She still had nightmares several times a week. So did I. "All the time."
She shivered, though it wasn't cold. "I still feel like it was my fault."
I placed a hand on her shoulder. For a long moment, I couldn't speak. How do you tell your daughter whose hands pushed a girl who died that she still gets to live? That she will carry this the rest of her life, and the burden will be both unbearable and survivable?
"What Rowan did was deliberate," I said. "You made a mistake. Rowan made a choice. Intent matters."
Mia's eyes filled. I wasn't sure she believed me, but the words needed to be said. I would keep saying them until someday, she did.
Apollo nudged my leg with a cold nose, impatient for his walk. I patted his head. "Just a second, buddy."
After we finished our coffee, I headed to the mudroom to grab his leash. The familiar framed photo caught my eye on the shelf near the window. The one with the six girls on Rowan's boat last summer.
A shudder passed through me. In the photo, they looked like any group of teenage girls: sun-drunk, immortal, safe. But I could see it now, the way Chloe's arm draped possessively over Mia's shoulder, how Leah stood slightly apart, already on the outside. How Zara's smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
Or maybe I was reading into it, seeing the cracks before everything fell apart.
"You coming?" Mia yelled from the kitchen.
I turned from the photograph, clipped Apollo's leash to his collar, and took him on his walk.
The neighborhood we'd once chased like a promise had shed its sheen. At the Alistair house, Whitney unloaded groceries from her car. She and Peyton came and went with their heads down, no longer queens of the neighborhood but pariahs instead.
Whitney glanced up as we passed, then quickly looked away. The little Pomeranian yapped furiously at us, desperate for attention. Apollo ignored him. So did we.
Mrs. Atkins sat on her porch as usual, monitoring the street with sharp eyes. She nodded a greeting. I waved back. Some things never changed.
But others had. The Westinghouse mansion stood empty, a FOR SALE sign prominent on the lawn. Rowan's prized roses had withered. Her husband had accepted a job in Grand Rapids. After the LakeshoreTea account had been traced back to Chloe, the school expelled her.
Last week, Camille mentioned seeing Chloe's Instagram account online. She'd posted from her new private school, smiling in a crisp uniform, surrounded by new friends, thriving.
It was Chloe's mother, not Chloe, who'd killed Leah. And yet I couldn't help the surge of anger at Chloe for the vile acts she had committed, for her casual cruelty, her petty malice toward Leah, Mia, and the other girls she'd hurt.
Once again, she'd gotten away clean, free to torment new classmates, neighbors, and supposed friends. Justice was never fair, I'd learned. And seldom blind.
But I couldn't dwell on things beyond my control. We had to move on, or the unfairness of it could drive a person to become bitter, depressed, and miserable. I didn't want to live like that.
Down the street, we spotted Alexis walking a golden retriever puppy, her little brother Falcon watching intently as the dog frolicked around his ankles. The kids looked lighter, happier, with color in their cheeks.
Two weeks ago, Brooke had voluntarily entered rehab, announcing her secret alcohol addiction on her social media accounts. The family had started therapy, even Jason.
"Alexis apologized," Mia said. " She said she was sorry for going along with Chloe. That she realized how toxic it all was."
"That was brave of her."
Mia shrugged. "We're not friends. But we're not enemies, either."
It was something. A small step toward healing. Tomorrow, Camille and I had made plans to meet at Forté Coffee in St. Joe, just to talk. Another small step in the right direction.
We took the wooden stairs down the bluff. New warning signs were bolted to the posts. The air cooled as we descended. Sand crusted our toes.
The beach stretched empty but for a solitary figure walking along the waterline. As we drew closer, I recognized Vivienne Cho. She was wrapped in a light cardigan despite the sun, her black hair shot through with gray and twisted into a loose bun. Leah's jade pendant rested at her throat.
Vivienne saw us and stopped. For a beat, I thought she would turn away. Instead, she waited.
"Hello, Dahlia," she said. "Mia."
"Vivienne." I didn't ask how she was. There was no adequate shape for that question. "It's good to see you."
