I give it five minutes and then peer gingerly out of the closet door, easing it open inch by inch. I don’t see or hear her, which is good. Gradually, I exit the cupboard, on tenterhooks in case a noise comes and I have to nip back inside again. But what’s weird is that I actually don’t hear anything at all. This flat is so big that two people can be in it together and not even sense each other’s presence.
Still no noise . . . still silence . . . I’m tiptoeing down the corridor, toward the front door, moving faster and faster—I’m at the door now, turning the big deadbolt lock, pulling the door open, nipping through it, and closing it behind me as softly as I can. Still, there’s a really loud click as the lock snaps back into place, which completely panics me. I race across the lobby to the lift, pressing the Call button desperately, watching the display as the lift seems to take forever to reach the penthouse floor.
And then, of course, as the doors begin to open I nearly freak, thinking that maybe Nadia has rushed back and is going to be on the other side of them.
But she isn’t. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. There’s no one in the lift but me reflected in the mirror on the back wall, my expression so panicked that it almost makes me laugh. And I step in, pulling up the hood of my jacket to conceal my face, and hit the Ground Floor button with so much relief that my hand is trembling and fumbles so much I end up stabbing my finger repeatedly at the button, just to make sure.
I walk across the lobby with my hood still up. I thought I was going to have to climb back into the dog kennel lift and find the service entrance to sneak out of. I wasn’t bargaining for having to go past the doorman. But I don’t have a choice now. And honestly, I’m incredibly grateful. The thought of squashing myself back into that lift, or getting stuck between floors again, was a constant terror in the back of my mind the whole time I was in Penthouse C. Never again am I doing something that stupid. Never again.
The doorman says something to me but I don’t turn my head, I just keep walking. He says it louder, but I walk faster. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him coming out from behind the desk, but then the glass doors are sliding open, and I’m walking through them swiftly, breathing fresh air, and nothing’s ever felt as good before in my life. I pick up my stride and I’m down the street, losing myself in the crowds of Sunday shoppers, before he can get anywhere near me. I know he can’t leave his desk for long, so he’ll have turned around by now and gone back in. And even if there’s CCTV in the lobby, I had my hood up, so no one could recognize me.
I’m free.
Shoved into my jacket pocket are the photocopies of Nadia’s diary that I made in the office. I have evidence now, of a sort. Too early to take to the police, just like the peanut oil bottle in the back of the bar cupboard, but evidence all the same.
I know a lot I didn’t know before today.
I know Dan was murdered. I know how he was murdered. And I know that Plum had a part in it, because his EpiPen was in her handbag, and there’s absolutely no non-suspicious explanation for that. Was it Plum who poured the peanut oil over the crisps? But why would she do that? This must have been planned in advance. No one could have set this up, right down to the oil stored under the bar, on the spur of the moment.
I’m going to have to do a really thorough investigation of Plum.
I look at my watch. God, I’ve been in Nadia’s place for hours! I’ll need to hurry to make it back to school by the dinner bell. The Sunday trains take forever. I squint across at our rendezvous point. Taylor’s already gone, as we agreed she should do if I was running late. I start sprinting down the street, heading for the tube station, dashing through the crowds, ducking and weaving past dawdling shoppers without ever slowing down. I can’t wait to show Taylor the photocopied pages of Nadia’s diary. I know that when she hears what I’ve found out, that Dan was murdered, it will only make her keener to plan out the next stage of our mystery-solving, to take on a job that she might get one day for real as a grown-up, licensed private detective.
I have a double quest now, and I’m more than ready for the challenge. I’m going to find out who killed Dan. And I’m going to take my revenge on Plum Saybourne. How dare she keep accusing me of being Dan’s killer, when all along the EpiPen that would have saved his life was hidden in her handbag! I’m so angry with her that whenever I think about that my hands curl into fists. I’m already plotting ways to have my revenge.
And something tells me that Taylor will be really good at helping with that, too. . . .
twenty-five
ENOUGH WITH WISHES
I’m racing up the drive. God, that Sunday train was even slower than I was expecting! I paced up and down the carriage as if I had live electricity under my feet, hissing with impatience every time the train jerked to a halt between stations and left me staring at the blank wall of a railway embankment. I’m in a panic that I’ll miss the dinner bell, and I’m so keen to tell Taylor everything I’ve found out that I’ve run all the way from the station, tearing up the path from Wakefield Village. The gravel on the drive is catching in the soles of my sneakers, slowing me down, and I swerve onto the grass instead so that I can pick up full speed again.
Evening sunlight’s flooding down through the oak branches and dappling onto the grass. It’s so strong that when I catch a flash of red moving through the trees, it takes me a moment to realize what it is.
Jase Barnes. He’s dressed up as if he’s going out—a poppy-red shirt that looks great against his dark gold skin, and black jeans that make his long legs look even longer. Wow. He’s walking away from me, round the corner of the new school wing, and as I watch, he disappears from view.
My legs are pumping the grass like I’m a sprinter leading the pack, going for the finishing line. I skid off the grass, onto the concrete paving, and execute a perfect ninety-degree turn—not right for the dining hall, but left, heading straight for Jase. I swing round the corner of the building and see him turning down the path that leads to the Barneses’ cottage. As soon as my feet start pounding hard concrete, he hears someone running toward him, and swings around. His eyes widen with surprise.
“Scarlett! Where are you going?” he exclaims.
I’m all sweaty from running. No makeup, no lip gloss, no high heels, no miniskirt, just a nasty old hoodie and jeans. I’m a foot shorter than him in my trainers. But I don’t care about my nonexistent grooming or my midget height or my shiny face. I’m so high on my recent successful spying mission that I feel like I own the world, and the part of it I’m most interested in is standing slap bang in front of me.
I want to plant a flag in this territory, claim it as mine. And before I can think about what the hell I’m doing (because if I do think about it, I’ll never get up the nerve to go for it), I jump up on tiptoes and place my hands on his shoulders so I’m barely high enough to reach his lips. And then I kiss him full on the mouth, just long enough to feel my body pressed up against his, the heft of his shoulder muscles under my palms, the hard curves of his chest against mine, the light tangy enticing smell of his aftershave . . .
Oh God, my head is spinning. I swivel on my toes and spin around and shoot off as if the hounds of hell were after me. Which they will be, in the person of Miss Newman, if I don’t make it to the dining hall in time. The bell’s ringing just as I get there, and as I fall in with the last stragglers pushing to make it through the swing doors on the dot of seven, I look back, gasping for breath. He’s still standing there, gaping after me. He raises one hand and feebly flickers his fingers at me: he looks like he’s in shock.
There’s a grin on my face that feels like it’s lighting up the whole of my body. I’m so happy I could literally jump for joy. I turn and dash through the doors, and across the room I see Taylor waving at me madly from the end of a table, her expression one big question mark.
My hand goes up to pat the papers in the inside pocket of my jacket. Still there. I stand for a moment, catching my breath, and then I head across the crowded dining hall
in Taylor’s direction.
I started out this year with two wishes. Well, enough with wishes. I’m too old for them now. Wishes are just weedy things. I’m making resolutions now.
Number one: solve the mystery of Dan’s murder. And number two: get Jase Barnes to be the one who grabs me and kisses me next time. I want him to run up to me, wrap those gorgeous muscular arms of his around me, and kiss me like he’d been thinking about nothing else but doing precisely that since I planted one on him and ran away.
I’d say that’s more than enough to be getting on with, wouldn’t you?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lauren Henderson was born in London and lived in Tuscany and Manhattan before returning to London to settle down with one husband and two very fat cats. She has written seven books in the Sam Jones mystery series, which has been optioned for American TV; many short stories; and three romantic comedies. Her nonfiction dating guide, Jane Austen’s Guide to Dating, has been optioned as a feature film by the writer behind Ten Things I Hate About You and Ella Enchanted. Lauren’s books have been translated into more than twenty languages. With Stella Duffy, she has edited an anthology of women-behaving-badly crime stories, Tart Noir; their joint Web site is www.tartcity.com. Lauren has been described as both the Dorothy Parker and the Betty Boop of the crime novel. Her interests include trapeze classes, gymnastics, and eating complex carbohydrates.
ALSO BY LAUREN HENDERSON
Adult Nonfiction
Jane Austen’s Guide to Dating
Adult Fiction
Tart Noir (anthology, edited with Stella Duffy)
Exes Anonymous
My Lurid Past
Don’t Even Think About It
Pretty Boy
Chained
The Strawberry Tattoo
Freeze My Margarita
Black Rubber Dress
Too Many Blondes
Dead White Female
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Lauren Henderson
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover by Delacorte Press in 2008.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition of this work as follows:
Henderson, Lauren.
Kiss me kill me / Lauren Henderson.
p. cm.
Summary: Longing to be part of the in-crowd at her exclusive London school, orphaned, sixteen-year-old Scarlett, a trained gymnast, eagerly accepts an invitation to a party whose disastrous outcome changes her life forever.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89184-7
[1. Popularity—Fiction. 2. Orphans—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Wealth—Fiction. 5. Bullying—Fiction. 6. Murder—Fiction. 7. High schools—Fiction. 8. Schools—Fiction. 9. Mystery and detective stories. 10. England—Fiction.] 1. Title.
PZ7.H3807Kis 2008
[Fic]—dc22
2007027653
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