Whitney was already halfway out the door. "I'll text the group chat."
"Wait. I'll walk you out, Whit." Brooke followed Whitney, a slight drag to her steps.
Whitney didn't say goodbye. Brooke offered a vague wave over her shoulder. The front door opened. The afternoon light sliced across the hall rug, then vanished as the door shut.
"Come on. I think we've overstayed our welcome." Rowan's hand found the small of my back with a practiced lightness as she guided me toward the door.
In the foyer, she turned to face me. "I know this is hard for all of us."
Hard was one word for it. The floor beneath me felt unstable. Words were slippery. My daughter's face appeared behind my eyes and then Leah's, overlaid like a double exposure.
"The police will want to talk to all of the girls again about what's in that damn diary." Rowan watched my reaction. "Just remember, our daughters were friends with Leah."
"They were cruel to her," I said before I could stop myself.
Rowan's smile appeared. The kind that could sharpen if you weren't careful. "Mia was right there, too, wasn't she? Every time."
The word was like glass in my throat. "Yes."
"I'm not judging. I understand. Truly, I do. I'm appalled, too, at Chloe for standing by and remaining quiet. Laughing isn't the same as actual bullying, but it's still impolite. I'm just saying, this is a valuable lesson for our girls to learn now." Rowan's eyes softened. "We all have something to protect."
She meant my daughter. Mia with the blood-stained dress, the scratches, the missing camera. Who'd possibly lied about staying inside all night. The weight of it pressed against my ribs until I couldn't draw a full breath.
She reached for my hand and gave it a quick squeeze. Her fingers were cool. "Think carefully about what you say to anyone. For Mia's sake."
I nodded. She opened the door for me. Brooke and Whitney were still at the end of the driveway, standing close, heads bent, murmuring intently. They went quiet as I approached.
Disquiet prickled at the base of my spine. They'd gone outside so they could talk without me.
Stiffly, I walked past them without saying anything, then turned west toward home. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Boneless, unreliable, as if they couldn’t hold me upright.
The sun was out. The April air should have felt fresh, but it tasted metallic in my mouth. Wrong. Everything felt wrong.
My hands were shaking. I shoved them into my jacket pockets and kept walking, head down. Rowan's words replayed in my head. "Mia was right there, too."
My chest ached. Since moving here, I'd hovered at the edges of their circle, the not-quite insider. I'd spent months trying to fit into their world—attending their parties, volunteering for fundraisers, laughing at their jokes, grateful for every scrap of inclusion. I'd been so desperate for us to belong that I'd missed every warning sign.
If I wanted the truth, I'd have to find it myself. I'd done this before. I'd tracked down sources, pieced together evidence, and exposed uncomfortable truths. I'd been a journalist for fifteen years before Marcus died. I'd let grief turn me soft and needy.
No more.
The cottage came into view around the curve in the road. The maple in our front yard dappled the lawn with sunlight like spilled coins.
From here, I could see the Everett house. Empty windows looked back at me, dark behind the glass. Another young girl, another tragedy connected to this neighborhood, to these families.
A twitch of movement behind a curtain on the second floor of the Henderson house snagged my eye. Fabric swished and went still. No silhouette. No face. Just the afterimage of someone having been there, watching.
I checked the mailbox and headed up the driveway. Apollo's barking floated faintly through the closed windows. He always knew when I was approaching the house.
Mia's silhouette filled the front window. She was waiting for me, one hand flat on the glass.
My heart felt like someone had stomped on it. The diary had proved Mia wasn't innocent. Not the way I'd wanted her to be. But complicity had degrees. Lines, borders.
How complicit was my daughter? How many times had she gone along, laughed, stood silent, participated? Could I bear the truth,whatever it was? Part of me wanted to turn around, get in the car, and drive until none of this was real anymore.
But I couldn't. Mia needed me. Even if what she'd done was unforgivable, she was still my daughter.
First, I needed to get the truth from Mia.
