I stood and made my way to the door, Apollo trailing behind me,his nails clicking on the worn hardwood, before pausing in the doorway, looking back at her still form beneath the covers.
Above Mia's bed hung the painting that Leah had made for her for Christmas: a vibrant watercolor of the pier at Tiscornia Beach, the sunset sky awash in streaks of violet, rose, and crimson, contrasting with the red-and-white lighthouse in the distance. In the foreground, clusters of blue wild lupine and purple beach peas bloomed among golden dune grasses.
Leah had loved art as much as Mia loved photography. Leah had been sweet-natured and smart, a straight-A student as well as a gifted artist. Though she'd been timid and often self-conscious about her full-bodied figure, she had also been incredibly empathetic, observant, and thoughtful. Her goofy sense of humor only emerged around people she trusted, like Mia. They would laugh together for hours about the silliest nonsense.
My chest tightened. That talented, vibrant girl was gone forever.
Another photo drew my attention, this one taped to the mirror above Mia’s desk. The group of six girls—Leah, Mia, Alexis, Chloe, Peyton, and Zara—their arms slung around each other's sun-kissed shoulders as they lounged on Rowan's speedboat, grinning widely with the blue expanse of Lake Michigan glittering behind them.
They looked so young, so innocent, so happy. Beautiful and perfect.
What had gone wrong?
Chapter Five
On Monday morning, Mia insisted on going to school.
She sat listlessly at the breakfast table, staring at her untouched bowl of Fruit Loops, normally her favorite cereal. Her phone was face down beside her elbow, her dark hair tugged into a messy bun, her eyes distant and unfocused. "They're doing an assembly. For Leah. I should be there."
The name lay between us, sharp-edged as a dagger. She pushed soggy cereal around with her spoon. Neither of us had slept well. Last night, she'd awakened screaming from a nightmare, and it had taken me an hour to calm her down.
"You don't have to go," I said, my voice gentle. "I can call the school. They'll understand."
She wouldn't meet my eyes. "I need to, Mom."
I wanted to argue, to keep her home where I could watch over her, where she'd be safe, but I recognized the stubborn set to her jaw that she'd inherited from Marcus.
"Honey, if you're not ready yet, that's okay."
"I'm going." She stood abruptly, abandoning her uneaten breakfast, and grabbed her backpack from the hook by the door. She wore her usual wide-leg jeans, well-worn Converse sneakers, and oversized flannel, the sleeves tugged down to hide the scratches on her arms.
Apollo whined and pressed against her leg. She didn't pet him.
"Okay, let's go then." I grabbed my keys, locked the front door, and we climbed into my 22-year-old rusty blue Honda Accord. It sure wasn't flashy, but it was reliable.
The ten-minute drive to Lakeshore Preparatory Academy in St. Joseph was silent except for the hum of tires on pavement. Mia stared out the passenger window. I tried to find the right words to comfort her, but my throat felt lined with barbed wire.
We drove through downtown St. Joseph, past the Victorian storefronts with their gingerbread trim and brick-paved streets lined with charming art galleries, tourist shops, and boutique restaurants.
Nestled in Southwest Michigan, the coastal town sat at the mouth of the St. Joseph River where it met Lake Michigan. Less than a two-hour drive from Chicago, it was a popular vacation destination in summer and fall, when throngs of tourists would visit the beaches, restaurants, souvenir stores, and ice cream shops.
Now, in early April, joggers in windbreakers passed the Silver Beach Carousel. A woman pushing a stroller laughed on her phone outside the Chocolate Cafe. The smell of roasted beans and baked sugar drifted through my cracked window.
It felt wrong. This cheerful, oblivious normalcy, while somewhere across town, Vivienne wept for her dead daughter.
When we reached Lakeshore Prep, I pulled up to the curb at the middle school drop-off zone. Mia was out of the car before I could say goodbye. I watched her disappear into the throngs of students, something inside me cracking open a little wider.
"I love you," I said into the silence.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder. It was Camille:Police interview tomorrow at the precinct with Mia, 10 a.m. I delayed it as much as I could. Don't worry. It's standard procedure, like we discussed.
Dread tightened like a vise around my ribcage. Yesterday afternoon, Camille came over and met with Mia and me. She'd kindly agreed to represent Mia pro bono. For now.
I could have cried with relief and gratitude. I would've hugged her to show my appreciation, but Camille wasn't the hugging sort.
In our small living room, Camille had talked Mia through what had happened Friday night through Saturday morning, detail by detail. She'd explained what would happen at the precinct, the questions the detectives were likely to ask.
As the girls had all said on Saturday morning, Mia had gone to sleep when everyone else did. She had heard nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened that night. Nothing amiss—until she’d woken up to Zara's screams and learned that her best friend was dead.
