Chapter Seven
Ipulled into the parking lot of Lakeshore Prep ten minutes early, so I parked rather than join the queue of luxury SUVs, sedans, and sports cars waiting to collect their students.
My brain buzzed. My skin felt electrified. Homicide. Someone had killed Leah. I thought of Viv and what she must be going through. I knew how violence could utterly destroy you.
I had to go see her again; I couldn't let her do this alone.
I tugged my phone from my oversized white faux-leather purse and called her. It went to voicemail, no surprise. I left a message, then sent her a quick text:Viv, I just heard. I'm so sorry, I'm here for whatever you need.
I stared at the phone for a moment, hoping for a response that didn't come. I'd text her again later tonight.
Before I put the phone away, a text from Camille appeared:Detectives pushing hard to interview Mia now. I've held them off until tomorrow. Make sure Mia eats and gets sleep. See you then.
I swallowed hard. The words blurred on the screen. She didn't say everything would be okay or offer any reassurances. That wasn't her style. Still, part of me wished she had.
A million thoughts whirred anxiously inside my head. Had someone sneaked onto the Westinghouse property that night? Who?For what reason? And how? The community was gated and secure, although someone might have come up from the beach access stairs. Or was the killer lurking closer to home?
And what did all this mean for Mia? The scratches on her arms. The suspicious way the detectives had looked at her when they saw the blood on her dress.
It was too much. I had to focus on what I could control: picking up Mia from school, keeping her safe, and getting home and cocooning ourselves away from the madness.
I exited the car and headed toward the school. From inside their cars, I felt the stares of several mothers I recognized from the PTA meetings Rowan encouraged me to attend.
Without Rowan, Brooke, or Whitney by my side, I was pretty much invisible here among the wealthy and privileged families of St. Joe.
Which was fine with me. I didn't care. At least, I told myself I didn't.
Let them gossip. I had bigger things to worry about.
I knew better than to enter the school. Mia would be mortified, so instead, I waited outside beneath the portico.
Through the glass doors, I spotted Mia standing by the drinking fountain, her shoulders hunched, head down in a way that tore at my heart. Peyton Alistair leaned in next to her, whispering in her ear while Mia nodded, her face blank.
At least her friends were on her side, still talking to her. At least they had each other.
Peyton patted Mia's arm, then turned and headed back into the building, on her way to debate club, maybe, or swim practice. Whitney kept her daughter's schedule packed tighter than her own.
Jerome Hayward pushed through the double doors, leather satchel over one shoulder, a folder of math papers in his other hand. Tall and lean with close-cropped graying hair, he had the practiced calm of someone who'd spent twenty years teaching middle school math.
When he spotted me, he crossed over in a few long strides, hisexpression somber. "Dahlia. I'm so sorry. Zara's just heartbroken. I can't imagine what Mia's going through."
I'd always liked Camille's husband. Where she was bold and commanding, Jerome was steady and reserved, except at games, when he was the loudest parent in the stands, whether it was Zara's volleyball or Zion's basketball games.
"Leah and Mia are in my pre-algebra class. They always partnered up for group work. They're good kids." He cleared his throat and winced, as if realizing his mistake. "Leah was a good kid."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"If there's anything Camille or I can do," he added, "you let us know."
"I will, and Camille is already helping us immensely. Thank you, Jerome."
He gave a small nod and headed toward the parking lot, papers shifting in his grip.
A minute later, Mia exited the front doors. Conversations buzzed around her, along with hushed whispers and pointed glances. She strode through the crowd of students as if she were oblivious, but she wasn't. Her shoulders hunched, head bowed as if she felt their suspicion like burrs on her skin.
Indignation burned in my chest. I wanted to yell at her classmates, but that wouldn't do any good.
"Hey, you," I said when we were both back in the car. She slumped in the front seat, backpack at her feet, her phone clutched in both hands.
