What Camille said made sense. I knew I should go inside, lock the doors, and let Camille do what she did best, but good sense had stopped mattering somewhere around the moment they put handcuffs on my daughter.
I stood in my driveway, keys in hand. The front door was ten feet away. Apollo was waiting inside, alone for hours. The rightthing, the sane thing, was to go in, lock the door, and trust Camille.
Every piece of evidence we had was tainted. The camera was compromised. The rock was hidden. Mia's confession was damning, and Chloe's testimony would seal Mia’s fate like a tomb. Along with the DNA evidence, Mia's skin cells, and Leah's blood.
Even if Zara recovered more footage, it might not be enough.
I needed something irrefutable.
But if Peyton was the killer, she'd left evidence somewhere. Killers always did. And Whitney would do anything to protect her daughter. I knew that like I knew my own mother’s heart. That's where the truth would be found.
The threat of danger had a strange effect. It steadied me. There wasn't a safe path. There wasn't even a good one. The only way forward was straight into the mouth of the dragon.
Without Mia, I had nothing left to lose.
That realization should have terrified me. Instead, it clarified everything. The police weren't going to find the answers that would free Mia. But I could. I had to.
I’d been helpless and impotent long enough. No more.
I waited until Camille had enough time to park in her garage, then I started walking north along Wyld Wood Lane. My legs felt heavy. Each step required conscious effort, like wading through Jell-O. I kept moving.
The house loomed larger with each step. Curtains framed wide panes of warm light as movement behind the glass.
The Alistairs were home.
Chapter Forty-Four
I faced Whitney's front door. Exhaustion pulled at me but desperation propelled me forward.
Mia was alone, terrified, believing I'd failed her. I had a fragment of a plan with no backup and no evidence that would hold up in court. I was just a desperate mother running on fumes and fury, about to bluff a woman who could afford lawyers that would eviscerate me.
I hit the brass knocker. A light blinked on overhead. Through the frosted glass, a tall shape moved. Whitney, her posture perfect, pace unhurried.
She opened the door an inch and started to close it again the second she saw me. "You again."
"We need to talk. Now."
The door opened slightly. She wore a blush-pink loungewear set, her hair down. Her fluffy Pomeranian Percival yapped shrilly at her ankles until she nudged him back with her foot.
She glanced warily past me to the dark yard, twisted to look behind her up to the staircase, where a soft wash of light glowed at the second-floor landing, then back to me. "It's past eleven. This is harassment."
"I found Mia's camera. The one Peyton buried on the beach, that you tried to keep me from finding."
Whitney stilled. Her grip tightened on the doorframe. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I recovered the corrupted files. Time stamps, metadata, everything."
"You're lying."
"Am I?" I pulled out my phone and held it up. "One call to Detective King. Or I can send the footage to the Detroit Free Press first. Hell, all I have to do is exit the community gates, and there are a hundred reporters who'd love to see this. Your choice."
She glanced up the stairs again, listening for Graham probably, for witnesses. When she looked back, I saw it—the crack in her perfect façade. Her pupils too wide. Her breathing too fast. She was nervous, apprehensive, guarded.
For days, these women had looked at me with pity or contempt, their smiles sharp as scalpels. They'd whispered about Mia at the memorial, clutched their daughters closer as if poverty and trauma were infectious diseases.
An ugly satisfaction unfurled in my stomach. Whitney was afraid of me. Good. Let her know what it felt like. Let her feel a fraction of the agony I'd felt watching the police handcuff my daughter.
"Not here." She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside, her nails digging through my sleeve.
