Camille was right. Leah had the occasional bloody nose, especially when the air was cold and dry, or when she was nervous or stressed. I'd helped her a few times when it happened at my house.
I studied the detectives, trying to ascertain whether they believed her. It was plausible. Mia was telling the truth. They had to believe her.
"Leah said she was fine," Mia said. "She just needed a tissue. She kept pinching her nose. We weren't, like, fighting or anything."
"And then?" Callahan prompted when she didn’t continue.
"And then we went inside, all of us, together. We shut the door. We wiped the blood off. I changed into my pajamas, they went to the bathroom, and we went back to the basement. I got into my sleeping bag. That's it. I didn't see Leah again. I thought she was in her sleeping bag, asleep like everyone else."
I exhaled. Something released inside me. It made sense. It made horrible sense. The blood on the dress, the second photo shoot, the neighbor hearing voices, and even the scratches on Mia's arms. It fit if you smoothed the edges and didn't look too hard at the gaps.
Except for the missing camera. And the sandy slippers, which only I knew about. Those pricked like burrs beneath my skin.
"You're saying," Callahan said, careful, like she was handling something volatile, "that all three of you—Chloe, Leah, and you—went back inside together after Leah's nosebleed. That you saw Leah walk back into the house."
"Yes. She was right there, behind me."
"You're certain of that," Callahan pressed. "She wasn't left outside. She didn't go somewhere alone."
"She was with us," Mia insisted. "Ask Chloe. She'll tell you."
"We're interviewing you right now, not Chloe," Callahan said, her voice cool.
Mia glanced at me, her face flushing. "Leah must have gone out later, alone. When we were all asleep. I didn't see anything. I didn't do anything!"
"Mia," King said. "You've done the hard part. Just help us understand what happened at the bluff. You say you didn't push Leah. Okay. Then did anyone touch her? Did she slip? Did she climb over the edge? Did you see or hear anyone else outside during that time?"
Tears spilled down Mia's cheeks. Her breath came in shallow gasps. "I didn't see anything! I told you, I didn't do anything!"
"That's enough," Camille said, sharper now. "My client is clearly overwhelmed. Detectives, we're done here."
King held up a hand. "Ms. Hayward, if we could just… "
Camille stood. "This interview is over."
Callahan leaned forward. "In about seventy-two hours, we're going to have DNA results back. Fast-tracked due to the publicity and the sensitive nature of this case. DNA from the blood on your dress. From the skin cells under Leah's nails. From anything she touched. If your story doesn't match what the science shows, it will be a lot worse than telling us the truth now."
Camille snorted. "Save the dramatics for a jury. When the DNA comes back, you'll have nothing. To recap, Detectives, you may lose the dress in a motion to suppress, there's a viable explanation for the blood of the victim on the dress, and your eyewitness is so old she could have worked in a factory during the Second World War, making ball bearings for B-17s. Hardly a slam dunk case."
She turned to Mia now. "Stand up. We're leaving."
As she stood, Mia's desperate gaze landed on me. For a moment, there was nothing else in the room. Just my daughter's teary eyes and the questions she didn't have words for.Can you believe me? Can you still love me if you don't?
My throat closed. Despite Camille's bravado, anxiety curdled in my gut. I didn't share a shred of her confidence. Seventy-two hours, Callahan had said. Threedays.
Camille's hand pressed into the small of my back, guiding me toward the door. Mia moved woodenly beside me.
As we exited the interrogation room, the world came rushing back. Officers watched us with suspicious gazes. The precinct buzzed with activity: murmured conversations, an officer laughing too loudly at something in a cubicle, the distant bark of a dispatcher's orders.
Mia clung to my arm as Camille strode down the hallway, her gaze fixed straight ahead. She looked capable, formidable. Once again, I was incredibly grateful she was on our side.
A knot twisted in my stomach. Did she believe Mia? Or was she already doubting her decision to take on our case?
"Mom," Mia whispered. "I'm sorry I lied."
I squeezed her hand. "We'll talk later."
Camille halted a few steps ahead, glancing back at us before scanning the hallway. Satisfied that no one was within earshot, she lowered her voice. "There will be reporters outside. Someone tipped them off that Mia was at the station. They'll assume she's a suspect, even without an arrest. We need to discuss our next steps, but here's what happens next. Go home, stay off social media. Dahlia, consider keeping Mia home from school. Don't talk to anyone about this case. If the police call, you call me. If a neighbor asks a single question, you say 'no comment'. 'No comment' is the only thing you say from now on. Both of you. Understood?"
