by Abigail Haas
Elise gives me a dubious look. “You don’t have it in you.”
“Want to bet?”
“You’ll lose.” She squeezes my hand, watching him on the field. “I’ll take care of it. He gives you any grief, he’ll have me to deal with.”
The fierce note in her voice warms me, deep in my chest. I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. “Love you.”
“Miles and miles.”
“Always.”
SECOND INTERROGATION
DEKKER: We ran fingerprints on the knife. Yours were on it, Mr. Dempsey’s, too. How do you explain that?
ANNA: I . . . I don’t know. It was from the kitchen, I mean, I used it before.
DEKKER: When?
ANNA: The night before, maybe? We made guacamole. I helped Max, chopping stuff.
DEKKER: And Mr. Dempsey?
ANNA: Yes. Him too.
DEKKER: Why are you lying to me?
ANNA: I’m not, I promise.
DEKKER: And the day of the murder, you didn’t leave each other’s side.
ANNA: No, not all afternoon.
DEKKER: And you didn’t go back to the house?
ANNA: I told you, no.
DEKKER: How long have you been involved with Mr. Dempsey?
ANNA: Since last summer. Nearly seven months.
DEKKER: And you love him.
ANNA: Yes.
DEKKER: And Miss Warren?
ANNA: What do you mean?
DEKKER: You love her also?
ANNA: I . . . Yes. She’s my best friend.
DEKKER: And the three of you, you spent much time together.
ANNA: Sure. I mean, we all did. The whole group.
DEKKER: But you and Mr. Dempsey and Miss Warren in particular.
ANNA: I don’t know.
DEKKER: Your friends have said the three of you would often go off on your own.
ANNA: I guess. I mean, we would hang out together, that’s just how it was. I don’t understand, what’s this all about?
DEKKER: I’m just getting an idea of your friendship, that’s all.
ANNA: But what does this have to do with her death? You’re not asking the right questions! What about that guy hanging around, and Niklas?
DEKKER: I’ll be the one to judge what’s important. Now, back to your friendship with Miss Warren. Did you fight?
ANNA: No.
DEKKER: Not ever? Surely there were arguments, misunderstandings.
ANNA: No, we never fought. She’s like a sister to me. Was.
DEKKER: So you weren’t jealous of her?
ANNA: What? No.
DEKKER: Miss Chang said the two of you fought often.
ANNA: Not real fights. We bickered.
DEKKER: So you did argue.
ANNA: You’re twisting my words. It wasn’t like . . . It was stupid stuff. She borrowed my shirt, I forgot to return her iPod. It wasn’t real. We didn’t get angry.
DEKKER: And Mr. Dempsey. How would you characterize his relationship with Miss Warren?
ANNA: They didn’t have one. I mean, they were friends. We all were.
DEKKER: There was no tension there?
ANNA: What do you mean?
DEKKER: Well, you and she were close, the best of friends. Then you started dating him. Surely that would lead to friction.
ANNA: No, there wasn’t any. We all got along great.
DEKKER: So she didn’t resent Mr. Dempsey for taking you away from her?
ANNA: No. I don’t know where . . . I don’t know where you’re getting all of this, but it’s not true. Elise wasn’t jealous; she dated guys too. Tons of guys. She was hooking up with that boy Niklas, right before . . . I told you about it. Have you talked to him yet? Where was he that night?
DEKKER: I’m the one asking questions, Miss Chevalier.
ANNA: But I don’t understand, this is all bullshit!
ELLINGHAM: Calm down, please—
ANNA: How can you say that? She’s dead, and we’re just sitting here, going over the same fucking things again and again and again. What about the guy who did this? Why aren’t you going after him?
(pause)
DEKKER: Are you quite finished?
(pause)
DEKKER: Miss Chevalier? Mr. Ellingham, could you please remind your client that it’s in her interest to cooperate fully with questioning?
ELLINGHAM: Anna . . .
ANNA: I’m fine. Whatever. What else do you want to know?
DEKKER: The first day, when you arrived on the island . . .
ANNA: I told you that already.
DEKKER: So tell me again.
VACATION
“Check out the view!” Max whistles as he drops his bag on the polished tile floor, taking in the beach and deep azure ocean beyond. I catch my breath, following his gaze. The scene through the beach house windows is so perfect, it’s like something from a postcard, like there should be Welcome to Aruba scribbled in the sky above the gently nodding palm tree.
“Never mind the views: hot tub!” Chelsea whoops. She pulls the balcony door open and steps onto the deck, kicking her flip-flops aside. The breeze slips into the room, cool and welcome after the long flight and perilous ride from the airport; the eight of us crammed into a rickety old van with our luggage strapped to the roof.
I exhale, my carsickness easing now that I’m safe on solid ground. And not just any ground, but gleaming tile, spread with brightly woven mats. The house is modern, set like interlinked boxes above the sand, with cool white walls and colorful abstract art. The main living space is open: huge windows along the length of the room looking out on the deck and ocean view, with a kitchen area in dark marble and plush couches set up around a vast flat-screen TV.
“This place is amazing.” I tell AK, drinking it in as the others fan out to explore. “How long have you had it?”
“A couple of years.” AK shrugs, nonchalant, but I can see the excited glint in his smile. “Dad got it as some tax-write-off thing; he hardly ever comes out here.”
“Well, you’re a genius.” I hug him. Elise joins me, kissing his cheek on the other side. She’s already stripped down to a bikini top and her cutoffs, shoes kicked aside the moment we stepped in the door.
“Legendary,” she agrees. “Now, where do you keep the booze?”
There’s a chorus of cheers from Lamar and Max as they sprawl on the couches, but Tate pauses. “Isn’t it kind of early?” he asks halfheartedly. Elise rolls her eyes in response.
“What are you, our chaperone? Maybe we should just call you Daddy.” She pokes his chest with her index finger. Tate swats her away.
“I’m just saying, we can take it easy. You don’t need to be hungover all week.”
“Moi?” Elise bats her eyelashes in exaggerated innocence, “I can hold my liquor just fine, Daddy. You’re the one who gets sloppy. Or don’t you remember Jordan’s party last month?” She gives him a pointed smile.
“Hey,” I interrupt. “Less talking, more drinking.”
Melanie leaps up. “I’ll help,” she says brightly. “What does everyone want? Beer or cocktails?”
“Before you get too excited, check the kitchen,” AK warns. He’s got his cell phone up, recording a slow sweep around the room. “The maid will buy stuff for us if we give her a list, but I’m not sure what there is.”
Elise makes beeline for the kitchen. Melanie follows, opening the huge fridge and checking cabinets and drawers.
Tate collapses on the couch beside me. I put my bare feet in his lap and snuggle closer. “I didn’t know you got wasted at Jordan’s. Was that why your parents flipped?”
Tate shrugs. “I guess. It was nothing. You were there.”
“No, I had that flu thing,” I remind him.
He looks away. “I don’t remember. Elise is just pushing, that’s all.”
I drop it. Tate’s parents found an empty stash of bottles when they got back from a weekend in New York last month, and even though Tate swore he’d barely touched them
, he told me about the massive lecture they dispensed on responsibility, and choice and consequence. Whatever they said, it was enough to make him cut down. Senior year is halfway over, college acceptance on the horizon—he’s been wound so tight for weeks, I can understand why he doesn’t want to mess anything up, not so close to the finish line.
“Try to relax this week,” I say, and kiss his neck, following the line from his jaw to his collarbone. “You’ve been too stressed.”
He gives me a halfhearted smile. “I know. Sorry.”
“It’s not a crime.” I lace my fingers through his. “I just want us to have fun, that’s all.”
“Fun, I can do.” He leans over and kisses me, light and true. I reach up to stroke his hair, and the kiss deepens, lasting—
“Get a room!” A cushion hits us square in the face. Tate pulls back, then hurls the cushion back at Max. He grabs another two and flings them back at us. I duck, my arms up to deflect the barrage, but I’m laughing all the same. There’s a buzz of excitement in all of us, I can tell, despite the long trip; the prospect of a whole week away from reality finally sinking in, after all our planning and prep back home.
“Speaking of sleeping arrangements . . .” Chelsea comes back inside, her hair down and already tangled in the breeze. “What is the bedroom situation, anyway?”
“There are five rooms,” AK replies, snapping a photo of her on his phone. “So do whatever.”
“I call the big one, with the balcony!” Elise calls from the kitchen. “I’m not dragging my shit up those stairs.”
Melanie’s voice follows, a whine. “But I thought we were going to share.”
“Yeah, no,” Elise saunters back over to the living area. “I’m going to have fun this week.”
“Slut!” Max hollers.
“Fuck yeah!” Elise strikes a pose. I laugh, tossing one of the stray pillows at her.
“We’re in the one by the front door.” Tate looks to me for confirmation. “I already left my stuff.”
“Fine with me.” I pull myself to my feet, and grab my case. “I need to go change. I feel like I’ve got airport all over me.”
“Then we need to go shopping,” Elise declares. “There’s nothing here.”
“But the fridge is full.” Melanie frowns.
“Yes, with fruit, and salad.” Elise wrinkles her lip. “We need limes, mixers, mint for mojitos . . .”
“Chips,” Lamar adds.
“Ice cream,” Chelsea agrees, resting her hands on his shoulders.
“Beer!” AK adds.
I leave them planning our grocery list, and drag my suitcase back down the hall to the room Tate mentioned, by the front door. I push the door open and smile: There are two bedrooms on this level, and another three upstairs. Those have another deck and even better views, but this one is private, with its own bathroom and nobody next door to hear anything through the walls.
I stash my case by the closet and step into the green-tiled bathroom, already set with fluffy towels and a cabinet full of shower gels and shampoos like some fancy hotel. Not that I’d expect anything less from AK’s family. His dad struck it rich in the tech boom and has a thing for shiny toys: AK always has the newest phones and laptops before they hit the market, and a garage of five different sports cars to choose from. Some of the other parents look at them sideways during school events, but if Mr. Kundra notices, he doesn’t let on, strolling around with his designer suits and ten-thousand-dollar watches, a chauffeur waiting at the curb.
I pause for a moment, thinking about my dad, and the hushed phone conversations and late hours he’s been working recently. Some nights, he’s not back from the office until after midnight, looking worn-out and pale, but whenever I ask, he waves away my concern with excuses about tax season and demanding clients. I want to believe him, but even I can’t help but pick up the murmurs from everyone’s parents, muttering darkly about the economy, and how everyone is cutting back.
But this is my vacation from all of that. I shake off the worry and turn on the multijet shower, stripping off my jeans. I’ve got my shirt halfway over my head when I hear Tate in the bedroom. “Hey, do you still have my necklace?” I call. “The one I forgot to take off through security? I think I put it in your bag, the front pocket.”
Hands close around my waist, cool, and I squeal, whipping my head around. It’s Elise.
“You scared me!”
“Shouldn’t leave the door open,” she teases, hugging me tight from behind. “Anyone could walk in.”
“Most people knock,” I point out, but I’m smiling. My eyes meet hers in the mirror, our expressions full of delight. “Pretty sweet setup, don’t you think?”
“Fancy,” she agrees, kissing my shoulder. “You feeling better?”
“Miles and miles.” I agree, and it’s true. The stress of Boston and my dad and school is suddenly a world away, dissolving into the bright, clear sunshine that’s spilling all around us, warm tiles against our bare feet. “You were right about this place.” I hug her back. “And Tate seems better too.”
“You didn’t say he was down. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, everything.” I sigh. “School, family, the usual. But it’s fine now. We just needed to get away.”
“Told you.” Elise lets me go. “You better get moving! We’re heading to the market in ten.”
“Yes sir.” I mock-salute. She slaps me on the ass and exits before I can protest, leaving me alone with my steamy-edged reflection in the mirror. I take in the sight of my own smile—relaxed and happy—and vow not to give another thought to my dad. For the next seven days, life in Boston doesn’t exist. The real world can wait.
• • •
We load up at the local market, piling snack foods and beer high on the tiny cart as if we’re shopping for a month, not just a week. The checkout girl doesn’t even ask for IDs, just swipes through the mountain of alcohol like it’s soda.
“It’s so weird we’re legal here,” Melanie glances back behind us as we emerge from the convenience store onto the bustling street. “The whole time she was ringing us up, I kept feeling like we’re breaking the law.”
“I don’t know why it’s such a big deal back home.” Chelsea sucks on a Popsicle. “When we went to Europe, kids were drinking wine with their meals all the time.”
“Ooh,” I tease. “Look at you, so continental.”
Elise joins me, mimicking, “That time we were in Paris . . . Oh, did I tell you about when we went to Rome?”
Chelsea shoves Elise good-naturedly. “Shut up, you know what I mean.”
“Hey, you girls want to give us a hand with this?”
We turn back to find the guys struggling to manage our huge stash of groceries.
“No thanks,” Elise calls back sunnily. “I’m sure you big, strong men can handle it for yourselves.”
Max replies with an obscene hand gesture.
We leave them and stroll on ahead back toward the beach house. This section of the street is narrow and noisy, packed with garish storefronts advertising local handcrafts, cheap phone cards, and tacky gifts. Some local traders have market stalls set up along the sidewalk, selling beaded jewelry and small carved wooden figurines, and Chelsea and Mel slow to browse the trinkets on display. I fall into step with Elise, peeling strings of red licorice and dangling them into my mouth.
“Wait up!” Mel calls to us.
Elise doesn’t slow, just rolls her eyes.
“She’s being such a drag.” She sighs. “She was moaning at me about the room thing for years back at the house.”
“Years?” I laugh.
“Centuries. But like I’m going to cramp my style sharing. She’d probably watch,” Elise adds, smirking. “You know she’s obsessed with me.”
“Come on.” I give her a look. “She’s not so bad. She’s just . . .”
“Whiny? Clingy? Insecure?”
“Wound too tight,” I say diplomatically. “We just find her some guy when we’re o
ut tonight, then she’ll be too distracted to bother us anymore.”
“You’re too nice.” Elise sighs.
“Hey, she’s your friend,” I point out.
“Fine. I’m too nice.” Elise catches sight of something on the other side of the street. “Ooh, cute.”
She suddenly veers out into the road, and there’s a blast of a horn as an old beat-up car swerves to miss her. Elise doesn’t slow, just bounds through the traffic to a stall set up on the corner. I wait for the cars to clear, then follow.
“We’re just here on vacation.” Elise is smiling up at the trader when I arrive. He’s tall and muscular, a linen shirt draped open over his dark skin, his hair in dreadlocks.
“You like to party? You come to the right place.” He flashes a wide grin. “My friend, he owns a bar down by the beach. I can hook you up.”
Elise flutters her eyelashes at him. “That would be great.” She turns to me. “This is my new friend Juan,” she introduces him. “He knows all the best spots.”
“Oh. Great.” I look dubiously at his stall. It’s not so much a stall as a plank of wood set up on two wooden crates, with jewelry and junk laid out on a dirty, frayed piece of blue cloth. Elise picks up a bracelet of metal links and black onyx beading. “What do you think?”
“I think it looks like it washed up on the beach. Come on, we should go meet the others.”
Elise stands firm. “I like it.”
“Your friend has taste,” Juan tells me. “Pretty bracelet for a pretty girl.”
“Elise.” I tug her arm, my voice low. “These guys are just trying to rip you off.”
“Juan wouldn’t do that, would you?” Elise flutters some more. She’s got her best free-drink face on, the one she uses to charm poor suckers into buying us round after round at the bars along State Street. I drift a few steps away, knowing she won’t quit until she gets what she wants.
“How much?” she asks, wide-eyed.
“For you? A gift.” Juan beams.
“Really?” Elise checks. “You’re not tricking me, are you? Because that would be mean.” Her voice is still flirtatious.
“No tricks,” Juan slides the bracelet onto her wrist and holds on to her hand. “Maybe we can get a drink. I’ll show you that bar, down by the water.”
