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 bluffand 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?"
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Whitney Alistair's blonde hair had torn free of her French twist. She held her heels in one hand, the diamond bracelet flashing on her wrist as she glared at me. "I said, what do you think you're doing?"
"Walking," I said. "Clearing my head."
"On the beach? In this weather?" Her gaze swept over me, lingering on the purse tucked under my arm. "A bit chilly for you, isn't it?"
The wind knifed through my dress. The waves churned against the sand, slate water punched white with foam. "I could ask the same of you."
"You're on Rowan's private beach. Where you're clearly not welcome."
I gestured at the waves shredding the shore. "The high-water mark is public access. Basic riparian law."
"You're well past the high-water mark, and you know it. You're trespassing."
The camera pressed like a hot coal against my hip. "Fine. I'll leave."
Whitney stood between me and the stairs. I took a step toward her. She blocked my way.
"They're going to arrest Mia," Whitney said with that icy smile on her face, gloating.
"My daughter didn't do anything. And we both know it."
"Chloe saw what happened."
