it out as I half-dragged her along the sidewalk, her face illuminated by the screen's glow.
"Mom." She turned the phone toward me. "It's from Zara."
I read quickly: W and P being weird. Heard them mention beach. W just left in a hurry.
My pulse hammered. The beach. The camera.
If Whitney was headed there, she'd retrieve whatever Peyton had buried. The evidence that might potentially save Mia would disappear forever.
My mind raced through impossible calculations: I couldn't take Mia to the beach.
I didn't want her present if Whitney appeared and things turned confrontational.
I couldn't leave her at home alone. Not after Chloe's public accusation.
Not with the police likely minutes away. They might arrest her while I was gone.
I couldn't trust any of the other mothers.
Except Vivienne.
Viv wasn't involved. Out of everyone, she alone wasn't part of any cover-up, I knew that much. Whatever else had broken between us, she wanted the truth about what happened to her daughter as much as I did, if not more.
I paused on the sidewalk and gripped Mia's shoulders. "Go to Vivienne's house. Right now."
Mia's eyes widened. "Mom, she won't let me in, not after what the detective said about my DNA—"
"She'll let you in." I had to believe that.
Vivienne had loved Mia once. She'd been the closest thing to a second mother Mia had known.
"If she's not there yet, use the spare key under the planter.
You know where it is. Wait inside for Viv.
Lock the door behind you. Tell her I'm getting evidence that can prove what really happened to Leah. "
"What if she kicks me out?"
"She won't." She had to accept Mia. Because every other door in Blackthorn Shores had slammed shut on us. Vivienne was a mother who’d lost her child. If there was a chance the truth was something other than what she'd been told, she would open that door.
I was already turning back toward the street.
"Don't leave me!" Mia grabbed my sleeve, frantic. "Mom, please. About that night—"
"Ten minutes! I promise." I untangled myself from her grasp. Guilt scorched through me, hot and acidic, for leaving her. I hated myself even as I moved.
If evidence on that beach could save Mia, I had no choice.
I left Mia standing on the sidewalk and sprinted toward the community beach access stairs. Every maternal instinct screamed at me to go back, to hold her, to listen. I ignored it.
The late afternoon sun hung low, a heavy bank of clouds approaching over the horizon. The wind had picked up. The waves roared in the distance.
My dress flapped around my knees as I ran. I reached the wooden stairs and kicked off my heels, leaving them at the top. They'd only slow me down.
The rough wood bit into my bare feet as I descended all 179 stairs, each step jarring my knees, my ankles, my spine. Splinters embedded themselves in my soles. I didn't stop. My purse slapped against my side. The roar of the waves swelled louder.
At the bottom, I paused, chest heaving as my gaze swept the shoreline. The beach stretched empty save for a few seagulls skittering across the wet sand. No sign of Whitney or Peyton. Had I beaten them here? Or missed them altogether?
Zara had said she'd hidden behind an oak at the base of the bluff and watched Peyton dig near the seawall. I cut toward the trees, pressed my back to the largest oak, and peered out. From here, the seawall jutted right, a scar of concrete below Rowan's house perched far above.
I moved fast along the waterline, the sand cold and damp beneath my bare feet. Wind whipped my hair across my mouth. Grit salted my tongue. Then I saw it. Three driftwood sticks formed a rough triangle, too deliberate to be chance. The sand inside lay smooth, tamped down.
I dropped to my knees. Sand caked my dress. The fabric clung to my thighs.
My fingers plunged into the sand. Grains rasped my skin, jammed beneath my nails. I dug deeper, faster, wrist-deep, then to my forearms. My knuckles scraped something slick.
I clawed the edges free and dragged up a torn Meijer's bag, heavy and wet. Sand poured from its seams. Through the rip in the plastic, I felt the hard rectangle of a camera body.
I yanked it out of the plastic bag.
A Nikon SLR, the casing scratched and sand-crusted, the display fogged with condensation. The canary-yellow strap was still attached, dotted with souvenir buttons from our family road trips. Yellowstone. Yosemite. Arches. Isle Royale.
Mia's camera.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe. I clutched it to my chest with both hands.
Tears blurred my vision. This was the most precious gift Marcus ever gave her, the last piece of him she'd carried everywhere, tucked against her ribs like a talisman.
I'd thought it was gone forever. Destroyed, thrown in the lake, evidence buried.
But here it was, solid and real in my trembling hands.
The camera that might save my daughter. That might prove the truth.
I held it for one more heartbeat, feeling the weight of everything it represented to Mia, to me. Then I shoved it into my oversized purse, stood, and brushed over the disturbed patch of sand with my foot, erasing the hole.
A muffled sound came from behind me—footsteps, sand shifting. My pulse jolted. I whirled around.
A figure stood several yards away. In the slanting light, shadows stretched long across the sand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"