In a way, it’s easier once I let go of that daydream. I’m not suspended in hopeful limbo, waking up every day rich with the possibility of freedom—and the hollow weight of disappointment when the lights-out buzzer goes off, and the cell doors slam shut again each night. I have the trial to hold onto now: my light on the horizon. When we’re in court, when we can shut down whatever evidence Dekker thinks he has—the blood smears, and the knife, and the necklace—then this will all be over. I’ll be found innocent. I can go home.
Until then, I just have to stay strong, and wait.
So the days pass. One hundred. One hundred and sixteen. A hundred and forty seven. Mostly, I remember—lying on the narrow bunk in my cell, letting the time drift by as I sink beneath the cool surface of the past. I start at the beginning, the day I met Elise in gym class, and slowly work forward, through school and Tate and the arrival of Chelsea and the others. I play out every conversation, every kiss, like a scene from the movie of somebody else’s life. Except I feel it. Hard, and sharp, and slicing with the deep ache of nostalgia, a longing for the time that’s gone now and I’ll never get back. All the brief moments I took for granted—the afternoons spent slouched, bored, doodling song lyrics in her notebook in the back of history class; the coffee breaks we spent hunched over mocha whip lattes at Luna, and idle free periods window-shopping on Newbury Street. Elise and I, arms linked, limbs intertwined. Dyed streaks in our hair, matching pendants at our necks. Laughter in our souls.
I look for reasons, and answers, for hints and warning signs. I take our final moments on the island apart and spread them flat, like a prospector hunting for the glint of gold in the murky dust of the riverbed. Sometimes, I think I see something: a glance, a worried note in her voice. A hug that lingers too long, the buzz of a text message she doesn’t check. But the vision blurs; details mix. Memory and imagination are only a knife edge apart, and I wonder if I’m making it all up: slipping false memories in among the real ones, just to have something to hold on to. Fool’s gold.
They argue over trial dates. The days pass, and I wait.
VACATION
I wake in Tate’s arms, sunlight falling through the open drapes to where we lie, tangled in the crisp white sheets. It’s our third day in Aruba; the window is open, and I can hear the distant crash of the ocean and feel the gentle breeze on my skin.
Bliss.
I yawn, rolling to snuggle against him, cheek against his bare chest. He’s a restless sleeper, and the covers are kicked to the floor, his limbs sprawled as if he finally gave up an epic battle and fell into unconsciousness, exhausted. I smile, tracing the line of his jaw down to his collarbone and ribs.
Tate murmurs, still half-asleep, a faint smile on his lips.
I kiss him, my mouth replacing the slow sleep of my fingertips, along the ridge of sinew and bone, down to the taut muscles of his stomach. I feel him laugh against my mouth, awake now. He pulls me back up, kissing me hard as he rolls over and crushes me in his embrace.
I stay there a moment, kissing back slowly, savoring the weight of him. Then the kiss deepens, his hands reaching impatiently for the flesh of my thighs, easing them apart. I feel him harden against me.
“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.”