Dangerous Girls (17 page)

“Hold that thought,” I say, and tear myself away. He lets out a groan of frustration. “I need the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” I promise, kissing him again.

“No, it’s good. I’ve got to go for a run.” Tate hauls himself out of bed, naked save for a pair of blue boxers. He peels them off, exchanging them for some crazy print board shorts. “Me and Lamar need to stay in shape for the season.”

I pause, admiring the view. You would think I’d get used to it, but I don’t. His body, the grace he moves with . . .

Mine.

“Okay, I’ll see you after.” I head across the room, picking my way over discarded clothes and the junk spilling from our suitcases. “I think it’s another beach day. AK said something about renting some Jet-Skis . . . ?”

“Awesome.” Tate laces up his sneakers, then goes to open the balcony doors. “Laters.” He jogs down the steps onto the beach below. I move to the balcony and watch him as he
stretches, his arms held high; then he takes off, his feet pounding the sand as he finds his usual rhythm, heading down to where the water laps against the shore. Soon he’s a tiny figure in the distance, a dark shadow on the white sand of the bay.

I shower and pull a bikini on, then wander out into the main house. It’s early, and the living area is deserted; everyone is still crashed out from the night before. We spent the day on the beach, then wound up drinking at the house until late while Mel and Elise bickered over where to get dinner, until finally the boys revolted and dragged us all out for pizza at a tacky chain restaurant in one of the hotel complexes. They served two-for-one margaritas, lurid in huge glasses as big as serving bowls, and ice cream sundaes smothered in hot fudge sauce and cream. We were all queasy and groaning by the time we made it back, except Elise, of course. She was dancing, alone in the living room, long after the rest of us stumbled off to bed—lit by the eerie blue of the fish tank, swaying and dreamy.

I go to the fridge, and pull out a carton of juice.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

I jump, slamming the refrigerator shut. Niklas is just a few feet away, lounging against one of the cabinets. “Jesus.” I catch my breath, my heart pounding. “You scared me!”

“Sorry.” He looks amused, his eyes trailing me from head to toe. “Guess you weren’t expecting company.”

I shift, uncomfortable. I’m in just my bikini top and some
cutoff shorts. Beach clothes, fine for hanging out with my friends, or even strolling outside, but here, alone in the kitchen with some strange older guy, I’m painfully aware of the thin fabric and bare flesh on show.

I catch Niklas’s gaze again—ice blue and smug—and resist the urge to go pull a sweater on. Somehow I think it would give him too much satisfaction.

“It’s early,” I say briskly instead, turning back to the juice. “I didn’t know you were here.”

I reach for a glass from the rack above the sink, but Niklas steps in first, his body pressing against mine as he fetches one down for me. I flinch back.

“Voilà.” He offers it with a bland smile, but I can tell he’s enjoying my discomfort.

“Thanks,” I reply shortly. I pour my drink and then circle around to the breakfast bar—putting a length of polished marble between us. “Where’s Elise? I didn’t think she was up.”

“She’s not.” Niklas shrugs. I wait, but he doesn’t continue. Instead he gulps juice straight from the carton, still watching me with that amused look.

I shiver, despite the balmy temperature. Tate was right. He is creepy.

“Morning, my darlings!” Elise bounds in, dressed in her red bikini and tiny white cutoff shorts. She encircles me in a hug, and cold water drips down onto my skin, her hair still
wet from the shower. She kisses my shoulder. “Do you see the ocean? Fuck, I never want to leave.”

“Sure, dropout and move here,” I say, and laugh, relaxing at her presence. “Become a professional beach bum. Your parents would love that.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Elise hops up to sit on the counter, swinging her legs against the cabinet doors. “I’ll send them a postcard. ‘Wish you weren’t here’.”

She plucks a couple of grapes from the bunch in the fruit bowl and eats, still sitting with her back to Niklas.

I look over at him, realizing for the first time that Elise hasn’t spoken to him. Hasn’t so much as glanced in his direction.

Niklas must realize it too. His expression darkens for a moment, then the frown is wiped away, replaced with that same bland, smug smile. “I’m out of here. Text you later?”

Elise shrugs. “Sure, whatever.”

Niklas salutes at me, and then saunters toward the front door. A moment later, I hear it slam.

I give Elise an expectant look. She grins. “Keep ’em mean. . . .”

“I know, but that was pretty icy.”

She shrugs again. “He’s kind of full of himself. Going on and on about all his dad’s business deals, and how they own, like, half the island. Still, the boy has his uses. . . .” Her lips slip into a mischievous smile, and I can’t help but laugh.

“What time did he come over?” I ask, going to rinse my glass. They have a maid come here every afternoon, but I still feel bad leaving anything for her to clean up. “I didn’t hear him come in.”

“I had him sneak in round back last night,” Elise replies, sliding down to the ground. “He had to climb up to my balcony.”

“Oh Romeo, Romeo,” I quote, holding a hand to my forehead in a fake swoon. She laughs. “You’re lucky he didn’t fall and crack his head open,” I add.

Elise makes a dismissive noise. “It’s barely fifteen feet; anyone could climb that. Besides, you’ve got to make them work for it, otherwise they think you’re easy.”

“You, the great Elise Warren, easy?” I tease. “Never!”

“That’s me.” She dances around the kitchen, throwing wannabe gang signs, mock-tough. “Rock hard, baby.”

“Like your abs?” I laugh, lightly hitting her stomach.

“Like diamonds, baby!”

There’s a groan. AK comes stumbling in, wearing last night’s crumpled T-shirt and a pained expression. “Noise. Pain. Dead.”

“What’s that?” Elise calls, extra loud.

“I don’t know!” I yell back. “I couldn’t hear!”

AK glares. “I hate you both,” he says, falling face-first onto the couch.

“Aww, don’t be like that,” Elise coos.

“We’re sorry,” I agree. “Want me to make you some coffee?”

There’s a groan.

“I think that’s a yes,” Elise laughs. She turns back to me, then her eyes widen. “You found my necklace!”

“What?” My hand goes to my throat. “This one’s mine.”

“No”—Elise reaches around my neck to unfasten it—“I have that chip in the metal, remember? Right here.” She shows me the crack through the bronze before fastening it around her own throat. “I thought I lost it back in Boston. Cheap piece of crap.” She grins affectionately. “It’s going to give us a rash or something one day.”

Before I can reply, Lamar interrupts us, strolling into the room with his shades on and a beach towel slung over his shoulder. “What are you guys still doing inside? We’ve got a schedule, people. Relaxing! Drinking! Lying in the sun!”

Elise laughs, spinning away from me. “Two minutes!” she promises. “I’ve got to grab my beach stuff, then I’m going to relax so freaking hard.”

She dances away, back toward her room, and I’m left there, my fingers digging into the back of the couch, my breath coming slow.

“What’s up with you?” Lamar’s voice snaps me back. I turn.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Miss Chevalier, can you tell
us what we’re looking at up on-screen, please?”

I barely turn to look. I’ve been on the stand for hours now, answering his questions, trying to stay calm, and not snap or sound sullen, but it’s hard when I’ve had only a few hours of sleep all week. They took me off the sleeping pills, saying it made me look too robotic and detached on the witness stand, but now all I can do each night is stare at the cracked ceiling of my tiny cell and wait for the peace that never comes.

“Miss Chevalier?” Dekker prompts, and I realize I’ve zoned out again.

“It’s a map of the beach house,” I tell him, tired.

“That’s right,” Dekker agrees. “And can you tell us which room you were sleeping in?”

“The one you’ve marked in black.”

“The one by the front door,” Dekker continues. He’s got an iPad and a pointer, to move around on the screen. “And the victim, Elise, her bedroom was back here, to the rear of the house.”

Her room, of course, is marked in red.

“We can see from the diagram, it’s barely ten feet from your bedroom door to the main entrance to the house. So it’s a fair assumption,” Dekker continues, “that if anyone were to enter or exit in order to get to Elise’s room, they would have to go past yours—which, as you’ve stated on several occasions, you were occupying the afternoon she died, between six and seven p.m.”

“No.”

Dekker stops. “You weren’t in the house at that time?”

“No, I mean, we were. Me and Tate,” I clarify, trying not to trip over my words. “But the front door wasn’t the only way in.”

“But if a stranger broke in to attack Miss Warren, as you claim, then he would have had to have passed your bedroom to get there.”

“Objection!” My lawyer sighs. “The time of death has not been determined. The attack could have been carried out before the defendant returned to the house, or when she was out at dinner.”

“Sustained.”

Dekker hides a scowl. “I’ll rephrase,” he says. “If a stranger broke in while you were in the house, he would have gone directly past your room, isn’t that true?”

“No,” I say again, “There were other ways into the house.” I turn to the judge. “Can I show, on the screen . . . ?”

“Surely this is something for the defense cross-examination—” Dekker tries to talk over me, but the judge interrupts him.

“You brought up the floor plan, so I’ll allow it.”

There’s a moment’s pause, then Dekker reluctantly hands over the iPad and pointer.

“The front door wasn’t the main way in,” I explain, marking the other exits on the map. “We mostly went in and out via the deck, here, at the back of the house. The whole back wall opened up, like sliding doors, and they were unlocked most of the time. We were coming and going; it was too much hassle for everyone to deal with a key. Elise had a balcony of her own, with doors out over the beach—”

“Her balcony was several stories off the sand,” Dekker interrupts me quickly.

“One floor, not very high,” I insist. “About fifteen, twenty feet, with easy footholds in the wood beams. Niklas climbed up, just the night before, and Max got in there when we couldn’t open Elise’s bedroom. Anyone could have climbed up from the beach, and it’s set back, so not many people would see.”

“Anything else?” Dekker’s tone is dangerously polite. “Any secret passages, or hidden exits?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.” Judge von Koppel sighs. “The prosecution should refrain from sarcasm. Anything else to add to the floor plan, Miss Chevalier?”

“Just, our bedroom was across the house from Elise’s. We had music on, and . . .” I swallow. “If someone had been in there, we wouldn’t have heard. We didn’t hear anything.” My voice breaks, and my lawyer leaps up.

“We ask to adjourn for the day, Your Honor!” he says quickly. “The defendant is clearly emotional, no doubt suffering due to the prosecution’s incessant badgering—”

“Oh, come on!” Dekker interrupts. “This is a blatant attempt for sympathy. She’s fine.”

They all turn to look at me, the judge peering down with her usual inscrutable gaze.

I stare back at her, pleading. All day, it’s been nothing but the knife prints and the blood smears and the precise re-creation of our footprints in that hallway; until now I can hardly remember what I’ve said, and what Dekker has been drumming away at us.

“I’d prefer to avoid any further delay,” she announces, and my heart falls. “Mr. Dekker, you may continue your questioning, but keep it brief.”

He turns on me with a grin. “So, back to the floor plan. You claim you never heard anyone enter the house.”

“Not through the front door,” I correct him. “But like I said, you could climb up the balcony directly to Elise’s room. Niklas did it, maybe more than once.”

Dekker scowls. “As we’ve already established, Niklas van Oaten was at home with his father on the afternoon of the murder.”

“But if he climbed up, somebody else could have done the same.” I can’t keep the note of desperation from my voice.

“Somebody?” Dekker repeats, mocking. “Does that seem likely to you, Miss Chevalier? That a random stranger would decide to climb up the side of the house, in full view of the beach, not knowing if anyone is home? And then, when they find Miss Warren there, instead of fleeing, or simply knocking her down, they take the knife from the kitchen, and stab her thirteen times?”

I look down.

“That was a question, Miss Chevalier,” Dekker’s voice booms out. “Is that a likely scenario? Does it sound at all plausible to you?”

“It’s possible,” I say through gritted teeth. “Elise could have had the knife in her room. The window was smashed. It was a break-in.”

“You claim it was a break-in.” Dekker corrects. “Evidence
for which, is murky at best. And as for your intruder theory, isn’t it far more likely that Miss Warren’s attacker knew her?”