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 didyourdaughter 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 beenhandled.
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, shallwe?" 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."
