The squad car lights bled blue and red through the front windows, strobing against the slashed canvas. The word GUILTY appeared as though it was pulsing blood.
Apollo padded to the door before the knock came, his tail wagging. I opened it to two uniformed officers in their late twenties, both in jackets with nametags reading RUIZ and HARRIS.
They examined the canvas as I explained that the door had been unlatched when we returned, even though I had locked it, that Apollo had been calm inside, that the house had looked normal until we found this.
Mia hovered in the hallway, eyes too big in her pale face, her arms wrapped around herself. I reached for her hand and found it colder than mine.
Ten minutes later, Detective King arrived with another unmarked car. The squad lights had been cut, but I could still feel the neighborhood watching from dark windows.
King wore a camel overcoat, the collar turned up, a dark suit underneath, smelling faintly of coffee. His eyes swept the room.
I led him through the kitchen. He crouched, studying the jamb, the latch plate. He ran a gloved finger along the painted wood.
"No splintering," he said. "No pry marks."
"Itold you, it wasn't forced. I think whoever did this had access to my spare key."
Before I could say more, Whitney and Peyton appeared in the opened doorway. They hovered on the threshold, their cheeks flushed from the chill.
"Everyone okay in here?" Whitney called out. "We have dinner plans at the Bistro on the Boulevard with the new Whirlpool CFO, but I wanted to make sure you were okay first. We saw the cruisers as we were driving by."
Whitney wore a fitted cream sheath dress with a gold belt and matching heels. Peyton wore a navy cocktail dress with cap sleeves, her purple Stanley in one hand as usual.
Through the living room window, I caught sight of Whitney’s husband Graham waiting in the idling Mercedes at the curb. His blond head was bent, his clean-shaven jaw clenched as he scrolled through his phone. He didn't look up.
"We’re okay, thanks," I said.
Whitney glanced between King and me, her eyes wide. Her gaze dropped to the painting, and she gasped. "Oh Dahlia, that’s awful."
"Yep," I managed.
"Okay," King said to Ruiz. "I'll take it from here."
The uniformed officers filed out.
Peyton's gaze was glued to the slashed painting. "Wow. Was that one of Leah's?"
"Yes." I watched Peyton. I hadn't been this close to her since the Saturday morning of Leah's death. Peyton Alistair was tall and lean, all sharp angles, with her square jaw and prominent features mirroring her mother's, her high ponytail pulled tight. Her blue eyes were sharp, calculating.
She was the leader of the group, the one who set the pace and expected everyone to keep up. Driven, motivated, constantly in motion, always busy with practices, meets, lessons, races, and competitions, living at a sprint to meet Whitney's impossible standards.
But I recognized a darker, simmering energy in the clench of herjaw, the way her knuckles went white around her Stanley. She was strung too tight, wound like a rubber band ready to snap.
"Who would do such a thing?" Whitney asked, drawing my attention away from Peyton. Appalled, she pressed a hand to her sternum. The diamond bracelet on her wrist glinted. "With everything you're already dealing with, and now someone breaking into your home, vandalizing Leah's painting." Her voice dropped in sympathy. "It's almost like someone wants you to know they can get to you whenever they want. How awful."
I could only nod numbly. They'd entered our house. Gone to Mia's bedroom. Someone who knew our routines. Someone most likely with a key. I thought of Alexis once again, outside our house, videoing us with her phone.
"You have my spare key, Whitney. I'd really like it back, now."
King's attention shifted to Whitney. "You have a spare key?"
Color rose in her cheeks as she fumbled in her Prada bag. "I've been meaning to give it back since, well, with everything happening. You understand."
She held the key with the Isle Royale key chain out to me like an offering.
I took it and slipped it into my pocket. "Thanks."
She gave a high-pitched, nervous laugh. "I hope you don't think I had anything to do with this."
