Chapter 167
Emily's POV
The next morning, we parked outside the Powells' expensive suburban home. The property screamed money—manicured lawn, luxury cars in the driveway, professional landscaping.
We'd been waiting for nearly twenty minutes when a silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway. Avery stepped out, her slightly swaying steps and the unmistakable smell of alcohol evident as she approached.
But her face was perfectly made up, showing no signs of grief over losing her daughter.
"Police?" she asked, eyeing us suspiciously. "What now?"
"Ms. Powell, we'd like to ask you a few questions about Alicia."
At the mention of her daughter's name, Avery's carefully composed face crumpled. "What am I supposed to do?" she suddenly shouted. "What could I have done? If she wanted to die, how could I have stopped her?"
The outburst caught us both off guard. Tears streamed down Avery's face, smearing her perfect makeup.
I remembered how Alicia had provoked Terry, trying to get herself murdered, hoping to make her mother feel guilty for life. She seemed to have succeeded now, just in a different way, but at the cost of her own life. What was the point of it all?
"I'm a terrible mother," she continued, fumbling with her keys. "I know that. Everyone knows that. But I tried. God, I tried."
Michael stepped forward. "Ms. Powell, we just want to understand what happened before Alicia's death."
Avery finally managed to unlock the door, motioning for us to follow her inside. The house was immaculate, expensive, and cold—lacking any warmth or personal touches.
"Did you and Alicia argue that night?" I asked gently.
Avery laughed bitterly, pouring herself a drink from a crystal decanter. "That's the worst part. We didn't. She was... good that night." She took a long sip. "She told me, 'Mom, I hope you'll be happy.' She said she loved me."
I exchanged a glance with Michael. This sounded like a goodbye message—like Alicia knew what she was going to do.
"What happened that night?" Michael pressed.
Avery collapsed onto an expensive leather sofa. "I told her I was getting remarried. I expected her to throw one of her fits, to scream and break things like she usually did." She stared into her glass. "But she just smiled and wished me happiness. I should have known something was wrong."
"And you found her the next morning?" Michael asked.
"In the bathtub." Avery's voice was hollow now. "She left a note that just said, 'I'm sorry.'"
I studied Avery's face, searching for genuine grief beneath the self-pity. There was remorse there, certainly, but it seemed more about her own guilt than actual loss.
"I just wanted to be happy," Avery whispered. "Is that so terrible? But my happiness killed my daughter."
As we left the Powell house, I couldn't muster any sympathy for Avery. All I could think about was Alicia—a young woman who, even in her final moments, was still desperately seeking her mother's approval and love.
"We want to see Alicia's belongings."
Avery wiped her eyes, surprisingly quick to regain her composure. Clearly, she was avoiding expressing any genuine emotion about her daughter.
"You police really have too much time on your hands, don't you?" Avery crossed her arms over her chest, her tone instantly shifting from grieving mother to annoyed. "Wasn't it already determined she killed herself?"
"We just need to verify some details," Michael said, his voice steady as always.
Avery sighed dramatically. "Fine. But you can't take anything from her room."
She led us upstairs, her steps heavy on each stair. I noticed a row of school photos hanging along both sides of the staircase—documenting Alicia's growth year by year. What shocked me was how her smile became increasingly forced as the grades progressed. The yearly portraits captured the trajectory of a gradually withering soul.
When the bedroom door opened, I was surprised by the orderly space. I had expected teenage chaos but found meticulous organization instead. Notebooks and test papers were neatly arranged on the desk, all sorted by subject. A small box in the corner was filled with empty pen cartridges—evidence of hours of writing.
"She used to be messy," Avery lingered in the doorway, commenting. "Then a month ago, she suddenly became this... perfect student."
I ran my finger across the desk, noticing it was covered with encouraging sticky notes. All written in the same careful handwriting: "Study harder." "You can do better." "No excuses." The pressure in those words was almost tangible.
I picked up a math workbook, flipping through pages of neatly written calculations. Despite the tidy handwriting, most answers were wrong. The effort was there, but the understanding wasn't.
"This is incredible," Michael said quietly beside me, looking around the room. "When Terry Perez locked her up, she said she'd rather die than memorize those books."
"People change," Avery shrugged, her eyes nervously darting around the room.
I moved toward the bed, instinctively lifting the pillow. Underneath lay a smartphone with a dark screen. "Is this hers?" I asked, already taking out an evidence bag.
"Yes, but you can't unlock it. It has a password."
I sealed the phone away, making a mental note to have the tech team crack it later. "Ms. Powell, has Alicia undergone any behavioral correction therapy recently?"
"What's that? I hardly managed her at all."
"You didn't notice her changes during this time?" I asked.
Avery leaned against the doorframe. "I know, she became a different person overnight. Started apologizing for everything. Her voice got sweeter. She did whatever I asked without complaint." A satisfied smile flitted across her face. "Honestly, it felt good."
"And before that?" I asked, studying the subtle changes in her expression.
Avery's face immediately darkened. "She was a nightmare to raise from the beginning. I nearly died giving birth to her, you know. Twenty-seven hours of labor while my husband was fooling around with his secretary." She laughed bitterly. "I tried to be a good mother, I really did. But she was so difficult—always crying, making noise, running around everywhere."
I watched her face harden as she continued, "I never felt that joy of motherhood people talk about. Just endless suffering." She looked around the now-tidy room with a hint of pride. "This last month has been the happiest time of my life."
"If it was really that happy," I carefully asked, unable to hide my skepticism, "why are you already prepared to remarry?"
Avery's eyes flashed with anger. "I deserve happiness too."
"Did anything special happen a month ago?" Michael interjected, always good at easing tension.
"My cousin took her to see a therapist. Maybe she finally listened to someone."
My pulse immediately quickened. "Do you know which therapist?"
"A woman named Megan Weber. At the Inner Peace Counseling Center."
I felt my heart skip a beat. Megan Weber. The connection hit me like a physical blow.
Could Megan be manipulating all this?
I thought of Caitlin's ideal—had Megan misunderstood it and was trying to reform these potential criminals?
After Michael finished asking about Alicia without getting useful information, we terminated the visit.