"Have a good day, Mrs. Atkins."
Apollo nudged my knee. I tugged his leash and walked on.
Mrs. Atkins was a bigot. But she'd given me a time, a direction, and a silhouette. Zara fit the description. Zara, whom Alexis had already confirmed was out of her sleeping bag around the same time period.
Camille might get upset at me for speaking with her daughter. Hell, she might fire Mia as a client if I pissed her off too much. But I desperately needed to know what Zara knew. I had to take the risk and pray that Camille would stick with us. She wanted the truth, too.
I glanced at my watch. 3:20. Zara would be home already. Mia had Yearbook after school. I had time.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Camille's steel-and-glass house sat on its lot like it had been placed there by a machine. It didn't exactly blend in with the community’s more traditional grand houses. I'd always thought it looked like a glass watchtower.
A cherry-red BMW M3 gleamed in the driveway. It was Jerome's car, but Zara stood next to it with a hose, water misting in the sun. Her sleeves were pushed up. Like I did, the Haywards believed in chores for their kids, even though they could afford the help.
She looked up and saw me. The hose slipped from her hand.
"Zara."
She flinched and edged toward the garage. I moved faster.
"My mom isn't home," she said, her voice tight, defensive. "I can't talk. I have homework."
"While you're detailing your dad's car? This is about Leah."
Her gaze slid past me. Across the street, the Handlers were walking their golden doodle. They slowed to look. Mrs. Handler wore oversized sunglasses and a pinched mouth.
"See something interesting?" I asked, unable to stop myself. I was losing patience with everything and everyone.
Mrs. Handler sniffed. Mr. Handler tugged his cap.
I wanted to tell them to mind their own business, but Iswallowed it down and smiled hard instead. They faltered but kept walking, faster now.
Zara sighed. "Fine. Five minutes. Come to the backyard. No one will see us there."
She was more worried about being seen with me than actually talking to me. Good. I could use that.
We walked down the side of the house to the back. The backyard featured a sunken slate patio, a zero-entry pool, and a high-end outdoor kitchen.
Zara hung the hose and leaned against the counter like she needed something solid at her back. She tossed her braids over her shoulder and met my gaze.
I'd always liked Camille's daughter. She had a magnetic presence, with her wide generous mouth always quick to grin, her expressive brown eyes crackling with intelligence and mischief, and her strong, confident demeanor reminiscent of her mother.
She was brilliant, a computer whiz who coded circles around most of the adults I knew, and she was also warm and engaging, drawing others in with that infectious energy.
Now, she looked wary, cautious. "My mom isn't home," she repeated. "I really have to do homework. I have a volleyball game at six."
"Mrs. Atkins saw someone on the beach that night around 12:30 a.m. Tall, slim. Bright yellow hoodie. She thinks it was you."
Zara's mouth opened in surprise. "What?"
"Alexis told me you were out of your sleeping bag that night."
Her expression darkened. "Alexis told you that?"
"What were you doing on the beach at one in the morning?"
"Nothing."
