Camille's brow furrowed. "The camera is a problem, though. Why would there be anything on it that would incriminate Mia? Why bury it? And if there was something on it, why not smash it? Throw it in the lake? Remove the memory card and burn it? Why take the risk of leaving it where it could be found?"
"Maybe she planned to retrieve it later, and then something prevented her. She panicked and didn't know what to do with it. She may be a killer, but she's still a kid."
Camille made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat. "Or Chloe did it herself. She was on that bluff. She told Mia to leave Leah's body there."
"But Chloe had been right there with Mia, equally panicked, or at least, she'd acted that way, according to Mia’s account. Why would she go back if she believed Leah was already dead?"
Chloe's beautiful, doll-like face flashed in my mind—her devastating performance at the memorial, the way she'd coached Mia to keep quiet in the aftermath of Leah's fall. She'd told Mia she was protecting her, and perhaps in her mind, she was.
I tried to think back, to conjure the specific details from the shock and horror of that Saturday morning. Had there been a guilty tension on Chloe's face? On Peyton's? A furtive, knowing glance passed between Alexis and Peyton?
The panic of that morning cast everything in a frenetic fog. I couldn’t recall clearly, couldn’t know for certain whether the memory was accurate or if it had shifted, subtly altered by the knowledge I had now.
"Mia was the one who pushed Leah, not Chloe, " I said. "Chloe had everything to lose by going back out to the bluff and killing Leah. She didn't bury the camera, either. Peyton did. She didn't enter our house with the spare key and slash Leah's painting, deface it with GUILTY in red spray paint, and then toss the can in your trash. Peyton did that, too."
"Granted, that pisses me off," Camille admitted. "That pretty little asshole." She tapped her thumb against the wheel, considering. "What about Alexis? She had access to your house. She assaultedLeah once before. She could be behind the cyberbullying as easily as Peyton."
"Leah saw Brooke hit Alexis at the Christmas party," I said slowly. I thought of Alexis’s gentleness with Falcon, her tangible fear of her mother. Anger on her behalf clogged in my throat. "Alexis cut off Leah's hair as a threat to protect her family. She was terrified CPS would get involved. But that was months ago. Why wait until now to do something so drastic? And Alexis seemed genuinely confused when I asked about the camera and slippers. She didn't know what I was talking about."
"Fear makes people good liars."
"Maybe. But the evidence points more to Peyton, not Alexis or Chloe."
Camille pursed her lips. She looked like she wanted to say something, then thought better of it.
"What?" I asked.
She shrugged. "This is hearsay. Take it with a grain of salt."
"Tell me."
"At the Christmas silent auction, that humane society fundraiser Rowan hosts every year, Brooke got a little too buzzed at the open bar. She was slurring her words, stumbling a bit, definitely drunk. She leaned in and told me that everyone always judged her for drinking to deal with her son's special needs, but that Rowan and Whitney weren't as perfect as they pretended."
I waited, hardly breathing.
"She said Rowan's husband was always gone because he's been having an affair. Their marriage was on the rocks, but Rowan didn't want anyone to know." Camille glanced at me to gauge my reaction. "And Whitney and Graham were nearly sued the summer before last. They'd had to pay off the Everett family to make a scandal disappear."
My pulse quickened. "What kind of scandal?"
"Something about Taylor Everett's near drowning being suspicious. There were drugs involved. Pills. Taylor had been in competition with Peyton to make swim captain, and then after her accident,Peyton got the title." She shook her head in disgust. "That's all I know. As I said, just drunk gossip from Brooke. But..."
The lorazepam bottle prescribed to Brooke but found in Whitney's trash. It made sense now. "But it tracks," I finished.
"It tracks."
My scalp prickled with sweat. I rubbed at the tension headache forming behind my eyes. The pressure had been building for hours, a dull throb that matched my pulse.
Mia had made a terrible mistake, yes, but she wasn't a murderer. Somewhere in Blackthorn Shores, someone was walking free who had deliberately ended a young girl's life.
Chloe remained on the suspect list, and so did Alexis, but perky, blue-eyed, blond-haired Peyton Alistair fit the most pieces of the puzzle.
A fourteen-year-old girl. That's what kept snagging in my mind: not a monster, not some criminal mastermind. Just a kid. A kid who'd been taught that consequences were for other people.
The Mercedes glided to a stop by the curb opposite my cottage. Hydrangeas heavy with blooms lined my cracked walkway. The rain had thinned to a mist, but heavy clouds still obscured the moon as thunder boomed in the distance.
Camille put her hand on my forearm. "This is where you let me do the job you hired me to do. I will see Mia first thing in the morning and fight for her release pending adjudication. I will do everything I can. Just don't do anything stupid."
"I hear you." I opened the door and stepped out of the car. The night wrapped around me, close and damp and stifling. Behind me, the Mercedes idled and then pulled away. The taillights smeared red in the wet air and vanished around the curve.
