Did keeping quiet make me a better mother? Or a terrible person?
I replayed Mia's story in my mind, testing each piece against what I knew. If they'd all gone inside and no one had gone to the beach that night, then why were Mia's slippers damp with beach sand?
The bluff consisted of clay, dirt, and rocks. The beach was a hundred feet down a steep slope, accessible only by wooden stairs or a perilous scramble down slick clay, through scrubby underbrush and thornbushes.
Why would Mia go down to the beach?
When would she have gone?
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. She sat motionless, staring out at the rain, her profile small and shadowed.
"I need to ask you something. Be honest with me, no matter what it is."
"I am being honest."
"Last night, I went through your overnight bag."
Her eyebrows pinched. "You what?"
"You told me you didn't go down to the beach that night." I kept my tone clinical, detached. I didn't want to make her more upset or defensive. "You said everyone stayed at the top of the bluff."
"Yeah. It'd be too hard to go down all those stairs and back up again in our dresses."
"I found your slippers stuffed at the bottom of your bag, damp andfull of sand."
Whatever color had come back to her face faded again. Even her lips went pale. "What?"
"When did you go down to the beach, Mia?"
The denial was instant, reflexive. “I didn't."
"Then how did your slippers get wet and sandy?"
"I don't know. I didn't end up wearing them. I slept in my socks, so I never took them out of my overnight bag. Ask the girls."
I watched her closely, hardly daring to breathe. "Where was the bag?"
"By the patio doors, beside my camera case. Anyone could have borrowed them." She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers digging into her elbows. Her sleeves slid up her arms, revealing the scratches. "I didn't go to the beach that night. I know how bad it looks, but I swear, Mom, I didn't."
My heartbeat thudded in my ears. She was telling the truth, or she had grown into an excellent liar, which frightened me more than I wanted to admit. I used to know with absolute certainty whether she was keeping something from me. Now, I wasn't certain at all.
"Okay." Still, something bothered me, like I wasn't getting the complete picture yet, but pushing her harder would only make her withdraw further from me than she already had. "Okay, honey."
Mia exhaled shakily. Some of the tension leaked from her shoulders. Her tears had subsided. "Can we just go home?"
"Of course." I started the car again, pulling back onto the slick road. The wipers beat a steady rhythm against the windshield. Rain sheeted down in waves, turning the world beyond the glass into a smeared watercolor.
I swallowed and focused on the road through the windshield. The heater blasted warm air that smelled faintly of mildew.
Seventy-two hours. Three days until the DNA results came back.
Three days to find out if my daughter was telling the truth. To decide what I was going to do with the evidence I was hiding. Should I wash the sandy slippers? Throw them out? What was on the camera? How was I supposed tofind it?
Apprehension, doubt, and worry pressed like heavy stones on my chest.
We slowed as we approached the Blackthorn Shores security gates. Security lights cast harsh white pools across the wet pavement. A cluster of reporters stood right behind the private property line, their umbrellas tilted against the wind, cameras at the ready.
The reporters surged forward, shouting questions I couldn't hear through the glass. Frank waved us through quickly, stepping between our car and the mob.
