“It was a simple question.” He scribbles more notes, and I want to rip that pen from his hand and stab him in the neck with it. Dammit, I feel unhinged.
“I was at home,” I lie. Then, I add, “I don’t have my own car. I have to borrow my mom’s if I want to drive. Which never happens. You can ask her.”
“I will.” Scribble, scribble, scribble. “Have you been drinking?”
“Mimosas. We’re allowed to.”
“More than the mimosas? I smell whiskey on your breath.” Elliot’s flask. Crap. I forgot about that.
“I had extra Champagne.”
“The bottle we found by Rebecca’s body?”
I don’t know if the temperature has dropped or if my blood is running cold, but goosebumps erupt along my arms. The detective notices. “Yes, but I promise you no one was dead when I was drinking it. Is that the murder weapon?” It sounds like I’m playing a game of Clue.
Again he doesn’t address this question, but asks, “Were you alone?”
I don’t think to lie here. Elliot’s sister means nothing to me. “I was drinking with Piper MacIver. Ask her.”
“I will,” he repeats. A cop’s catchphrase.
“How much do you weigh, Miss Longview?”
I’m caught off guard by this question, until I remember the bruises near her neck. Is he thinking I tackled her? Crushed her windpipe? Could I physically even do that alone?
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe a hundred and thirty.” How much did Rebecca weigh? A hundred pounds soaking wet?
My mother finally returns with water. A straw with her lipstick stain pokes out from the sweaty glass. I glower at her.
The detective rises from the table and tells me, “I’d prefer you stay here with your mother. I don’t want you talking to your classmates either.”
Rowell’s worried the clique and I will try to get our stories straight, but no one is seeking my allegiance. I scoff. “Don't worry.”
My mother sits down and clucks her tongue. “Poor Ellen. She's a wreck.”
“Her daughter's dead,” I say.
“I know. I feel awful.” But, she’s smiling.
Time moves like a glacier, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to lose my shit if I have to sit here next to my mother for one more second. I get up from the table and my dress sticks to the back of my thighs. My mother sees the dirty hem and gasps.
“You've ruined your dress,” she says as if that's the biggest problem we’ve encountered today. “Where are you going? The detective said—”
“To the bathroom, okay? The cop can’t keep me from using the toilet.”
My mother cringes, but I can’t be bothered to temper myself for her benefit. I leave her sitting alone at the table and make my way across the lawn and into the house.
Mrs. Green must be upstairs, tranquilized, because I don’t hear her crying anymore. Even though Rebecca was a pretty awful excuse for a human being, I can’t imagine how her mother will ever live normally without being comatose, drunk, or drugged all the time. That’s probably how I would handle the situation if I were in her shoes.
There’s a bathroom in the guest quarters on the first floor. I only know about it because that’s where Elliot and I used to find each other during Rebecca’s parties. I push open the bedroom door, half-expecting to find Elliot in his jeans, his thin flannel shirt already unbuttoned. But the room is devoid of people.
I slip into the bathroom, a space so large my parents’ master bedroom could fit inside it twice over. I sit on the edge of the clawfoot tub and run my hands through my hair, which is stringy and knotty, thanks to both Elliot and the raging humidity. I’m wondering how long I can hide out in here before the detective grills me again for hating a dead girl, when a gentle knock raps on the door. Apparently, not long.
“Just a minute.” My voice cracks.
“It’s me," Elliot says. “Let me in.”
I debate whether to open the door.
He turns the knob, but it’s locked. “Come on, Longview.”
I hate when he calls me by my last name as if I’m one of his lacrosse buddies. But I sigh and let him inside. His dark hair is more mussed than it had been when we were fooling around in the woods. He smells like whiskey, too. I wonder if Detective Rowell interrogated him on how much he had to drink.
Elliot cups his hands on my waist and presses me against the double vanity. Smooth cool marble grazes my lower back. He nuzzles my throat. “You didn’t tell the detective about us, did you?”
I want to push him off me, but he feels too good. "No, asshole."
He laughs, but it sounds like a sigh of relief. I don’t believe Elliot worries about the humiliation he might endure if people found out about us. If his friends knew we were screwing, they’d berate him mercilessly, say something about slumming it, but then they’d probably congratulate him on all the sex he was having. Unlike me who would be slut-shamed until graduation. If anything, I have more to lose.
No, Elliot is an adrenaline junkie. He gets off as much on the clandestine nature of our whatever-you-call-this-thing-we-do as he does on the actual sex. It’s not about me. Probably never was. Because if isn’t me, it will be some other girl like me. I’m not naive. I’m just enjoying this while it lasts. I suppose I’m an adrenaline junkie, too.
Should I worry that he doesn’t seem remotely upset that his girlfriend was found dead today?
I remember Rebecca’s words, something about an announcement. I push him off me. “Did Rebecca know about us?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he says, but I hear the doubt in his voice.
“What would she have done if she’d found out?” I don’t admit that I've been wondering this for a long time. That I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop for ages. That had Rebecca not been murdered, perhaps I would’ve been the one splayed cold on the ground.
Elliot cocks his brow. “You’re kidding, right?” When I don’t respond, he says, “I don't know.”
“Would she tell everyone?”
Elliot sighs and rakes his hands through his hair. He checks himself out in the mirror. “I would guess not.”
He doesn't elaborate, but I can fill in the blank. To admit that Elliot is into me would be Rebecca's ultimate humiliation. She’d sooner die than let that happen.
And then the air goes out of me.
She’d sooner die. Maybe, she’d sooner kill. Did someone find out about Elliot and me and tell her? Did she get mad? Did she attack them? Did they strangle her in self-defense?
I ball Elliot’s dress shirt in my fists and yank him close. His pupils go wide; he’s turned on, but I’m not playing. “Who does know about us?”
He covers my hands with his own and untangles my fingers from his shirt. “No one.” His voice is quiet, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s lying.
“Bullshit.” I have no friends to confide in, but Elliot does. “Who did you tell?”
Elliot has pushed my arms to my side and we’re still pressed together. “My sister.”
“Why?” My throat feels like I inhaled sand at the beach.
“We were trading secrets,” he says, as if that’s an explanation.
“What's Piper's secret?”
“I can't tell you or she’ll spill mine. Ours. That was our deal.”
“I didn't make that deal.”
“You made a deal with me when we started this.” His voice hitches.
“The detective is questioning me like I killed Rebecca.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Obviously.” Another thought comes to me. One that makes me feel like my heart’s been pierced by an arrow. “Are you screwing Ashley, too?”
Elliot gapes at me like I just asked him if he’s part mermaid. “No.”
I’m not sure whether to believe him. Ashley clearly has the hots for Elliot, and Elliot has shown he would screw just about anyone. If they were banging, then Rebecca could’ve attacke
d Ashley. Maybe, Ashley killed her.
Or…
“Maybe Rebecca knew Piper's secret,” I say.
“She didn’t,” he says, but doubt etches his features. Maybe all that time spent with me has removed him from his inner circle. Maybe, Elliot’s friends have pushed him out so slowly, he hasn’t even noticed.
I turn on the faucet, and wait for the water to run ice cold. Then I cup my hand and scoop water into my mouth. I can’t drink enough. I wipe my face on the Greens’ expensive cotton towels. My hands tremble when I stand up. Elliot turns off the tap for me. “I’ve never slept with Ashley.” He reaches for my chin, but then we hear voices outside, and he freezes.
He puts his finger to his lips as if I need the reminder to be quiet.
Speak of the devil, I hear Ashley’s voice first. It’s deep and she has a weird lilt to her accent, the product of a British mother. “The detective asked me about Becca's bonfire party. He wanted to know who was there.”
I mouth ‘what party’ to Elliot and he cocks both his brows and shrugs.
Another voice chimes in. Softer. Lighter. A little girl’s voice. Jenna Dunn. “Maybe whoever was at that party killed Rebecca.” She sounds like a five-year-old when she speaks, even if she is making an interesting connection.
“Doubtful,” Ashley says. “Hunter says Rebecca was going to expose Carrie.”
“Expose her for what?”
“My guess—running over Teddy. Carrie definitely wasn’t at the party, and Rebecca always said she was a liar. She probably did it.”
My blood flows like lava.
“Don’t you think it’s weird Elliot wasn’t there either?” Jenna says.
Shit. That was the same night Elliot was with me. We drank some of his whiskey, fooled around in the camper, and then I asked Elliot if he was okay to drive. And I let him go. What if he…?
I’m watching his face now. The way he draws in his eyebrows and bites the corner of his bottom lip makes me question his innocence.
“Bitch,” Elliot says with venom, and I wonder if he’s referring to Ashley, Jenna, or Rebecca.
Ashley gasps and knocks quietly on the door. “Is someone in there?”
Fuckity, fuck, fuck. Elliot squeezes his eyes shut as if he can just will her to go away. I tuck myself behind the door so that when Elliot opens it, Ashley can’t see me unless she ventures all the way inside.
It works.
“Hey,” Elliot says. “Didn’t think anyone would—”
Ashley pulls Elliot into a hug, right on the threshold of the bathroom. “Shhhh. You poor guy.” He stiffens and I’m convinced he was telling the truth. He is not sleeping with her, and yet, the way she presses her breasts into him like that, I am convinced that she wants him. But would she kill Rebecca to get him, and then blame me for it?
She would.
I'm holding my breath, but the minute Ashley asks in her coquettish voice if there is anything she can do to make him feel better, vomit surges in my stomach like a ship in a storm. When I can’t keep my anger down, sometimes I understand how people can take a life.
Elliot peels Ashley’s arms off his shoulders and steps into the guest room, his feet inching to the carpet, giving me a little breathing room. I hear him say, “There was a bonfire?”
Ashley laughs weakly. “Uh, it wasn’t a big thing, really. A girl gathering. Me, Jenna, Melissa, Piper.”
“But Hunter came.”
Probably in more ways than one.
“Yeah. It was last minute. He has the fake ID…” She sounds admonishing, like she’s trying to throw Rebecca under the bus. Then she adds, “Rebecca must’ve invited him.” There. That. A twist of the knife.
“Excuse me,” Elliot says, his voice tight. He storms out of the room. I know this, even if I can’t see it, because Ashley pouts and says, “Where the hell is he going?”
But I know where. He’s going to confront Hunter.
I have to wait for Ashley and Jenna to leave the guest bedroom before I can hurry after Elliot, but by this point, I’ve lost sight of him. I slip down the hallway, hugging the walls so as not to run into a cop or a party guest who will tattle on me for being in the house.
If I go straight, I’ll head into the kitchen where a crowd of anxious mothers huddle, begging the uniformed cops to let them go home with their kids. If I head back the way I came, I might be able to sneak into the garage and out through the side door. I select Option B.
The garage is Mr. Green’s refuge where he parks his restored, classic cars. Rebecca once told me that the cars were the only thing he ever valued, which was why she and I had sneaked into the garage and keyed the ’57 cherry red Chrysler one night a few years ago when Rebecca was supposedly sleeping over my house. We’d set that plan into motion so she’d have an alibi. But ever since then, Mr. Green keeps the garage locked, although he hides the key on top of the door moulding. If I reach on my tiptoes, I can snag it down, unlock the door, and slip inside.
I creep into the garage, which is like no garage ever. For one thing, it’s pristine. The cement floor gleams under polish, and it’s empty of power tools and lawnmowers, unlike my parents’ garage, brimming with an old, dusty workbench, rags, overflowing recycling bins, and various nuts and screws.
I glimpse the side door, eager to make my escape, until I remember where Mr. Green keeps his secret cigarette stash. There’s a garden hose coiled like a cobra in the far back. I stick my hand inside and pull out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. Don’t mind if I do. I clutch both in my fist and exit out the side door.
When I emerge into a small yard, hushed whispers drift from the party, but I'm far enough away that no one will find me. I tap a cigarette out of the pack and press it between my lips to settle my nerves. It doesn’t work. I think of Elliot’s smug face when I exhale a smoke ring. I think of Rebecca’s cold and lifeless outstretched hand.
I hear a noise, like someone fretting, beyond the line of cypress trees. I stub out the cigarette on the house’s brick exterior and creep to the trees. Peeking in between the green, spiny leaves, I see Piper MacIver pacing back and forth. Soon Hunter shows up, his hands deep inside his pockets. He pushes his long, brown hair out of his face. He seems annoyed as if Piper summoning him is an inconvenience to whatever shit he planned on doing while being forcibly detained at a party by detectives solving his friend’s murder.
Hunter says, “What do you want?” A lot of girls at my school love Hunter. He’s got that devil-may-care attitude in that he doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. Apparently for lots of girls, it’s sexy. Although, aren’t I the hypocrite? I’m not exactly the best judge of character where Elliot is concerned.
Hunter takes his hands out of his pockets and says, “Make this quick. The detective is about to grill me next.”
If Hunter hasn’t been interviewed yet, then he probably didn’t tell the cops about me. So who did?
Piper tugs on Hunter’s sleeve. It’s an intimate gesture, and I’m not sure how to read it. “Tell the police you were with Elliot,” she says.
That pisses me off. I knew Elliot wouldn’t confess he was with me when Rebecca died, but hearing Piper try to cement that makes me want to hurl a rock at her face. Better yet, his face. Now, even if I do tell the truth, I’ll look like the liar everyone thinks I am.
Hunter peers at Piper as if trying to figure out her angle. “Your brother already used you as an alibi.”
“Are you kidding me?” She yanks on her dark hair. “Dammit.”
“What's your problem?"
“Nothing, I just can’t be his alibi.”
“Do you have an alibi?” He stares at her in that way I’ve seen him look at girls before. Like he can eat them alive if he wants. I always thought Hunter had a thing for Piper, but she was smart enough to blow him off. But, now, I’m not sure. Some say Hunter goes through girls because he can’t be with the one girl he truly likes. Who knows? I can’t imagine Hunter loving anyone but himself.
“Of cou
rse,” she says. And then he clarifies, “That’s not what I meant.”
She shakes her head. “Where were you when all this went down?” Something in her expression makes me think she knows. She knows what Hunter was doing, who he was with.
He snatches back his arm and hisses something, something so quiet I almost don't catch it, until I do. He says, “I was with Ashley.”
Piper takes a step back. “I thought you and Rebecca were friends with benefits.”
Hunter shrugs. “We were.”
“Nice way to treat my brother.”
He adjusts the cuffs on his dress shirt. “Like you give a shit. Besides, he's banging Longview.”
Piper’s brows shoot up. I stifle my gasp.
“You didn't know?”
“I knew,” she says. “I can’t believe you kept it a secret.”
“I can keep secrets, although I wasn't planning on keeping this one for long. I can’t wait to see Rebecca’s—” He stops, catching himself using the present tense.
Piper’s mouth turns up at the corners. “Did Rebecca ever find out you were banging Ashley, too?”
Hunter scoffs. “Yes, which is why she ended it. But she wasn’t exactly supposed to be screwing me either.”
“Rebecca was a jealous bitch.” Piper shakes her head. “Everyone fucking everyone. It’s so gross. No one cares about anybody.”
“You're one to talk.”
“I'm not the one sleeping with two girls.”
“No, just the one.” Hunter sneers, and Piper steps back like she’s been slapped in the face.
So, that’s Piper’s secret.
“You don't know what you're talking about,” she says unconvincingly.
“Try me.” Hunter purses his lips as if welcoming the dare. Then his voice changes, becomes softer, sadder. “You’re not worthy of her.” There's a breath of silence before he laughs, mostly to himself, and saunters off to the backyard, back the way he came. Presumably to talk to the police since he’s next on the list.
Mean Streaks Page 6