Dread settled like a stone in my stomach. "If they think Mia did it, what are they waiting for?"
"Mia is only fourteen," Camille said. "This case could draw national attention, and the police are treading carefully. Arresting a grieving eighth grader without solid, indisputable evidence could very easily backfire on them, the mayor, and the D.A. And in an election year, too. They're building their case methodically. But make no mistake, they are building it."
"What does that mean for us?"
"It means," Camille said, "that we need to build a vigorousdefense. Gather our own evidence, line up character witnesses, anything that can help."
"The blood, her fingernails… "
"We concede nothing without the actual DNA results or context. They're attempting to intimidate us into revealing information. We don't give them anything more. We make them work for it. Leah and Mia were together, and transfer happens in a dozen ways."
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it and swore under her breath. "They're moving fast. An article in the Detroit Free Press just released. The story is gaining traction, which is attention we don't need."
"How bad is this?" I asked.
Camille's eyes met mine. Something like sympathy flickered for a moment, then vanished. "It's bad enough. Keep your head. Protect your kid. And Dahlia?"
"Yes?"
"Find that camera before the authorities do."
Mia's grip on my hand tightened. Her nails dug into my skin.
I nodded numbly. "Thank you, Camille. For everything."
"Don't thank me yet." A commotion in the foyer drew our attention. The muffled sounds of voices grew louder, more insistent. Camille's expression hardened. "The media. We have to get through them."
I peered toward the glass doors at the front of the precinct. The exit doors waited, panes of glass reflecting our warped shadows. The sky had transformed into a drab, dreary gray.
Beyond the doors, a cluster of reporters pressed against the barriers, camera lights flashing. Rain slicked the sidewalks. Umbrellas bobbed like dark mushrooms in the crowd.
Mia's face paled. "I—I can't. I don't want to go out there."
"Just keep your head down and stay close to me." Camille adjusted her coat, her gaze steely. "I'll lead the way. Do not engage with them. No comments, no reactions. Understood?"
We both nodded. Taking a deep breath, we pushed forward. Themoment we stepped outside, the icy rain hit us. The scent of wet pavement and exhaust filled my lungs.
Raindrops spat against my face as I blinked against the blinding flash of cameras. Two dozen reporters swarmed us, their mics thrust forward, lenses clicking, voices overlapping.
Questions bombarded us from all sides:
"Did your daughter push Leah Cho to her death, Mrs. Kincaid?"
"Mia, do you have anything to say to the victim's family?"
A reporter thrust a microphone an inch from my face. "Mrs. Kincaid! Is your daughter a murderer?"
Alarmed, Mia reeled toward me. I folded her behind my body, my arms a makeshift barricade. My entire body thrummed with anger and humiliation.
I couldn't summon the words to respond. I knew how this worked. They would twist whatever I said anyway.
"No comment!" Camille cut a path through the crush of jostling reporters. "Back up!"
A reporter with spiky blond hair stepped directly into our path, his eyes lit with rabid glee. "Mrs. Kincaid, did your daughter murder her best friend? How does it feel to be the mother of a monster? What kind of mother are you, anyway?"
I couldn't hide the tremble in my voice. "Get out of our way!"
He smirked. "Mia, did you kill your best friend?"
