"Stop!" A voice shouted through the fog. "Police! Hands where I can see them!"
Rowan's head snapped toward the sound. I scrambled backward to safer ground. The world wavered. My breath tore from my bruisedthroat, my body shaking and dizzy, like I needed to lie down or I might dissolve into a puddle of nothingness.
Fifty feet to the south, Detective King appeared from behind the line of pines that separated Rowan's property from Mrs. Atkins's. He sprinted toward us, holding a gun in both hands. "Rowan Westinghouse, don't move!"
Several more officers appeared as they sprinted toward us, all armed. Detective Callahan brought up the rear, speaking urgently into a walkie-talkie.
Alarmed, Rowan stepped back. The rock hung loose in her hand. Her eyes widened with shock, fear, and calculation: how long he'd been there, what he'd heard.
Relief hit me so hard I nearly collapsed.
Safe. I was safe. The plan had worked.
Her cold gaze fell on me. "What did you do?"
My voice rasped, my throat burning, but I could speak. "I called Detective King last night. I showed him the camera. The rock. Everything."
I confessed all of it, the things I’d done and the things I’d learned about Whitney and Peyton, Alexis and Brooke, Chloe and Rowan. And my own failures. Every single dark and dangerous thing.
Only now did I allow myself to think of the wire Callahan had placed on me early this morning, hidden so discreetly at my underwear line that only a professional would have caught it, maybe. And Rowan, despite her considerable ego, wasn't as smart as she thought she was.
"You didn't find the wire I'm wearing. The police heard everything."
Before Rowan could react, King advanced toward us. The gun was trained on Rowan. "Move back. Step away from Ms. Kincaid. On your knees, hands behind your head. Now!"
Rowan dropped the rock as if it had branded her palm. She frantically searched for an exit, an escape, a chance. There was none. Reluctantly, she lifted her hands, palms out. "You can't be on my property! I didn't permit it!"
Callahan grinned. Those sharp eyes were focused on Rowan now. "Mrs. Atkins was more than happy to host us."
I scrambled to my feet, rubbing my raw throat as I glanced over at Mrs. Atkins's house. The fog had lifted enough to reveal a figure standing in the second-story window. Mrs. Atkins waved at me. I managed a small wave back. "Turns out not everyone adores you like you think, Rowan."
"Detectives." Rowan's signature smile came back, smooth and gracious. "You know who I am. This is all an unfortunate misunderstanding. This poor woman is hysterical. Unstable. She's been stalking me, desperate to blame anyone but her psychotic daughter for Leah's death?—"
"Turn around," King repeated, ignoring her. He lowered the gun and removed a pair of handcuffs. "On your knees. I won't warn you again."
She did, carefully. "You're making a huge mistake."
King cuffed her wrists. She flinched as if he'd struck her. "Rowan Westinghouse, you're under arrest for the murder of Leah Cho."
Chapter Forty-Eight
In the distance, sirens wailed. A small voice filtered through the fog. "Mom?"
I turned. Chloe stood there, barefoot on the wet grass. Her blonde hair in disarray, her silky polka-dotted pajamas wrinkled from sleep.
Without her makeup, her bare face looked impossibly young. She was still a child. A child who had intentionally harmed other children. "What's happening?"
Part of me wanted to shield her from what was to come next. She was fourteen, barefoot, about to watch her mother dragged away in handcuffs. But another part of me remained stone cold.
Chloe had chosen cruelty again and again. She'd lied, schemed, and bullied. She'd let Mia take the fall. I couldn't forget that, not ever.
Detective King hauled Rowan to her feet. At the sight of her daughter, her face blanched. "Chloe."
"Mom?" Chloe's voice splintered in panic. "Why are the police here?"
Rowan's smile was wrong. It showed too many teeth. "Chloe, baby, I did this for you?—"
"No," I said. "You did it for yourself."
