"Just the photo shoot? Nothing from later that night?"
"I don't know. I don't remember."
"You don't remember if you took more photos at midnight or later, or at any other time before the camera went missing?"
Mia looked at Camille helplessly.
"Don't answer," Camille said. "Detectives, unless you have that camera and can show us what's on it, this is pure speculation. I'm going to say this again: she's here voluntarily. You start throwing out hypotheticals you can't substantiate, we're out."
King's eyes flicked to Callahan. Callahan straightened and uncrossed her arms. The air in the room shifted, sharpened. "We can substantiate something. The dress."
I saw it again in my mind’s eye, on the hanger the police officer had held up in Rowan's living room on Saturday morning: the rose-gold fabric torn along the hem, the muddy smears, the dark stains blooming down the front like dead flower petals.
Mia tensed. The air thrummed between us.
Camille's eyes narrowed. King seemed to sense her impending protest and attempted to head her off. "It was visible evidence at a crime scene. The homeowner consented to our collection of evidence from her property. We secured the scene first, and then we notified parents after collecting evidence."
"I'll be reviewing the exact circumstances of that seizure. If I find any Fourth Amendment violations, the judge will suppress that evidence, if it comes to that."
"You're welcome to try, Counselor. But the dress was in plain view at an active crime scene. The homeowner gave the police permission to go downstairs. Any judge will uphold that seizure."
"The girls had a reasonable expectation of privacy. Each child's parent needed to give consent to search that area. My daughter was present, and I know I didn't give consent."
"We'll leave that up to the judge to decide," King said mildly.
Camille's lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval, but she let it go.
"Mia," Callahan said. "How did your dress get those tears in it?"
"During the photo shoot, I was taking photos of Peyton, trying to get a low shot, with her dress billowing in the wind. I slipped. I fell a few feet down the bluff before I caught a branch. My dress tore. It got dirt on it."
"Did Peyton witness this?"
"I dunno. I don't think so. She was turned away from me. The other girls were busy talking."
"And the scratches on your arms?"
Mia's fingers dug into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. The fabric pulled tight across her knuckles. "Thornbushes, from when I slipped."
"We spoke with the other girls. Not one of them remembers you slipping. Not one remembers you climbing anywhere near thorny bushes." Callahan paused. "They said you were careful with your camera, that you wouldn't risk dropping it."
Mia's voice wavered. "They… maybe they didn't notice. I told you, they were distracted, talking, and laughing."
Callahan glanced down at her notes. "The blood on the dress. Whose blood is it?"
Camille leaned in, her hand on Mia's forearm. "You don’t need to answer that."
Something moved across Mia's face. A hitch at the corner of her mouth, then it was gone. "It was mine. From the bushes. My arms were bleeding, so I wiped them on the dress without thinking. It was the golden hour, so I didn't have time to go back in the house for a Band-Aid, or the light would be gone."
"Didn't it upset you that your dress for the dance got ruined?" Callahan asked.
Mia shrugged. "Not really."
She didn't look at me. She'd known we had no money for a replacement, that I'd spent a significant chunk of our meager savings to ensure she had a gown to wear that wouldn't get her mocked byher swanky friends. Bougie, she called them. She would've been upset that she'd ruined it.
"There's no possibility that the blood could be Leah's?"
Mia's gaze darted away.
