by Abigail Haas
“But it does,” Elise says softly. “Everything changes. But it can be better. Think about it, if we both get into USC . . . you and me, California. We can hang out on the beach like this all the time, and not die of hypothermia.”
I smile, leaning to rest my head on her shoulder. I never told her I’ve spent these last weeks split, wavering between schools on the East and West Coasts, between proximity to her or to Tate. Now I’m glad I didn’t make a big deal of it, because it doesn’t feel like a choice anymore. Of course I’m going with her. Of course.
“Do you love me?” I ask, repeating our familiar refrain.
“You know I do.”
“How much?”
“Miles and miles.”
• • •
We sit on the beach until the world slowly stops spinning on its axis, then head back across the sand to the bar. I’m almost not surprised to find Melanie waiting outside the back exit, pacing back and forth and clutching her phone.
She sees us approach, and rushes up to meet us. “Where were you guys?” she demands, “I’ve been texting and calling. Why didn’t you tell me you were going somewhere?” she adds, a whining note to her voice. “I thought something happened.”
“Jesus, we were gone ten minutes,” Elise says, and sighs. “Do you want me to wear a tracking chip?”
Mel blinks. “I was worried, that’s all.”
“So don’t be.” Elise pushes past her to head back inside the bar. The blast of music swallows her up, and I make to follow but Mel moves to block my path.
“Why do you have to keep doing this?” She glares at me fiercely.
I step back. “What?”
“Dragging her off somewhere, always coming between us.” Mel’s eyes are wide and almost tearful in the dim light, and her words pour out in a furious torrent. “I know you hate me, but she’s my friend too, and you won’t let her spend any time with me at all.”
“Let her?” I repeat slowly, caught there in the doorway. I don’t have space for Mel’s desperate insecurities, not after days of her sighing and whining and moaning, tagging along in the background for everything. “For fuck’s sake, since when does Elise do anything she doesn’t want to do?” I demand, “If she’s not hanging out with you anymore, that’s her choice. It’s got nothing to do with me.”
Mel’s mouth drops open. “She would never . . .” she manages, as she starts to cry. “We were friends first! Until you stole her from me. Everything was great until you came along—”
“What are we, stuck in grade school?” I cut her off, my anger blazing now—at her or myself, I’m not sure. I just know that Mel is pouring all her fear and insecurity out onto the dark asphalt in front of me, when I’ve fought so hard to keep mine hidden. This could be me, I realize in a terrible flash. This could be my future. Without Elise: abandoned and alone. “Grow up. It’s not finder’s keepers, okay?” I tell her, my voice ringing out, harsh. “Maybe if you were less of a whiny, needy brat, she’d still want you around.”
Mel recoils, as if I’d hit her. “You’re such a bitch!” she cries.
“Hey, those are Elise’s words, not mine. You think she’s your bestie?” I add. “You should hear what she says when you’re not around. ‘Mel’s such a baby,’ ” I mimic, “ ‘She’s, like, obsessed with me.’ ”
“Stop it!” Mel yells, her mascara running in two pathetic streams down her cheeks. But I can’t, not with the anger flooding hot in my veins.
“She makes fun of you, how clingy you are,” I continue, relentless. “She doesn’t get why you don’t just take the hint and leave us alone for good.”
“You’re lying.” Mel sobs.
“I’m not. She didn’t even want you coming on vacation,” I tell her, “I was the one who said to invite you. I figured we could put up with you for another few months, until graduation, but God, look at you—you don’t know when to give it a break!”
Mel gives another sob, then whirls around and flees. I watch her hurry down the street, unsteady in high heels, and feel a sobering wash of shame. I shouldn’t have done that, I know it right away. I shouldn’t have been so cruel, but she just kept pushing me—acting like this was all my fault. And her naked desperation . . .
I shiver, turning back to enter the bar. It’s dark and loud inside, and I fight my way through the crowd, looking for the familiar faces of our group. Elise is up by the bar, a flash of red and blond, and I duck past a group of drunken frat-boy guys, yelling along with the music.
Her back is turned when I reach her. “I told you, it was just a one-time thing,” she’s saying. She shifts, and I see the guy beside her: Niklas.
“Everything good?” I ask, positioning myself between them.
“Just peachy,” Elise says, and nods, but I see the relief in her smile.
“The lovely Anna,” Niklas drawls. He grabs my hand, kissing it before I can pull away.
“Let me buy you ladies a drink.”
“I’m good, thanks,” I reply, but Elise beams.
“A margarita for me.”
As Niklas turns to order from the dreadlocked bartender, I lean in closer to Elise. “I thought he creeped you out,” I murmur.
She laughs back. “Doesn’t mean I can’t take his drinks. What did Mel want, anyway? Don’t tell me she was calling in a Missing Persons because we were gone five minutes.”
I sigh. “She freaked out, it was a whole thing. I’ll tell you later.” I glance around. “You seen Tate anywhere?”
“Yeah, I think he was fucking some tourist up against the bathroom wall.”
“Elise!”
“What?” She grins. “I’m just messing with you. I’m sure he’s sitting quietly in a corner, gazing at photos of you.”
I shove her lightly. “Don’t say shit like that, okay?”
“Why? Worried Prince Charming’s going to run around on you?” Elise’s tone is light, but I swear I see something flicker in her expression. Or maybe that’s just the five shots still spinning in my system, and the crash of the electronic dance beats. I shake my doubts away.
“No, of course not. I trust him,” I reply forcefully, but I can’t help adding, “He knows it would break my heart.”
Elise doesn’t flinch, just pulls me into a hug. “And then I would have to break his skull.” She laughs.
I rest my cheek against her hair for a moment, calmed. Behind her back, Niklas is claiming a margarita from the bartender, a vast, frothy concoction with fruit and a tiny umbrella balanced on the lip of the glass. I smile to myself for a moment—for all her bad-girl posturing, Elise will always choose the fruity, girly drink over a straight whiskey shooter—and then I catch a glimpse of something, out of the corner of my tired eyes. Niklas’s hand, passing over the drink. A flash of reflection, as if from glass, or a vial. And then it’s gone, back in his pocket again, and he’s turning to hand Elise the drink with a bland smile.
“Ready to get this party started for real?” he asks.
Elise takes the glass and raises it to her lips.
THE TRIAL
“So you saw the victim at the bar, the night before she was killed, isn’t that right, Mr. van Oaten? Before the group left, around two a.m.?”
“Yes.”
“What was the nature of your interaction?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What did you do?” Gates clarifies, pacing in front of the witness stand. “You fought, did you not?”
“No.” Niklas slouches back, his arms folded. He looks utterly at ease, as if he’s relaxing in front of the TV, not in the middle of a tense and crowded courtroom.
“No?” Gates repeats. “But we have statements from several people at the club; they all say you fought with Miss Warren. In fact, she threw a drink over you.”
Niklas smirks. “It was nothing. A lovers’ quarrel.”
He looks for me across the courtroom, and meets my eyes with that same smug, chilling smile I saw through the barbed wire of the prison fence.
<
br /> I shiver.
The trial is winding down now. Dekker’s prosecution case went on for weeks, but now that it’s the defense’s turn, the list of people appearing on my behalf is painfully short. Gates has done what he could: attacking the flaws in Dekker’s case any way he can. He sent a parade of forensics experts up on the stand, arguing everything from how the time of death was wide open to how the crime scene was contaminated and the blood spatter suggests someone taller and larger dealt the fatal wounds.
But our strongest hope has always been Niklas. With Juan still vanished into thin air, Nik was the only suspect we can put up there on the stand, to show how he makes more sense as the killer: how he had motive, and opportunity, and practice climbing up to Elise’s balcony. All through the trial, I’ve been holding on to this brief shard of hope—that once they see him, sneering and slouching, cavalier in the face of Elise’s brutal death—the judge would have no option but to think twice about my guilt.
I sit forward in my seat, willing Niklas’s mask to slip, for some incriminating words to slip out.
“So, the night before the victim’s murder, you fought—wait, I’m sorry, you quarreled with her.” Gates layers on the sarcasm. “Why?”
Niklas shrugs, nonchalant. “She was jealous, of my . . . attention. You know how girls are.” He flashes a conspiratorial look at the judge. She glares back, unmoved.
“She wasn’t angry because you attempted to spike her drink with liquid Ecstasy?” Gates demands. Niklas snaps his head back around.
“What? No.” His face darkens. “Who said that?”
“Again, we have statements from several witnesses at the club—”
“Objection!” Dekker rises. “The witnesses say Miss Chevalier accused Mr. van Oaten of spiking the drink. We have no evidence that any drugs were actually—”
“Withdrawn.” Gates sighs.
I knew this would happen, but I still dig my nails into my palm with frustration. They warned me that without chemical tests, and drink samples, it was my word against his that Niklas even spiked the drink at all.
As if reading my mind, Niklas gives me another look, this one dark and full of loathing.
“So, Mr. van Oaten,” Gates continues, “You didn’t attempt to drug the victim that night?”
“No.” Niklas keeps his gaze fixed on me, furious.
“Have you ever taken liquid Ecstasy?” Gates presses.
“No.”
“Never? Interesting. But did you know that it’s a drug most commonly used by date rapists—”
“Objection!” Dekker flies to his feet.
The judge nods. “Sustained.”
Gates walks back to our table and leafs through some papers, regrouping. “He’s lying,” I whisper frantically, but Gates just shakes his head at me and gestures to me to keep quiet.
“The victim rejected your advances that night, isn’t that true?” Gates returns to the stand. “She insulted you, publicly, made a laughingstock of you, in fact?”
Niklas shrugs again. “It was nothing.”
“You weren’t hurt, or angry at all?” Gates asks. “A pretty girl, making fun of you, in front of your friends . . .”
“I didn’t care what she thought.” Niklas is relaxed again, his mask back in place.
“Why not?”
“Would you care what a dog thought? A roach?” Niklas smirks. “She was just some American slut.”
There’s an audible intake of breath in the courtroom, and even the judge’s mouth drops open a little. I can picture Judy and Charles behind me, listening to this, but as much as my heart breaks for them, I feel hope rise again in my chest. This is what we need.
“You didn’t value her opinion,” Gates muses. “What about her consent?”
“Objection!” Dekker leaps up again before Niklas can reply. “There is no evidence that Mr. van Oaten made any attempt to rape the victim. In fact, we’ve heard testimony that their encounters were entirely consensual.”
Gates steps up too. “Miss Chevalier has testified that the victim was increasingly uncomfortable with Mr. van Oaten’s sexual fetishes—”
“Yes, well she would say that,” Dekker interrupts with a snort. “I urge Your Honor, please stop the defense’s smearing Mr. van Oaten’s good name. These are not allegations to be taken lightly.”
“Yes, yes.” Judge von Koppel stops him, then pauses for a long moment. I wait, clutching the table in front of me, silently urging her to let Gates keep going. All the things Elise said about Niklas being weird in bed—dominating, wanting to make her beg—it would fit with the murder. We just have to push him far enough.
After thinking, Judge von Koppel sighs. “I’m afraid I have to agree with the prosecution on this. It’s hearsay. We have nothing except the defendant’s testimony regarding Miss Warren’s feelings. Please move on.”
My heart falls. Stop! I want to cry out. He needs to answer this. You have to see! But Gates just checks his notes again, figuring out another move.
“Where were you, the afternoon of the murder?” Gates asks, but I already know it’s over. We’ll get nothing from him, not when he’s lying like this.
“At home,” Niklas drawls. “With my father.”
“The whole afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing?”
Niklas shrugs. “I don’t remember.”
“But you remember that you were home? The whole afternoon?”
“Sure.”
“Is there anything that can verify your story?” Gates presses. “Security records, perhaps. You live on a large estate—I assume there are security cameras and alarms posted.”
Niklas lifts his body forward toward the mike as if it’s a great effort. “The system was down.”
“Down?” Gates repeats. “For how long?”
Niklas shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“So you have no way of proving—”
“Objection!” Dekker rolls his eyes this time. “The witness has accounted for his whereabouts the afternoon in question. We have statements from him and his father.”
The judge surveys Gates over her glasses. “I agree, we should move on. Do you have anything else to ask?”
Gates pauses for a moment, but there’s no delaying the inevitable. “No. No further questions.”
The judge bangs her gavel, calling a short recess. Disappointment crashes through me. After everything, I thought Niklas was the key—that once he was up there on the stand, it would all come out. The drugs, the balcony, the fight. Surely they would have to see how crazy he is. How dangerous.
I was naive to believe it would make a difference at all.
The crowded courtroom disperses briefly in a wave of chatter and conversation. Gates takes a seat beside me at the table, staring blankly at his notes. “That’s it?” I exclaim, fighting to keep my voice low. “Their security cameras conveniently go down the afternoon she’s murdered, and he’s still not a suspect? He could have done it!” My voice breaks with frustration.
“His father gave him an alibi.” Gates shrugs, helpless.
“He could be lying to protect him!”
“Even if that’s true, there’s nothing we can do. Niklas’s father is a respected man; he has interests in shipping, and hotels, and—”
“Owns half the island,” I finish, sitting down with a thump. “I know.”
I look around, watching Niklas saunter from the witness stand. He flutters me a wave as he passes, and then heads on back to meet his father: a large blond man in a designer suit, flanked by other lawyers. They smile and nod, clearly pleased with Niklas’s testimony.
His lies.
“This is how it works, isn’t it?” I murmur softly, seeing it all play out so clearly now. For weeks, I’ve had my faith in justice chipped steadily away with every one of Dekker’s half-truths and sneering implications, but now, the last fragile pieces crumble into nothing. This is a sham, all of it.
“Niklas, and Tate—they�
�ve got money, they can buy their way out of anything.” I realize. “Say what they like, just to protect themselves. And here I am . . .” I trail off, thinking of my one lawyer compared to their dozens; dad’s company, sinking under the weight of my fees and expenses; the extra mortgage on the house, and all the fresh worry lines on my dad’s face. “It’s no contest, is it?”
Gates doesn’t reply, he just takes off his spectacles and polishes them on his tie, exhaling slowly.
That’s when I know—it’s over.
I swallow back a sudden rush of tears. It’s not his fault. He’s done what he can, but sometimes, David doesn’t beat Goliath—not when they’ve got an army at their disposal.
A noise comes from the back of the courtroom. We turn.
It’s Lee, pushing through the crowd, flustered but determined. His shirt is rumpled, and he looks as if he hasn’t slept in a week. He hasn’t been in court the last few days, but I figured it was just too much for him—the memories of his sister’s trial.
“I’ve got it!” he announces, arriving at our table.
“Got what?” I ask, confused, but Lee doesn’t answer me—he’s passing a slim memory drive case to Gates, carefully, like a treasure.
“It’s all there, just like Carlsson said.” Lee catches his breath, running one hand through his hair. “Just play the files. The first one’s the official cut, then the full clip.”
Gates grasps the memory drive, and slaps Lee on the back. “You did it,” he smiles, as if he can’t believe it.
Lee gives nod. “Time to nail the bastard.”
“Someone tell me what’s going on?” I ask again. My heart is already beating faster—their energy infectious even though I still have no idea what’s caused this change. “Is there new evidence? What’s happened?”
Lee turns, giving me a happy grin, just as the judge returns to the room and people begin taking their seats again. “Something good,” he promises as von Koppel bangs her gavel for quiet. “It’s the break we’ve been looking for.”