Vivienne was lost to me. Not just tonight. Forever.
I stood alone on the porch in the dark. The street was empty now, no police lights, no sirens, just the sound of the wind tearing through the trees, the distant roar of the waves, and my own ragged breathing.
I turned and stumbled from their home, down the porch steps, and into the night, expelled from the last place where anyone had offered shelter.
There was nowhere left to go.
Chapter Forty
The houses of Blackthorn Shores loomed around me like a silent tribunal, their windows dark and accusing.
Somewhere, a dog barked. A sprinkler switched on with a hiss. The mundane sounds of suburban life continued while I stood paralyzed with grief.
I pressed my fist against my mouth. The tears came, the frantic sobs.
I was shattering. Breaking down right there in the middle of the street for everyone to see. It was like falling from a great height. The blood rushed to my head, white spots danced in front of my eyes. My legs went weak. There was no longer solid ground beneath me.
My knees buckled. My body refused to hold me upright any longer as my knees hit the asphalt. Pain shot up my thighs. The rough surface scraped my palms, my kneecaps. My dress tore. My purse slipped to the pavement.
I didn't care about the pain. Nothing could compete with the hollow ache consuming my chest. Like someone had carved out my heart and left it beating raw and exposed on the ground beside me.
Around me, curtains swished. They watched from the safety of their homes. As if anything they had or did could keep tragedy fromfinding them.
It couldn’t. We were all exposed.
I knew that better than anyone.
The memories washed over me. The sharp sound of the gunshot. Marcus's stunned face. The way his hand reached out to me as he fell.
In an instant, he was gone, our lives shattered. And now Mia was gone, arrested for the murder of her best friend.
The asphalt bit deeper into my palms. My kneecaps throbbed. The night wind tangled my hair across my tear-streaked face.
The physical pain was almost a relief, something I could name, something with a sharp edge. Not like the formless terror of losing Mia. Not like the guilt of believing her innocent when she’d confessed with her own mouth.
Something niggled at the back of my mind, though. Something that still didn't make sense.
The bloody rock planted in Mia's room. The slashed painting. The notebook stolen from my desk. The buried camera.
If Mia was already guilty, if the DNA and scratches and witness testimony proved it, then why frame her? Why go to such elaborate lengths to terrorize us, to manufacture additional evidence?
Unless someone needed to ensure Mia took the fall.
My ragged gasps slowed, steadied. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I sank back on my heels and forced myself to breathe.
The wind coming off the lake carried the smell of rain. The waves crashed loud and angry against the shoreline. The comforting rhythm had soothed me to sleep on my first nights here. Now they sounded like a monster at the gates, thrashing to get inside.
So many things didn't make sense about that night.
Mia’s confession rang in my ears. She was guilty of something. But deliberate murder? I couldn't believe that. I didn't. I knew my daughter.
For "accident" and "murder" were separated by a chasm of intent. Manslaughter versus premeditated murder. Juvenile detention versus first-degree murder as an adult—the two were worlds apart.
This wasn't over.
I couldn't stand by and do nothing. I had to be strong. I couldn'tlet her go down for murder, not even manslaughter. Not until things made sense. Until all the puzzle pieces fit into place.
I would stand by her side, every step of the way.
