My mind churning, I pulled back onto the street and drove home on autopilot. Camille claimed it was a standard witness interview, but I'd seen the way the detectives had looked at Mia, like they'd already found her guilty of something.
But Leah’s death was an accident. Leah had wandered out on the bluff in the middle of the night, likely to retrieve her phone, as the girls had suggested. She'd slipped, fallen, and struck her head on one of the sharp rocks or fallen logs that littered the bluff.
Though it wasn't a sheer cliff, the bluff was still incredibly steep and treacherous, especially in the dark. Over 100 feet down in some spots, formed of layers of clay, silt, and sand, dotted with grass, bushes, and trees in some sections and bare earth in other spots where the ground had given way and great chunks had slumped down to the beach.
One wrong step was all it took. We'd all warned our kids to stay away from the edge a million times.
Yesterday, while Mia had remained in bed, too heartsick to even eat or shower, I'd watched the news and obsessively scrolled social media. The news stations described Leah's death as a terrible accident.
But I couldn’t relax. What if there was something the police weren't saying yet? And what about the blood-stained dress? The scratches on Mia's arms? The missing camera?
Back home, I couldn't sit still, couldn't work, couldn't think straight. The silence pressed in on me, heavy and suffocating. I needed to move, to do something with my hands.
I was supposed to be working. I had a freelance assignment from my editor waiting for me on my laptop, on my desk in my office. Before Marcus died, back when we lived in Chicago, I worked as a journalist for the Chicago Tribune.
But after Marcus died, I couldn't do it anymore.
I'd switched to freelance writing so I could work from home to be close to Mia. I churned out articles on parenting, motherhood, and life for women in their forties: beauty treatments, fitness advice, tips and tricks for dealing with perimenopause, how to stay young forever.
I figured I didn't have long before generative AI made freelance writing gigs obsolete, but for now, we scraped by.
Today, though, I couldn't focus enough to write. Not now. Not with Leah's tragic death hanging over us. Instead, I cooked.
Apollo watched from his bed in the corner as I pulled ingredients from the refrigerator and cabinets: chicken breast, broccoli florets, Kraft shredded cheese, and two cans of cream of mushroom soup.
I was a horrible chef. Marcus had done most of the cooking during our twenty-year marriage, but my mother's baked broccoli and cheese casserole recipe, the one she'd made when neighbors were sick or grieving or in trouble—that I could do.
I chopped broccoli with more force than necessary. The knife thudded against the cutting board. The mechanical rhythm of the familiar chore soothed something in me. Shred the chicken. Grate the cheese. Mix it and slide it into the oven. Simple, concrete. Something I could control.
While the casserole baked, I changed out of my sweatpants into a pair of faded skinny jeans, an oversized U of M sweatshirt that had belonged to Marcus, a jean jacket, and my knockoff Uggs.
Michigan in April meant dressing in layers and hoping for the best. You might get sun, you might get rain, you might get a blustery snowstorm. Today, the forecast was for low fifties and partly cloudy skies, with the sun supposedly making its first appearance in three weeks.
Once the casserole was done, I transferred it into an insulated bagand clipped Apollo's leash to his collar. I checked the lock on the back door, then exited, locked the front door, and slipped the keys in my pocket.
I'd given Brooke a spare set last year in case I accidentally locked myself out. I never put a spare key anywhere outside. Not after Marcus.
Briefly, I touched the titanium wedding band beneath my shirt to steady myself.Breathe, I told myself.Just breathe.
I tugged Apollo's leash as he pranced excitedly around my legs, panting enthusiastically. He was always eager for a walk. "Come on, boy. Let's go."
The neighborhood was quiet as we walked. Tulips bloomed in planters, chickadees and robins called from the pines, and new leaves budded vibrant green from the branches of dogwoods, sycamores, and black walnut trees.
I turned off Wyld Wood Lane and headed east on Driftwood Terrace.
In the gated community of Blackthorn Shores, Wyld Wood Lane ran north-south along the bluff, where two dozen estates claimed waterfront views and beach access via private staircases. Driftwood Terrace, where Brooke and Vivienne lived, and Windward Point both ran perpendicular to Wyld Wood, running west-east before curving to meet Cliff Harbor Drive in the center.
Cliff Harbor Drive was the principal thoroughfare, where the clubhouse, the Olympic-sized pool, and the playground were located, ending at the gated entrance and guardhouse. The homes on Cliff Harbor, Driftwood Terrace, and Windward Point were as large as the ones on Wyld Wood Lane. Though they lacked water views, homeowners accessed the beach through the community stairs beyond Rowan's house, which was the northernmost lot.
Vivienne's house was a grand moss-green Craftsman with cream trim, a gingerbread-style porch, and a four-car garage for her husband Daniel's collection of vintage cars: a 1969 Acapulco Blue Ford Mustang, a 1970s gold Camaro, and a jet-black Porsche 911 from the 1980s.
I climbed the porch steps, Apollo panting at my side, and knocked with the heavy brass knocker.
Daniel Cho opened the door. He was short at 5'7", heavy set, with silver threading through his combed-over black hair. His round face looked hollowed out, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He looked like he’d aged a decade overnight, ten years older than his early fifties.
His voice was hoarse. "Dahlia."
"I'm so sorry, Daniel." I held out the insulated bag. "I brought a casserole for you, and I'll bring another meal over on Friday. Rowan's starting a meal train, so you won't have to worry about food."
