The Guilty Ones

Chapter Forty-Six

Early morning fog hung low over the water and the street, swallowing houses whole. I stopped at the base of Rowan's driveway. An unmarked sedan sat at the curb three houses down, its windows dark. I didn't let myself look at it.

My breath came shallow and fast. I shivered in my jean jacket and hoodie as I climbed the porch steps. I knocked on the door before doubt could pull me back.

Rowan opened the door as if she'd been waiting for me. Her hair was smoothed into a low knot, her makeup pristine despite the early hour. Concern slid across her face like a curtain drawn into place.

"Oh, sweetheart." Her voice dropped to a crisis-management murmur, the one she used for PTA emergencies and charity-gala meltdowns. "Let's get you inside. Quickly, before anyone sees you like this."

Warm air enveloped me, thick with the scents of lemon cleaner and something floral. A bouquet was arranged on the console table, brimming with yellow marigolds, pale roses, and spiky red dahlias, my namesake.

In the mirror behind the bouquet, I caught a glimpse of my reflection: red-rimmed eyes, sallow skin, hair tangled wild from wind and sleeplessness.

I looked wrecked. Good.

Rowan's hand settled at my elbow. The door clicked shut behind me. "You poor thing. You haven't slept, have you? Of course you haven't. Let's get you warmed up. I made Rosemary and Sea Salt Focaccia last night. I'll slice you some. And tea, obviously. Sit. I'll handle everything."

"Tea would be nice," I said. Talking felt like rubbing sandpaper over my throat.

She steered me down the hallway into the sunken living room and guided me to the sofa, one hand still at my elbow. "Gregory just left for a round of golf at Harbor Shores, and Chloe's upstairs sleeping, still not well enough for the trials of school yet, so we have the place to ourselves for now."

Outside the wall of windows, white fog pressed against the glass like something trying to get in. The room was immaculate, clean, and catalog-perfect. The throw pillows sat at precise angles. Coffee table books stacked by size. The throws on the couch folded primly.

My eyes burned. I blinked away tears. "I didn't know where else to go. You're the only one who will talk to me. I don't know what to do."

"Sit," Rowan said. "I'll be right back."

I sank into the couch, still shivering. I hunched forward, arms wrapped tightly around my ribcage, making myself small. Part performance, part real. I hadn't slept, hadn't eaten. My bones were vibrating inside my skin.

Rowan returned a few minutes later with two steaming mugs with gold rims. She handed me one and set hers down on the white oak coffee table. "Jasmine Hibiscus. You'll love it."

The mug was heavy in my hands. Heat seeped into my stiff fingers. I held it close to my chest and let the steam warm my face. "Thank you."

She disappeared into the kitchen and appeared again with a plate of warmed focaccia drizzled with honey. She set one beside me and seated herself on the linen armchair opposite me.

"You haven't slept." Not a question, an assessment. Her gaze moved over my face like she was cataloging damage. "When did you eat last?"

"I don't remember."

She made a soft sound, sympathy or disapproval, I couldn't tell. "Tea and artisanal bread, then I'll make you something else if you're still hungry. You can't think straight if you're running on empty."

I hadn't seen my daughter in over twelve agonizing hours. Sleep eluded me entirely last night as I tossed and turned in my bed, plotting and planning, my mind racing in circles like a trapped animal.

"Chloe's devastated." Rowan's fingertips traced the rim of her mug. "She hasn't been sleeping, either. Keeps replaying it in her head, wishing she'd never suggested the photoshoot, never planned the party at all." A pause, perfectly timed. "She blames herself for what happened."

I kept my eyes on the tea and let her talk.

"I can't imagine what you're going through," she continued, leaning forward slightly. "With the arraignment. With everything."

Of course, she'd already heard. Rumors traveled fast in Blackthorn Shores.

"The detectives have new information." I watched her face. "Leah didn't die right away. She was alive after the fall."

Rowan's eyebrows rose in a flicker of surprise. "What?"

"She was unconscious for hours, that's why Mia and Chloe thought she was dead, but she woke up. She tried to crawl back up the bluff."

Rowan's hand went to her throat. "How tragic. Vivienne must be beside herself. Any mother would be. Poor Leah, suffering like that before she died."

"She didn't make it, though. Because someone got to her first."

Rowan went still. The only sound was the ticking clock and our breathing. "That's—that's terrible."

"Someone went back a few hours later. They climbed down the bluff and bashed her head in."

Rowan's fingers tightened on her mug. "Bashed—you mean—"

"The ME says the wound couldn't have happened in the fall."

The fog pressed against the windows.

"And the police believe… what, exactly? That it was intentional? Not a heat-of-the-moment mistake?"

I nodded. My eyes stung. I let the tears spill, hot and ugly. I clutched the mug to my chest with both hands. "They're going to charge her with murder, not manslaughter. Murder in the first degree."

Her face stayed composed. "I'm so sorry, Dahlia. I can't imagine."

"The thing is, Mia isn't a killer. She never meant to hurt her best friend."

She took a sip of tea. "Children make terrible mistakes sometimes. Even the sweetest ones. We never truly know what other people are capable of, do we? Not even our own daughters."

I drew a stuttering breath. "I keep thinking there's something the police missed. Something that would help Mia."

Rowan tilted her head. Compassionate, understanding. That listening posture, the one that made you want to confess everything to her. "What do you mean?"

"I couldn't sleep. I kept seeing it—the bluff, the fall. So I went out there, early this morning, with a flashlight."

Her expression didn't change. Something flickered in her eyes. "You went to my bluff? On my property?"

"I had to. I needed things to make sense." I bit my lip. "I found something."

"What did you find?"

I rubbed my palm on my jeans to steady my jangling nerves. My pulse thudded too loud in my ears. "Evidence. But I don't know what it means."

"Dahlia." She shifted, set her tea next to the plate with the untouched bread, and reached for my free hand. Her hand covered mine, warm and comforting. "You can trust me."

"I don't know what it means."

"Have you told the police?"

I shook my head.

"Why not?"

I looked at our hands, hers steady, mine trembling. "Because I don't know if it'll help Mia or make everything worse."

"What kind of evidence are we talking about? Clothing? A weapon?"

"I don't want to say until you look at it. Until you tell me what it means."

Her brows knitted together. "If you found evidence at a crime scene and moved it, that's tampering."

"I was going to call Detective King after I talked to you. I didn't want to do the wrong thing."

She studied my face. "Why didn't you call the detectives immediately? Why come to me?"

"Because you're the only person who's stood by me through all of this." I met her eyes. "I trust you."

Something crossed her face. Satisfaction, maybe. Or relief. Her shoulders dropped half an inch. She withdrew her hand, sat back, and glanced at the windows, the fog. "Is it still out there? On the bluff?"

I shook my head.

Her gaze swept over me as if trying to determine where I might be hiding something. "You have it? Here?"

I nodded. My hand moved reflexively to my hoodie pocket.

Her eyes tracked the movement as she picked up her mug and sipped her tea. "Well, I suppose we could take a look."

"Not in here." I glanced toward the windows as if afraid a nosy neighbor might materialize out of the fog. "Outside. I want to show you where I found it."

Rowan set her mug down. Her knees brushed the coffee table. The magazines shifted, the neat pile now misaligned. "Actually, yes. Let's go now."

I blinked up at her. "Now?"

She rose gracefully to her feet. "Before you call the police. Let me help you understand what it means before you do something you can't take back. I can't help you if you don't tell me everything." She paused. "No offense, but I need to make sure you're not wearing a wire or recording anything."

I stared at her. "Rowan, why would I do that?"

Her smile widened. "I want to help you, Dahlia, you know I do, but I have to make sure. Surely, you understand. This is a sensitive topic. It could easily be… misconstrued… if someone were to overhear and take it the wrong way."

I nodded dully. Obediently, I tugged my phone from my jacket pocket, showed her I wasn't recording anything, and stood stiffly, my heart jackhammering while she patted me down.

She flashed me a wry smile, like we were both in on an inside joke. "I know it's silly. Thank you for humoring me. Now we can go."

I followed her through the great room to the patio doors and stepped onto the back patio.

The fog swallowed the world. The yard, the line of ferns along the fence, the path that led toward the bluff—everything transformed into vague, smeared outlines. Sound was both muffled and amplified, the waves a rhythmic murmur, like a ghost whispering in my ear.

We crossed the flagstone patio and walked across the dew-stippled lawn toward the bluff. Rowan sauntered ahead, her shoulders squared. I followed three paces behind, one hand in my hoodie pocket, maintaining enough distance to run if I needed to.

There were no witnesses. No one would hear a scream over the waves. A dog barked somewhere, the sound flat and directionless. Then a distant scraping sound, like a window sliding open or shut. I glanced back toward the street, but the fog obscured everything.

To our left, Mrs. Atkins’s house was a white blur. A row of dark pines marked the property line between the two yards, their shapes ghostly in the mist.

At the bluff, the yard ended. The water had vanished, the sky invisible. The steep drop disappeared into nothingness. Rowan didn't look in the direction of the lake but stared intently at me. "Where on the bluff did you find it?"

Inside my hoodie pocket, my fingers found the bag. Cold plastic, and beneath it, the irregular shape of the rock. I curled my fingers around the solid weight of it, the plastic crackling.

Rowan's gaze dropped to my hand inside my pocket, then back to my face. Waiting.

We were three feet from the edge. This was where Leah had stood in the moonlight, dizzy with adrenaline and panic and fear. Where she'd felt the ground disappear beneath her feet. Where hours later, she'd attempted to claw back up, broken and bleeding, to save herself.

I couldn't see the water, but I heard the relentless waves. The same sound Leah heard before she died.

I brought the bag out of my pocket. The rock sat heavy in the plastic, its weight obscene in my hand. This ordinary rock had caved in a child's skull. The dark smears showed almost black. Two fine strands caught the light—black hair, stuck in dried blood.

My stomach roiled. I wanted to drop it, hurl it into the lake, scrub my sullied hands raw. Instead, I held it between us.

Rowan stared at it in horror. "What the hell is that?"

"I found this. There's blood on it, and hair. I think someone used this to…" I couldn't finish. I didn't need to.

Rowan's pupils contracted. Her lips parted, not quite a gasp, something sharper. Her intent gaze remained on the rock.

I looked at the rock in my hand. At Rowan. Then at the water beyond the bluff, as if I might throw it in. "I need to tell you something."

Rowan watched me, waiting.

"I wasn't truthful just now."

"What are you trying to say, Dahlia?"

"I didn't find this out here on the bluff." I forced myself to meet her eyes. "It was in Mia's room."

She didn't blink. Something smoothed in her face. "The police didn't find it in their search?"

"I hid it. I was scared."

"That’s understandable."

"I keep thinking, if I hadn't seen it first—if the cops had found it—Mia wouldn't have a chance. They'd charge her as an adult. They'd lock her up forever and throw away the key."

Rowan took a step toward me. Her expression softened. "We can make sure that never happens, Dahlia. I can make it disappear. Let me protect you both."

My whole body was shaking. "You'd really help us? I'm so tired of being afraid, Rowan. So tired."

"Of course I'll help. That's what friends do." Her gaze stayed on the rock, not on me. "Give it to me. I'll take care of it."

I held the rock closer to my chest. The wind tugged at my hair. "My mind keeps spinning. I can't sleep. I keep thinking I should have been a better mom. Done things differently. Then none of this would've happened. How could I not have known? My own daughter. How could she hide so much from me?"

A flash of impatience in her eyes, just a flicker, then it was gone. "I'm sure you did your best, honey. Give me the rock. Let me help you."

"I can't believe she's a killer. How could I have missed it?"

"I mean, I can see how you'd miss it," she said coolly. "Mia hiding it in plain sight like that in her beach glass collection. Besides, no mother wants to think her daughter is capable of such a thing. But she was, Dahlia. And you have to face that."

She held out her hand.

I looked at her hand. The fog deepened, soft and heavy, stifling. "In her beach glass collection. Hiding in plain sight."

She blinked. "Exactly. Which is why you need my help."

There it was. My spine straightened. I stopped trembling. I felt Marcus’s wedding ring, a solid presence against my heart. "I never said it was in her beach glass collection."

The waves rolled far below. Rowan's hand hung between us, palm held up, expectant.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Her eyes flicked to the rock in my hand, then past me—toward the street, the houses still invisible, wrapped in dense fog. "Sweetheart, you did."

"I didn't."

Her nostrils flared. "You've been awake for days.

You're not thinking clearly. Remember last week when you couldn't recall if you locked the door?

Or when you thought someone had broken in and moved your things?

Grief does that. You're not—" She hesitated, choosing her words carefully.

"You're not yourself right now. I'd forget things, too, if I were in your shoes. "

"I didn't forget anything."

"It's an easy mistake to make."

"I didn't make a mistake."

She smiled that polite, indulgent smile. The kind you make when you humor a child. "Honey, everyone knows Mia collects beach glass and polished stones. You've posted pictures. It isn't a secret."

"I never told you where I found it." I held her gaze. My voice was steel. "You knew exactly where it was. Because you put it there."