"Just a minute." Whitney straightened, jolting back into herself. "You have the camera. Don't you already know what's on there?"
I hesitated a fraction too long. "We're working on recovering a few corrupted files. And if we can't, the police can?—"
"Enough!" Whitney's face shifted. Shock hardened into something sharper. Survival. She stepped forward and grabbed Peyton. Her fingers dug into Peyton's arm, knuckles bone white. "We're done here."
This time, Peyton allowed her mother to take charge. Whitney steered her across the deck toward the French doors. As she passed me, Peyton offered an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. I can't. If I tell you, she'll…"
"She'll what? Who? Who was it?" I called after Peyton. "Tell me it was Chloe!"
Whitney paused at the doors and glared at me over her shoulder. "Leave us alone. If you set foot on this property again, or if you speak a word to my daughter, I'll have you arrested for trespassing and harassment. Go to hell, Dahlia."
Then they were inside, swallowed by the warm light.
I moved off the deck with stiff legs, taking the stairs along the side of the house to the yard. Cold rain slapped me in the face. I ducked my head and moved toward the road, toward home.
The waves roared. The wind buffeted my back. My hair wasplastered to my skull, my neck, my cheeks. My clothes were instantly drenched. I hardly noticed.
My mind scrambled to catch up, replaying every interaction through this new lens. The memorial performance. The nightmares. Everything I thought I knew reordered itself around a different center of gravity. Around Chloe.
Beautiful, fragile, sweet Chloe. Her true nature hidden behind that perfect white-teeth smile, the designer clothes, the practiced charm.
She'd been right there, the whole time.
But how could I prove it to save Mia?
My phone buzzed in my soaked pocket. I fumbled it out, shielding the screen as best I could from the rain.
It was Zara.
"Um, I got your number from my mom," she said. "I got into the corrupted files. My mom is here, too. You should come take a look. Like, right now."
I was already sprinting down the street. "I'm on my way."
Chapter Forty-Six
Early morning fog hung low over the water and the street, swallowing houses whole. I stopped at the base of Rowan's driveway. An unmarked sedan sat at the curb three houses down, its windows dark. I didn't let myself look at it.
It was 8:10 a.m. on Monday, April 18th. Ten days after Leah's murder. Two hours until Mia's arraignment. Until the court charged my daughter with murder.
My breath came shallow and fast. I shivered in my jean jacket and hoodie as I climbed the porch steps. I knocked on the door before doubt could pull me back.
Rowan opened the door as if she'd been waiting for me. Her hair was smoothed into a low knot, her makeup pristine despite the early hour. Concern slid across her face like a curtain drawn into place.
"Oh, sweetheart." Her voice dropped to a crisis-management murmur, the one she used for PTA emergencies and charity-gala meltdowns. "Let's get you inside. Quickly, before anyone sees you like this."
Warm air enveloped me, thick with the scents of lemon cleaner and something floral. A bouquet was arranged on the console table, brimming with yellow marigolds, pale roses, and spiky red dahlias, my namesake.
In the mirror behind the bouquet, I caught a glimpse of my reflection: red-rimmed eyes, sallow skin, hair tangled wild from wind and sleeplessness.
I looked wrecked. Good.
Rowan's hand settled at my elbow. The door clicked shut behind me. "You poor thing. You haven't slept, have you? Of course you haven't. Let's get you warmed up. I made Rosemary and Sea Salt Focaccia last night. I'll slice you some. And tea, obviously. Sit. I'll handle everything."
"Tea would be nice," I said. Talking felt like rubbing sandpaper over my throat.
She steered me down the hallway into the sunken living room and guided me to the sofa, one hand still at my elbow. "Gregory just left for a round of golf at Harbor Shores, and Chloe's upstairs sleeping, still not well enough for the trials of school yet, so we have the place to ourselves for now."
Outside the wall of windows, white fog pressed against the glass like something trying to get in. The room was immaculate, clean, and catalog-perfect. The throw pillows sat at precise angles. Coffee table books stacked by size. The throws on the couch folded primly.
