I rose to my feet, using a parked Lexus bumper to steady myself. My legs shook. I pulled my snarled hair into a messy bun, smoothed the torn fabric of my dress, and straightened my shoulders.
I picked up my purse, the camera still tucked inside, and slid it over my shoulder. If the detectives had searched me at Vivienne's, I'd probably be in handcuffs. But they'd had no probable cause, so they hadn't.
The camera's weight pressed against my hip. Solid, incriminating, the only piece of evidence I had left. I needed to find a way to use it.
And I needed to get Mia the best defense attorney in town. Someone who understood how these families operated, who knew their secrets, who could navigate their power structures.
I had to convince Camille to take the case back. Even if it meant confessing everything I'd hidden, every rule I'd broken, every line I'd crossed. No matter what it cost me.
ChapterForty-One
I stood beneath the porch light in bare feet smeared with grass and dirt, facing the imposing double doors of Camille Hayward's home. The square panes reflected my drawn face, muddy dress, wind-tangled hair, and the purse digging into my shoulder.
I knocked. The door opened a crack. Camille's face hardened when she saw me. Her voice came out flat and cold. "What are you doing here, Dahlia?"
She had changed out of her dress from the memorial and wore gray pressed slacks paired with an emerald cashmere sweater, no jewelry. Even at this hour, she looked composed.
I, on the other hand, looked like I'd crawled through a war zone. "They just arrested Mia. I need you to represent her at the precinct tonight."
She opened the door wider. "I told you I can't help you."
"This isn't about me. Please, Camille. She's fourteen."
"Call the public defender. That's what they're for."
I kept my voice steady. "She deserves more than just a warm body going through the motions. She needs the best. Please. She needs you."
Her gaze flicked to my purse, where the corner of the camera peeked out. Her mouth tightened. "I'm not interested."
"Mia confessed to pushing Leah."
Camille didn't move. Behind me, the wind whipped through the trees. "She confessed?"
"She said it was an accident. She says she didn't mean…" My voice cracked. I forced the rest out. "She didn't mean for Leah to fall."
"Did she say why?"
"There wasn't time. The police showed up and arrested her."
Something in her expression shifted. A flash of controlled anger. "Your daughter admits she pushed her best friend off the bluff, and now you show up on my doorstep after interrogating my daughter and implying all kinds of sordid things about my family?" Her tone sharpened. "You made this worse, and you know it."
I flushed hot with shame. My pulse fluttered in my throat. "I never meant to implicate Zara. I was trying to track what really happened that night. I got it wrong. I'm sorry."
She let out a harsh laugh. "You're sorry."
"You’re the only thing between Mia and a first-degree murder charge."
She leaned against the doorjamb and looked past me into the dark, contemplating whether to shut the door and let me drown on the porch. "You're asking for too much."
"I'm asking you to do what you've always done. Fight for the right thing."
She stared at me for a long moment, her intent gaze searching my face, her mouth pursed. Finally, she stepped back and opened the door wide. "Come inside."
I followed her inside before she could change her mind. The foyer opened into a great room with soaring ceilings framed with walls of glass. Above the fireplace, a large abstract canvas painted in cobalt-blue and burnt-orange commanded the space. Just like Camille: bold and fearless.
She led me toward the kitchen, a sleek open-concept design with mid-century lines, smooth wood cabinets without hardware, and a white quartz island with a waterfall edge.
The TV was on in the living room, tuned to ESPN. Zion and Jerome sat on the plush sofa, watching a baseball game together.
