Apollo nosed at the grass while I lifted the recycling lid. Juice boxes. Cereal boxes. A graveyard of LaCroix cans. I moved to the black bin. The lid stuck, then gave with a damp sucking sound.
Something bulky wrapped in newspaper sat on the top. I slid my bagged hand down and eased the bundle up. The newspaper crackled. A thin smear of red streaked the outer layer.
I peeled the paper back. A spray paint can. The metal was cold and tacky, its rim crusted with dried pigment, the exact angry scarlet shade that had spelled GUILTY across Leah's painting.
The world narrowed to the cylinder in my hand.
A light flicked on inside the house, on the second floor. My heart stopped. Quickly, I glanced at the time on my phone. 5:57 a.m. Garbage pick-up was in less than five minutes. If I called the police now, the contents of Camille's trash would probably be in a landfill by the time they arrived.
Besides, if I called the cops on Camille's daughter, she would absolutely fire Mia, and we desperately needed her right now.
I had to be careful how I went about this. And I had no time to figure out a better solution.
Before I could change my mind, I shoved the spray paint into a fresh doggie bag, double-layered, fumbling the knots. I shoved it into my purse, backed away from the bin, and hurried down the street with Apollo.
My shoulder blades itched with anxiety. I half-expected a shoutbehind me. A door opening. Someone demanding to know what I was doing.
The light stayed on, but no one came out.
Every window I passed felt like an eye watching me. The weight of the purse dragged at my shoulder. It grew heavier by the minute.
The sky had softened to a bruised gray by the time we reached my cottage. Birdsong started up in hesitant notes.
I fumbled with the new keys, my hands shaking so badly I dropped them. The metal clatter on the concrete was too loud. I snatched them up, unlocked the door, and pulled Apollo inside.
I locked the deadbolt behind me and leaned against the door, breathing hard.
The clock on the stove read 6:04 a.m. Upstairs, Mia's door remained closed.
I went to the coat closet next to the stairs and shoved the purse behind the winter coats, wedging it between an outgrown backpack and a garment bag. Out of sight, for now. I needed to figure out how to present it without incriminating myself first.
I made it. I hadn't been caught.
But I had evidence, which I'd just stolen, then hidden, that implicated Zara Hayward. And I had no idea what to do with it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The next several hours were a blur. After Mia woke up, we had breakfast. We didn't talk about the slippers, nor did I mention my early morning trash run. I pushed the spray paint and the pills out of my mind until I could focus on them later.
After we ate, we ran some errands. I took Mia to Best Buy with me, the cart rattling over cracked concrete as we walked under the blue awning. We moved through the security aisle, past boxes promising smart protection, wireless coverage, and night vision.
I chose the cheapest system with four cameras, praying I had enough on the credit card to cover it. The guy at the check-out counter wouldn't meet our eyes.
At Martins grocery store, I pushed the cart, going through the shopping list. Brownie mix. Eggs. Butter. Disposable pans.
Mia cocked one eyebrow at me. "Memorial brownies?"
"Rowan requested them."
"They're from a box."
"She doesn't need to know that." I met her eyes. "Our secret?"
The corner of her mouth lifted. "Our secret."
Everything felt distant, like I was watching it through glass. We endured the reporters outside the Blackthorn Shores gates, Mia shrinking into her seat like she wanted to disappear.
To make matters worse, several protesters had joined the media, standing around holding signs that read "Justice for Leah" and "No Child Killers in Our Town."
