"Yes," I said with more conviction than I felt. I hoped with all my heart that it wasn't one of the girls, that it wasn't someone we knew, here in this community that was supposed to be safe.
I knew better than to believe bad things never happened to good people. So did Viv.
She studied me for a long moment, her brows lowered. "Brooke told me the police documented scratches on Mia's arms."
My pulse quickened. Why would Brooke tell Vivienne when Vivienne was already devastated and heartbroken? I cleared my throat. "She said she got them from slipping into some thorn bushes during the photo shoot on the bluff," I said, trying not to sound defensive. "She fell, and the branches scratched her."
"Brooke said there was blood on her dress." Viv's voice was soft, but I caught the undercurrent of doubt, the sharpness in the words.
"From the scratches." Something niggled at me. I didn't know that for a fact, did I? Not for certain. Mia would have bled from the scratches, and the blood could have easily transferred to her dress.
It made sense. It was plausible.
Vivienne's gaze lingered on my face, searching for something I couldn't give her. Certainty. Closure. Absolution. Then her shoulders dropped, and she looked away.
"Mia loved Leah," I said.
She nodded. "If not for Mia this year, I don't know how Leah would have made it. Mia meant everything to her."
Relief flared in my chest. But something darker tainted it, something I couldn't explain or define yet. An oily sense of unease, a disquieting apprehension swirling deep in my gut.
We sat in silence, watching the sun sink lower, the sky bleeding pink, violet, and burnt orange across the water. I thought of Leah, how she loved to paint the lake, sunsets in particular, like the watercolor canvas of the lighthouse Mia had hung over her bed.
Once the sun had dipped below the horizon, Vivienne stood, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. "I should go. Daniel will wonder where I am."
I walked her around the side of the house as behind us, the last rays of sunlight transformed the entire lake into shades of copper and rose.
She paused at the edge of the driveway. "Thank you, Dahlia. For listening. For not looking at me like my grief is contagious."
"You're not alone in this. I mean that."
She nodded, her eyes glassy, and turned toward the street. I watched her shuffle away, her shoulders hunched against the evening chill, her whole being diminished somehow, until she disappeared around the corner.
I climbed the porch steps, weary and heartsick, ready to check on Mia and maybe find something mindless on TV. I should be productive and finish that damn article so I could pay the electric bill.
Inside, I checked the locks on the back door, then paused at the foot of the stairs. I touched the titanium ring beneath my shirt. Upstairs, everything was dark, silent.
I should let Mia sleep. But Vivienne's words kept circling in my brain:I keep wondering what I missed.
I climbed the stairs.
Mia's door was ajar, the way she’d always kept it. A part of her still scared of the dark. I inched it open.
She lay sprawled across her bed, still fully dressed in her jeans and hoodie, textbooks scattered around her like fallen leaves. Flash the sloth was tucked under one arm, her face turned toward the wall, her breathing deep and even. Her phone lay in one hand, its screen dark.
I tiptoed across the room, pulled the comforter from the foot of the bed, and spread it over her. She didn't stir. Apollo lifted his head from where he lay curled at her feet, then gave a soft woof and settled back down.
I smoothed a strand of hair from her cheek. My chest ached with the depth of my love for her. She was so young. So vulnerable.
My gaze drifted to her closet. The door was half-open, clothes spilling out in the haphazard manner only a teenager could achieve. In the corner, nearly hidden behind a pile of dirty clothes, I spotted the edge of her overnight bag. The sage-green duffle she'd taken to Rowan's house.
I thought of the press conference on TV. What Viv had said:They think it's one of the girls.How she kept wondering what she'd missed. What had I missed?
Before I could second-guess myself, I knelt and pulled the bag free. The zipper was half-open. Inside was a wadded T-shirt that smelled faintly of lavender detergent. Several tampons. A tangled phone charger. Her toiletry bag.
At the bottom, stuffed into the corner, were her pink fuzzy sloth slippers. The ones Marcus had bought her on our Costa Rica vacation two years ago.
I dragged them out.
