“Ithought that went well.”

From the passenger seat of our government-issued SUV, I glared at Lia. I knew she was just pushing my buttons—because the more she pushed them, the less mental space I could devote to how I could have played things differently with Mackenzie.

Why we’d failed.

Walking away, leaving her out on that ledge, was hard, bordering on impossible. I could still see the way Mackenzie had looked from the base of the lighthouse. Small. Still. She was little more than a silhouette against the darkening sky. Down below, the ocean churned, angry and haphazard as it bore into the jagged shore.

The storm was getting closer. We didn’t have long.

“Are you ignoring your phone on purpose, or is it just a side effect of the brooding?” Lia managed to sound genuinely curious about the answer to that question.

I looked down at my phone. Three new text messages—all from Celine.

“Agent Delacroix keeping busy?” Lia asked archly.

“Apparently, she’s been making some calls.” It didn’t surprise me that Celine was still coordinating the investigation, even though she was the one who’d volunteered to stay behind. Objectively, Lia and I had skill sets that were more useful when it came to talking to witnesses, but Agent Delacroix was the one with the badge.

She was the one that Mackenzie was currently watching and listening to. Showing the little Natural that the case was moving would be more effective than anything anyone in that room could say to keep Mackenzie calm.

“Celine was able to get in touch with Kelley’s parents,” I told Lia. “They’re anxious to speak with us.” I rattled off the address Celine had sent, then turned my attention back to my phone—not to the texts, to my in-box—and the files. I had the length of this drive to read through Kelley’s. Before we talked to our victim’s parents, I needed to get acquainted with her.

Her last name was Peterson. That was one of the many things I learned en route, as I skimmed the file once and read it again. You were a senior at Cape Roane High School. Straight-A student, doctor parents, no siblings. A quick perusal of her social media accounts told me that she had a propensity for standing in the middle of every picture. Based on the photographs her many public mourners were posting, she also had a tendency to come to school wearing workout clothes, like she simply couldn’t have been bothered to change after she hit the gym.

Her face was fully made up in every single picture.

But the thing at the forefront of my mind as Lia and I climbed the steps to the Petersons’ front porch wasn’t the way Kelley had looked in those pictures.

It was the way she’d looked in the autopsy photos.

“Thank you for meeting with us.” I sat opposite Kelley’s parents in their formal living room. The walls were tastefully decorated with a mix of abstract art and high-quality portraits—some of the whole family, some just of Kelley. Now that their daughter was dead, the moments captured in time were haunting, but the impression that I couldn’t shake was the association between the portraits and the paintings.

Kelley as decoration.

Kelley as art.

“Of course.” Kelley’s father was the one who replied, but the way his hand was woven through his wife’s made it seem like the words were a joint effort. The doctors Peterson were Type A, good-looking, driven—but whatever else they were or were not, I was certain that they’d loved their daughter.

“The agent on the phone said that there was a development in Kelley’s…” Isaac Peterson didn’t seem the type to stumble over words, but he hesitated just long enough for his wife to fill in.

“…case.”

Not Kelley’s death. Not suicide—or even murder. Her case. It felt like a euphemism, as pristine as the formal white couches on which the four of us sat.

Lia leaned forward slightly. “We have reason to believe that your daughter didn’t jump.” Lia knew Celine had told the parents that much. It was why they’d agreed to meet with us—but it was also our strongest entry to what would doubtlessly be a difficult conversation.

“I knew it,” Kelley’s mom bit out. “I knew that our little girl…” She drew in a ragged breath.

Now it was her husband’s turn to finish her sentence. “We knew that Kelley couldn’t and wouldn’t have killed herself. We told the police as much, but they’re used to parents being biased when it comes to their children.”

The subtext there told me that Dr. Isaac Peterson considered himself, above all, an objective and rational person. I filed that away for future reference, but paid more attention to the way that Lia tapped two fingers—middle and index—lightly against the side of my leg. The signal was subtle, but unmistakable.

She’d caught a lie.

We knew that Kelley couldn’t and wouldn’t have killed herself. Dr. Alice Peterson might have believed that, but her husband was the one who’d spoken those words, and he did not.

No matter what he’d told the police, no matter how objective and rational his tone, he’d doubted his daughter. He’d believed she’d jumped.

My mind went to the autopsy—not the photographs documenting the damage wreaked by impact, but the close-up shots of Kelley’s lower abdomen. Scars—small, deliberate half-moons—had stretched from one of Kelley’s hip bones to the next, too low to show unless she was naked.

“Were you aware that Kelley was a cutter?” I asked Kelley’s father. I knew the question wouldn’t be a welcome one, but I needed to get to know Kelley well enough to crawl into her head, and I needed any information, no matter how seemingly insignificant, that might give me insight into her killer’s.

“Kelley put a lot of pressure on herself.” Alice Peterson seemed to consider that a full and sufficient response to my question. “She was very driven.”

“A perfectionist,” her husband added, sitting ramrod straight.

“She was perfect.” Alice’s voice cracked. I glanced at Lia, but she gave no indication that Kelley’s mother was lying. Whether or not Alice Peterson had believed her daughter was flawless when she was alive, now that she was gone, she was perfect.

Grief had a way of warping perceptions.

“Tell me about Kelley,” I suggested gently. That was all it took to open the floodgates, for both Dr. Petersons. How beautiful Kelley was. How smart. The fact that she’d applied early to an Ivy League university. The number of times she’d made homecoming court. How mercilessly she’d been able to dismantle her opponents in debate.

As the Petersons described their perfect daughter, I thought back again to Kelley’s scars. You didn’t cut your wrists, your legs, or even your stomach. You sliced below your panty line.

She’d literally hidden her pain, preserving the image.

If you had killed yourself? I thought, slipping into her mind. You wouldn’t have wanted a closed-casket funeral. She wouldn’t have wanted to mangle the body she left behind.

You wouldn’t have jumped.

“Did Kelley have any rivals?” I asked. “Was there anyone she’d had conflict with? Any issues socially?”

“Kelley was very social,” her father said immediately. “Everyone loved her.”

Another tap on my leg, another lie. Even in grief, Isaac Peterson knew quite well that his daughter had not been universally beloved.

“You can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?” Lia pressed.

“Kelley didn’t always get along with other girls.” Alice pursed her lips. “They could be so jealous.”

That was a loaded statement if I’d ever heard one.

“And boys?” I asked.

“They all wanted to date her,” Isaac said immediately. He shook his head—in memory? In denial?

“I’m guessing she had to turn a lot of would-be Romeos down.” Lia gave no indication of how carefully she was studying their responses to that statement. “Was that hard for her?”

The answers came in tandem. “I think so.”

“Of course.”

Two taps from Lia. Neither one of them thought Kelley disliked turning people down.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Alice said suddenly, leaning toward us. “What happened with the Summers boy. He was obviously very ill.”

I took a moment to connect the dots. Before Kelley’s death, two of her classmates had killed themselves. One was a boy.

The Summers boy?

“Kelley knew the boy who jumped?” I asked.

“This is Cape Roane,” her father said dismissively. “Everyone knows everyone.”

And everyone loves Kelley, I echoed his earlier lie silently back at him.

“What about the other victim?” I asked. “The girl? Did she and Kelley know each other?”

There was a long pause.

“Have you been talking to the school?” Alice Peterson couldn’t have bristled more if she were actually feline. I took that to mean that someone at the school might have had something less than flattering to say about her perfect daughter.

“Was Kelley ever bullied?” I asked. That was an easier question for a parent to be asked than Was your daughter ever accused of bullying someone else?

“There were tiffs, of course.” Kelley’s mother relaxed slightly. “But nothing major. Kelley knew who she was. She wasn’t the type who needed anyone’s approval.”

Kelley’s father squeezed his wife’s hand. “I will say,” he told me carefully, “that the last few weeks were very hard on our daughter.”

The last few weeks. Since the Summers boy jumped off a cliff? Since another of Kelley’s classmates did the same?

My gut said that if I pushed either of them on that point, they would end this interview, so I sidestepped. “The police file on Kelley’s death indicated that she had no defensive wounds.” That, along with the other suicides and Kelley’s history of self-inflicted injuries, was what had biased the police in favor of the suicide interpretation. “That suggests,” I explained, “that whoever pushed Kelley didn’t physically engage her beforehand. She wasn’t dragged up to the steeple.” I kept my tone gentle, to counteract the words. “Unless her attacker had a gun, the most likely explanation is that she went willingly.”

Maybe someone coerced you into going up there. Blackmailed you. Guilted you. I sorted through the possibilities, one by one. Or maybe the person who pushed you was someone you trusted. Maybe you went willingly, because you wanted to be alone with that person.

Or maybe you went on your own, and your killer followed.

“Would Kelley have gone up there on a dare?” I asked. “Or for privacy—or to meet someone?”

“I…” Alice bowed her head slightly, the motion more graceful than it should have been. “I don’t know.”

“Is there anyone she might have trusted enough to go—”

“We don’t know.” Isaac Peterson repeated his wife’s sentiment, and I had the distinct sense that of everything that had passed their lips during this interview, these words hurt the most.

You thought you knew your daughter, but you’ve realized since she died how much you don’t—and didn’t—know.

“Is there anyone else we should talk to?” I asked. “Anyone Kelley might have confided in? Anyone she was close to?”

That line of inquiry seemed to center Kelley’s parents. Alice folded her free hand neatly in her lap, the other still woven through her husband’s.

“Kelley had a lot of friends,” she declared. Kelley was popular. Kelley was perfect. Kelley was loved. “In fact,” Alice Peterson continued, her voice shaking slightly, “the pastor called to let us know that a group of students from the high school are planning a vigil for her tonight. At the church.”