The foyer was all marble and white walls. She steered me through the hallway into the gleaming kitchen. Percival trotted after us, sniffing at my ankles.
Graham sat at the expansive island. He looked up from his phone, a craft beer sweating in one hand. "Hey, Dahlia." His tone was pleasant, distracted. His gaze dropped back to the screen.
He had no clue. Just sitting there with his beer and his phone, living his comfortable, placid, perfect life while his daughter buried evidence of murder. While his wife orchestrated cover-ups.
The obliviousness might've been funny if it weren't so obscene.
Whitney didn't slow down. "We'll be outside."
Before he could respond, she slid open the sliding glass door, ushered me through, and shut it behind us. Percival pressed his nose against the glass, his tiny breath fogging the pane as he watched us intently.
I followed Whitney onto the covered deck. Cedar beams bracketed the vaulted ceiling overhead. The deck stretched the length of the house, the glass railings framing the view of the custom pool ringed by a slate stone patio. Light rain misted the lit pool's surface, turning it a ghostly blue. Beyond the yard, the bluff dropped to away to endless black water.
Whitney straightened, her chin lifted. "What the hell do you want?"
"The truth. Peyton was on that bluff. She killed Leah."
Whitney sneered. "Your daughter pushed her best friend off a cliff. Chloe saw her. Everyone knows."
"The medical examiner knows Leah didn't die from the fall. She was alive for hours, and not only that, but someone came back and crushed her skull with a rock."
Whitney's features flickered with surprise, then rearranged into wary calculation. Not horror, not grief for Leah, just concern for how it affected her and her family. She sniffed. "That has nothing to do with us."
"Peyton buried the camera because she's in the footage. She panicked. She hid evidence."
"That's absurd." But her voice wavered.
"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to walk into the precinct tomorrow morning with Peyton and you're going to tell Detective King everything, or I send this footage to every media outlet in the country."
Whitney took a step back, closer to the deck furniture, the sleek low-slung sofa and chairs. The rain hissed against the deck. "You can't prove anything."
She was right. I couldn't. I had nothing but a massive bluff, a reckless bet for everything that mattered. If Whitney called the police right now, I'd be the one arrested.
I'd learned something from these mothers, though. Sometimes the threat of exposure was more powerful than proof. That fear was all I had left.
I kept my face carefully blank, my voice steady. This was it, the moment my bluff either worked spectacularly or collapsed around me.
I smiled at Whitney. "I don't have to, the media will do it for me. News vans at your gate. Cameras at the school. They'll arrest her in front of everyone. You know how this works, Whitney. Once the story breaks, it doesn't matter if she's guilty. The damage is done."
Whitney's tense gaze slid past me to the far end of the deck, where the stairs went down to the lawn and the bluff beyond. The glass railings had fogged. Wind lifted the string lights strung over the outdoor dining table and grill.
"Show me the footage, then." She held out her hand. "If you have it, prove it."
"Not until Peyton talks."
"Our lawyers will destroy you. You know that, right?"
"Your lawyers can't stop a media firestorm. Beautiful young Peyton Alistair, swim team captain, privileged Blackthorn Shores princess, who murdered a girl and buried the evidence. That's the headline, that's what Graham reads on his phone over breakfast. How do you think that will play?"
Whitney flinched. For the first time, real fear cracked through her composure. "If you think you can come in here and threaten us, threaten my family, you have another think coming."
The sliding glass doors opened. Peyton stepped out, barefoot in plaid pajama pants and a white tank top. Her hair hung loose and damp around her shoulders. "Mom."
"Go inside," Whitney said sharply. "This is not for you."
Peyton's eyes went hard, her jaw set. The pool lights carved shadows under her cheekbones. She'd lost weight in the last week, just like Mia. "I heard everything."
Whitney took a step toward her. "Go upstairs. Now."
