They were damp. Not soaked, but distinctly wet. Moisture darkened the fuzzy fabric. Sand crusted the soles and clung to the sides in gritty streaks. A few grains scattered onto my palm as I turned them over.
My mouth went dry. Mia had been outside, not just on top of the bluff, for these weren't muddy from dirt or clay. This was beach sand.
Mia had told me they never went down to the beach. They'd gone to bed before midnight. She'd stayed in her sleeping bag all night.
But these slippers told a different story.
The interview at the precinct with the detectives was tomorrow morning, less than twelve hours from now. How could I possibly prepare myself and Mia for something like this?
I looked down at the slippers in my lap, then at Mia sleeping on the bed, her face peaceful in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. Perhaps I should toss them in the washing machine, scrub away the crusted sand, the lake water, the potential evidence.
I forced myself to slide the slippers back into the bag. For now.
Icy dread seeped into my veins. The traitorous thoughts kept swirling inside my head, unbidden. Mia had lied about the slippers. But why? And what else could she be lying about?
Chapter Nine
The interview room at the precinct felt like a freezer, the chill sinking deep into my bones, despite my Detroit Lions sweatshirt. The walls were painted an institutional gray, and the air reeked of coffee and sweat.
Mia sat beside me in a metal chair, her shoulders curved inward as if trying to make herself disappear. Her fingers twisted and untwisted in her lap. Dark shadows smudged her bloodshot eyes, evidence of the sleepless nights that plagued us both.
On her other side sat Camille Hayward, exuding a calm steadiness I didn't share. Anxiety curdled in my stomach. Even though Camille had gone over every detail with us earlier, I didn't feel any more prepared.
Still, if I wanted anyone by our side in this mess, it was Camille. At 45, she was striking and stylish, her warm brown skin glowing, her natural hair worn in a short coiled fro she often accessorized with colorful headscarves.
She wore bold colors and statement earrings like armor, owning any room she entered. Camille didn't waste time on fake pleasantries or pretending to like people, and her tolerance for nonsense was about two seconds long on a good day.
I admired her confidence, her boldness, her brutal honesty. Shewas impossible to intimidate, and we needed that brashness right now.
The door to the interrogation room opened. Detectives Judah King and Sarah Callahan entered, their expressions friendly, open, and sympathetic.
It was their eyes, though, that I feared, that they would turn their sharp suspicious gazes on my daughter.
"Good afternoon, Mia, Ms. Kincaid, and Ms. Hayward." Detective King pulled out a metal chair across from us. Callahan settled beside him as Detective King reached across the table and turned the little black recorder on. An ominous red light blinked on.
He leaned back, his posture deliberately casual. "Mia, you're here voluntarily. You can leave anytime. Your mom and your lawyer are here, and you don't have to answer anything you're not comfortable with. We're just trying to understand what happened to your friend. Okay?"
Mia nodded, barely perceptible. "I understand."
To the camera, he said, "This is Detective Judah King and Detective Sarah Callahan with the St. Joseph Police Department. It is 10:03 a.m., on Tuesday, April twelfth. We're in Interview Room Two with minor witness Mia Kincaid, her mother, Dahlia Kincaid, and their attorney, Camille Hayward. This interview is being recorded."
"Let the record reflect that Mia is here voluntarily as a witness, not a suspect." Camille's hand tightened on Mia's forearm. "Mia will answer questions she feels comfortable answering. If this becomes adversarial or coercive, we will terminate this conversation and leave."
King said, "Understood."
Camille said to Mia. "Answer only what you know. If you don't know, say you don't know. Look at me if you need a break."
Mia nodded again.
My heart raced, my palms clammy. I wanted to gather her up, tuck her under my arm like when she was little, and run with her out of this grim, soulless place.
"I'm right here," I said under my breath, just for Mia.
King pulled a pen from his pocket and flipped open his leather notebook. "Okay, Mia. We just have a few questions we'd like to go over with you."
Callahan clasped her hands on the table and leaned forward. "We know this is a difficult time for you, and we're sorry for the loss of your friend, Leah. We really appreciate your help."
Mia's jaw tightened. "Okay."
