Chapter 22

ROSE'S POINT OF VIEW

The shoe sat on Detective Ramirez's desk between us. A woman's size seven pump, once black, now gray-green from three months underwater. The heel had broken off, but the designer's red sole remained visible.Louboutin.Unmistakably Camille's.

"Is this your sister's shoe, Ms. Lewis?" Detective Ramirez asked, his tired eyes watching my reaction carefully.

I reached for it with trembling fingers, a calculated tremor l'd practiced thatmorning.whispered,voice breaking on cue. "She wore these the last time I saw her. A gift from our parents for her birthday."

The lie slid out smoothly. In truth, I'd given Camille those shoes when she landed her first job, playing the generous big sister while privately mocking her pathetic excitement over my hand-me-downs.

"Does seeing this personal item bring up any new thoughts about your sister's state of mind before her disappearance?"

An interesting question. Not "accident" or"drowning,"but"disappearance." The detective's word choice revealed his lingering doubts.

"Your parents mentioned Camille kept journals," he continued. "Have you had a chance to read them?"

So Mom had spoken to the police about the journals. This was worse than I thought.

"I... I couldn't bear to read them," I said, looking away as if overcome. "Too painful. Mom mentioned she found some, but she's been very private about their contents."

"And your relationship with Mr. Rodriguez? Your sister's ex-husband?"

"Stefan and I have found comfort in our shared grief,"I said carefully."Wwere friends before he and Camille dated. After a respectful period of mourning, we've... reconnected."

After leaving the station, I called Martin Greene, the family's trusted fixer. "I need everything you can get on Detective Ramirez.And I need to know exactly what my mother told the police about Camille's journals."

Then I headed to my parents' house. Mom was at her weekly therapy appointment, an engagement I'd encouraged to keep her sedated with grief counseling and antidepressants.

The house was quiet when I arrived. I moved through Camille's room methodically, checking obvious hiding places. Nothing. The floorboard Mom had mentioned yielded nothing but an empty space.

Mom's private sitting room, then. The small sunlit space where she spent hours alone. On her writing desk sat a mahogany box with a brass lock.

"Looking for something?"

Mom's voice from the doorway froze me in place. She stood watching me, more sober and alert than l'd seen in months.

"Mom," I said, forcing warmth into my voice. "I didn't expect you back so soon."

She moved to the box, unlocked it, and withdrew a journal. "September 14th, ten years ago: 'Rose told Jason I stuffed my bra before the dance. Now he won't talk to me. She says she was just joking, but she smiles when she thinks I'm not looking.'"

My mind raced back. Jason Parker, Camille's first crush. I'd spent weeks helping her get his attention, only to whisper that carefully crafted lie at precisely the right moment.

"Teenage drama," I said dismissively. "Camille was always sensitive."

Mom took out another journal. "April 2nd, eight years ago: 'Got my Stanford acceptance today. Rose says it's probably a mistake. Now I can't stop worrying they'll realize they didn't mean to accept me."

"I was trying to,protect her from disappointment," I protested. "Stanford is highly competitive."

Mom slammed the journal shut. "You know what happened next? She called the admissions office to 'confirm' they wanted her. They thought she was having a mental health crisis. When we decided she wasn't ready for college, based largely on your concerns about her emotional stability, that call reinforced our decision."

Time for the nuclear option.

"Mom," I whispered, "I didn't want to tell you this, but... Camille had problems none of us understood. The last time we spoke, she said things that frightened me."

"What things?"

"She talked about hearing voices sometimes. About feeling watched." The lies flowed smoothly,tailored to match symptoms I knew Mom feared. Her own mother had suffered from paranoid delusions.

"That's not possible," Mom said, but doubt had crept into her voice.

"Would she write about it if she was hiding it? Mom, I've been carrying this guilt for months, wondering if l should have told someone. If I could have prevented what happened."

"When her car went into the river," Icontinued softly, "I wondered if... if it wasn't an accident. If maybe the voices told her to do it."

Mom sank into her chair, face ashen. "I should have known. A mother should know when her child is suffering."

"You couldn't have known," I soothed, watching my carefully crafted lies take root. "Camille was good at hiding things."

"I need to tell your father. And the detective."

"Are you sure that's wise?" | asked gently."Camille wanted this kept private. And mental health stigma is still so prevalent."

"Perhaps wait," I suggested. "Read through the journals again, looking for signs you might have missed. Let me help you," I,offered, reaching for the box. "Two sets of eyes might catch what one misses."

She hesitated only briefly before nodding. The box of journals, the evidence I'd been desperate to secure,was now being handed to me willingly.

When I left an hour later, Mom looked lighter somehow. The poison of suspicion had been drained, replaced with a new narrative that absolved her of responsibility while redirecting her focus from me to Camille's fabricated mental health struggles.

In the car,l immediately texted Martin: *Cancel the Ramirez investigation. Situation contained.*

Looking at the mahogany box beside me, I felt a surge of satisfaction. By tonight, any evidence of my careful dismantling of Camille's life would be ashes. And the official narrative would shift subtly, not an accident,not murder, but a troubled young woman's final desperate act.

Perfect Rose, the devoted sister, carrying her tragic secret to protect her family's peace of mind. The story practically wrote itself. Mental illness was such a convenient explanation for inconvenient truths. Camille's real voice had been silenced forever in that river. Now I would ensure that even her written words told the story I chose for them to tell.