I scanned ahead for a turn, anywhere to lose him. The intersection loomed. A yellow light. I calculated the distance, the speed, the risk, but there were two cars already stopped ahead, blocking the turn lane. The light flipped red.
I hit the brakes. Trapped.
The silver sedan pulled alongside us.
The passenger window rolled down. A man with a camera leaned out, the lens enormous. The shutter clicked rapid-fireclick-click-click-click, the sound like insect legs on glass.
"Don't look at them," I said sharply.
Mia turned her face toward the window, pulling her hood up. The camera followed, relentless. The man shouted something I couldn't make out over the blood roaring in my ears.
The light changed. I accelerated hard, weaving through traffic. The sedan kept pace. My heart hammered against my ribs. Apollo whined from the back seat, sensing my growing panic.
Finally, we reached the gates of Blackthorn Shores. The familiar cluster of reporters and camera crews clogged the street outside the entrance. White vans with satellite dishes. Photographers with telephoto lenses. At least a few dozen of them. More than yesterday.
"Oh, Jeez," Mia breathed.
The silver sedan pulled up behind us, boxing us in. Through the rearview mirror, I saw the passenger door open. The man with the camera climbed out, still shooting.
I had no choice but to slow as we approached the gate. Frank stood at the entrance, trying in vain to keep the reporters back. They surged forward the moment they recognized my car.
Bodies pressed against the windows. Fists pounded on the hood. Cameras flashed, blinding in the late afternoon sun. Faces distorted through the glass, their mouths moving, shouting, demanding.
"Ms. Kincaid! Did your daughter kill Leah Cho?"
"Mia! Mia, look here! Just one photo!"
Mia made a choked sound. She curled into herself, pulling herknees to her chest. Apollo leapt onto the seat and barked loudly at them.
"Don't look," I said again. "Just don't look."
A man slapped his palm against Mia's window. She flinched violently. Apollo growled. Anger and alarm thrummed in my chest. I wanted to punch him in his smug face for scaring my daughter.
"Get back!" Frank shouted, stepping between the car and the mob. "You're on private property!"
"It's a public street!" a cameraman yelled back.
Frank pulled out his radio, calling for backup. A second security guard arrived. Together, they physically pushed the reporters back, creating just enough space for me to edge the car forward.
The reporters surged forward one last time, someone pounding on the trunk, and then we were through. The gate closed behind us with a mechanical clang that sounded like a prison door.
My hands were shaking. I pulled into the community clubhouse parking lot, unable to drive home yet.
My breathing was ragged, my vision blurred. I couldn't cry, not in front of Mia, who was silently weeping beside me. "I'm so sorry, baby."
She didn't answer, just pulled her hood tighter and stared at her lap.
Anxiety thrummed in my veins. Instinctively, I touched my throat, found the ring beneath my shirt, and held it like a talisman.Breathe. Just breathe.
I glanced at Mia."You're wearing Dad's hat."
Her hand flew to the brim, defensive. "So?"
"You only wear it when you're really upset. Or when you miss him." I kept my voice gentle. "Which is it?"
"Both, I guess." Mia pulled the cap off, turning it over in her hands, tracing the faded logo of Arches National Park with her thumb. "Do you think I'm a bad friend? Because right now I'm thinking about myself, and not her. And she's the one who's dead."
"Oh, honey."
