Dare You

  He led me off the porch and around the house, back toward the beach.

  “I don’t want to go down there,” I said sourly, trying to wrench my hand free, but I had no muscle behind it.

  I hated feeling weak and was grateful that this was Jones leading me away. Jones was safe. He would never hurt me. Which was one of the things I liked most about him. And I didn’t understand that. When had I started cataloguing the good things about Jones? “There’s bitches down there. They’re so sorry about Dru and like whatever.” I said the last in a sarcastic mimic of the whitened-teeth girl.

  “We’ll stay away from them.” Jones kept walking, yanking me along behind him. “We’re just getting air.”

  We went a long way down the beach—almost to the spot where the cliffs met the sand—until we were far enough away from the house to no longer be able to make out words. We could still hear the beat of the music, but it was mostly drowned out by the waves and sounded way farther off than it actually was. The fresh air was clearing my head a little. Or maybe it was making it even more muddled, because I suddenly didn’t mind being with Jones. In fact, I kind of liked it. A lot.

  Jones stopped, turned, and pulled me up close. “Feeling better? I can take you home if you want.” He smelled so good, like chlorine and sunscreen and sweat. I splayed my hands across his chest.

  “I’ve missed this,” I said, unsure whether I said it out loud or just thought it.

  But I must have said it out loud, because Jones tipped his head back and laughed, the sound coming through his chest in a deep rumble that I could feel under my fingertips. “You are so drunk, Nikki Kill.”

  I pressed my forehead into his chest, inhaled, stepped even closer so that our hips were touching too.

  “I missed you. I missed us.” I trailed my finger lightly down one bicep. “Why did I let you go?”

  “You’re drunk,” he repeated.

  “I’m not that drunk. I’ll feel the same way tomorrow.”

  “The only thing you’ll feel tomorrow is a headache.”

  I bit my lip, keeping my face completely serious. “Take me home and try me.”

  We must have stood there for a full minute staring at each other, neither of us moving, neither of us breathing; the only sound registering was the waves crashing onto the shore. The moon, which I could see over Jones’s shoulder, was bright white, and I wasn’t sure what that meant for me. My colors were suddenly missing, which was exactly what I’d been hoping for, but now that they were gone, I desperately wanted them back.

  But everything was suddenly gone. Peyton was gone. Dru was gone. Luna, Vanessa, Bill, all gone. Those stupid girls were gone. The things that had made my life scary and miserable were gone. Thank God. It was just me and Jones, our warm skin radiating off each other.

  “Nikki. I don’t want to do anything you don’t—”

  “God, shut up. I know what I’m doing. Even stubborn Nikki Kill can change her mind sometimes, you know.”

  He grinned. “Well, I can honestly say I’ve never seen that happen.”

  I grinned back. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  And then one of us moved. I didn’t know if it was him or me, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that suddenly he was kissing me, we were pressing up against each other, and my mind was exploding with violet. The right color. The only color that mattered.

  We kissed on the beach until our mouths were sore and our bodies were covered with sand. Jones refused to do any more than kiss—“I don’t want you to wake up sober and regretful,” he’d said—but it still felt good. It felt right, being with Jones again. It felt safe.

  Finally, we decided we would go to his house to shower off the sand, and for me to sleep off the alcohol. I texted Dad, letting him know that I was going to stay at a friend’s house, and he texted back that he would be gone early, taking the grandparents back to the airport, and that he would see me when I got home. And to stay safe. Always stay safe. If you get into any trouble, call me ASAP, he texted. Keep your eyes open.

  I slipped into my shoes and held Jones’s hand as we walked back up the beach, our hips bumping every few steps. Before we got back to the house, he turned and pulled me close again.

  “So does this mean what I think it means?” he asked.

  “What do you think it means?”

  He pressed his forehead to mine and kissed my nose. So sweet, so Jones. I didn’t deserve someone like him. But I was too selfish to care. “Are we back together?”

  I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see if he was beaming magenta at me, or if I was beaming cheater blue to everyone else. Right now, all I wanted was to bathe in the sexy violet. “Why not?” I asked. “We were pretty good together before.”

  Even though I had a million reasons Why not, and if I was sober, I might have let some of them sway me, I left it at simply Why not, and at the goofy smile on Jones’s face. I was lonely and Jones was familiar and maybe it was about time to start living my life again. Dru wasn’t coming back. Time to stop acting like he was.

  He kissed me again, long and deep. “Come on, let’s get you into a cold shower.”

  We had only taken two or three steps before we saw the lights of a police cruiser bouncing off the sand, turning it blue and white . . . and crimson.

  I was instantly transported to that night at Hollis Mansion, transported further to the day I found my mother dead. To the beeping machines in Peyton’s hospital room. The lights, the crimson. The crimson. Jesus, that relentless crimson. I staggered. Jones’s arm tightened around me.

  Someone turned off the music, and people started rushing down the length of the beach, ditching cans and cups and bottles as they went. People, still dripping with pool water, were spilling out the back door as shouting voices trailed behind them.

  “Come on,” Jones said, hurrying me away from the house. “My car is this way.”

  We walked past several houses and started around a sprawling white house, the owner of which was standing in a window, watching everyone run. “Hey!” he called through the open window as we hurried past. “You two!” But we ignored him and kept moving.

  “I’m right over here,” Jones said, pulling me toward his car, which was parked right across the street from mine. Did we get to the party at the same time? Weird that I hadn’t seen him. Maybe Dad had a point, telling me to keep my eyes open.

  Right away, I could see that an officer was peering into my car, a flashlight pointed at the driver’s side window.

  “What the hell?”

  “Stop right there,” the officer said, and Jones and I froze. My heart sank. Great. I almost never drank, and when I finally decided to cut loose, I was going to get busted. Forget what Gunner thought about alcohol—Dad was going to have a fit.

  The officer said something into his radio, then started toward us. A few seconds later, another cruiser pulled up behind us. The officer inside was big and angular and very serious looking. Slowly, he got out.

  “Get an ID?” he asked.

  “Not yet.” The first officer turned to me. “You have ID on you?”

  I pointed. “It’s in my car.”

  The first officer stepped to the side, aiming his flashlight at my car. “That car right there? That’s yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  He made eye contact with Officer Serious and flicked his head toward the window. The serious officer started toward it, clicking on his flashlight as he went.

  The first officer turned back to us. “You mind letting us have a look inside?”

  “What? Why?” I started toward my car, but the officer stepped in my way. I could hear police radio chatter coming from down the street. The music had turned off. Everyone had gone quiet. Party over.

  “Miss, we got a call from a concerned neighbor.”

  I thought about the guy watching from his window in the white house. Way to ruin a good time, Neighbor of the Year. “It’s not my party,” I said. “I was just leaving.”
r />   The first officer’s eyes bored into me. “The neighbor alleges he saw some kids dealing drugs from this car right here.”

  My mind swam. “What? Drugs? No. I don’t deal dr— I was on the beach. Jones, tell him we were on the beach.” But Jones stood still as a statue, dumbstruck.

  The serious officer was pointing his flashlight through my window, just as the first one had been doing when we arrived. “So you’re saying that bag in there doesn’t belong to you,” he said.

  “What bag?” I maneuvered around the first officer and peered in where the light was illuminating.

  There was a plastic bag on the front seat.

  It was full of pills.

  Pills I recognized. Buddhas, crowns, Pac-Man, ghosts.

  The same kind of Molly that Luna had been holding in a photo I’d stolen from Peyton’s apartment months ago.

  4

  HAD I NOT been drinking, maybe I would have cooperated, tried to calmly explain things. Or maybe not picked a fight with two armed police officers, at the very least. Probably not. Cooperation and calm explanation weren’t really in my repertoire. And I didn’t have the best history with police officers, either.

  Jones stood by, immobile and silent, as I went rigid. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Luna’s pills. How had they gotten onto my front seat? “I have no idea where that came from.”

  “This will go easier if you just let us into the car,” the serious officer with the flashlight said.

  “Just to clear things up,” the first officer said, obviously trying to look like the nice, friendly one. “Get to the bottom of things.”

  I went back to Jones’s side, both officers following me close. I had no idea what was going on, but I knew enough to know that letting those cops into my car was not going to end well for me. “No way. Not until you get a warrant. Or whatever it is you have to get. Those pills aren’t mine.” I tried to hook my arm through Jones’s but felt him stiffen. I forgot that Jones probably wasn’t really well versed in police run-ins.

  “We don’t need a warrant. We have probable cause. Why don’t you go ahead and step to the back of the vehicle.” The serious officer reached toward me and I jerked, smacking his hand down before I could even think about what I was doing.

  “No need to get out of hand here,” the friendly officer said. “You’re just going to make it harder on everyone if you get crazy.”

  The serious officer reached for my arm again and I snatched it away, dropping into a fighting stance. Guess maybe Gunner was wrong. I could defend myself with a gut full of vodka. Or whiskey. Or whatever it was I’d been drinking. Besides, with all the adrenaline rushing through me, I suddenly felt much more sober. But this was bad. Fighting two cops was a terrible idea. I knew it even as I was doing it.

  “Okay,” he said. “You’re coming with us.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong. Aren’t you listening? They aren’t mine.”

  He took another step toward me, his face getting a bored I-have-to-do-this-shit-way-too-often look. “That no longer matters. You’re going to come with us one way or another.”

  “On what charges?” I asked angrily. “Someone put those there. I’m being set up!”

  “Well, now, drunk and disorderly, if nothing else,” he said. “Minor in possession. Striking an officer. Possession of narcotics. Possibly dealing. You’re just digging yourself in deeper every second.”

  “This is bullshit and I’m not going anywhere.” I started toward Jones’s car, like I was going to get into it, even though Jones didn’t follow me at all. But I’d gotten only a half-dozen steps before the officers were on me.

  5

  MY MUG SHOT was a disaster. By the time the two officers wrestled me into the car, I was scraped and scuffed on my elbows and knees, my face smeared with mascara. Jones stood by, eyes huge and frightened, as they took me away. I screamed to him to find Detective Martinez.

  “Get answers, Jones! Find out what’s going on!”

  Whether or not he would was a bit up in the air.

  Jones had just come back into my life and already there were problems. He knew there were no promises when it came to me. He could walk away, save himself the trouble. Hell, he should walk away and save himself the trouble. He would be crazy not to bug out now. Even I wouldn’t blame him.

  The police station was so much grimier than I remembered it from the last time I was there. There was something about coming in through the front door with all the cards on your side that made a place seem friendlier than when you were walking in handcuffed and confused and fighting for your life.

  They added resisting arrest to my list of charges.

  I waived my right to call Dad. He would never understand. He would be so embarrassed, especially with my grandparents there. He would be worried about me. He would have to be a last resort.

  I would wait the night out and let Jones save me in the morning. I didn’t like the idea, but I could handle it. I’d handled much worse.

  I DIDN’T SLEEP. But I also didn’t puke, so the guy at the keg was wrong about me. Morning took forever to come, especially since Jones didn’t show up right away. I’d begun to think maybe he really had bugged out.

  When the scowling guard came to get me for a visitor after lunch, my heart leaped and then sank again, as the person sitting in the tiny interrogation room wasn’t Jones, but was a pretty redhead in a sharp navy suit.

  “Nikki Kill, yes?” she asked, standing and holding her hand out to shake mine.

  I nodded, surly, ignoring her hand. “And you are?”

  “Blake Willis.” She let her hand drop and settled back into her chair, then flashed me a smile. “Assistant DA. I need to ask you a few questions. About the murder of Peyton Hollis.”

  “Oh, hell, no.” I backed toward the door. “Take me back, please,” I said to the officer who’d brought me in. “This isn’t a visitor. I don’t want to talk to her.”

  Blake remained perfectly calm, her hands folded on the table in front of her, as if she did this every day. Which maybe she did. How would I know? “I’m your best bet in avoiding a murder charge, Nikki, so I would suggest you close your mouth and open your ears. Up to you, of course.” She gestured toward the chair across from her. “Have a seat.”

  “Close my mouth? You’re kidding, right? Isn’t it all kinds of illegal for you to be here?” I asked. “I haven’t even seen a lawyer yet. I’m not talking to you.”

  “You might want to rethink that,” she said, unfolding her hands and sifting through paperwork. “Given the position you’re in.”

  “Position? What position? I had nothing to do with Peyton’s murder. I’m not in any sort of position, prosecutor.” I said the last with a sneer. “So you might as well look for someone else to lock up, because it’s not me.”

  She stopped sifting, momentarily, and glanced up at me, again with the smile. “Nikki,” she said quietly, “I don’t want to lock you up. Yes, it’s unusual for me to be here, and you’re right, I shouldn’t be. And nobody but you, me, and a few select officers know I’m here. But I’m trying to get to the bottom of Peyton Hollis’s case. Of course, the search for answers naturally led me to you. And when I heard you’d been arrested, I decided it would be a good opportunity for us to talk.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The police are looking seriously at you. But that doesn’t mean the search for Peyton’s attacker has stopped. Not for me. Don’t you want to help us find her murderer and bring him or her to justice?” She held my gaze for a long moment before straightening up again and going back to her papers. “That is, of course, unless we can’t find anyone but you. There’s new evidence that you are that person.” She gestured to the chair again.

  When I looked down, the seat of the chair went from beat-up jail gray to mint green, the edges feathering into sage. In the center were drops of yellow, the same kind of yellow that I’d seen on Detective Martinez. Detective Martinez. Where the hell was he in all of this? Was he the one also looking seriousl
y at me?

  Reluctantly, I sat. But I kept my weight thrusted forward, just in case I should decide to get the hell out of there, and fast.

  “So it looks like you put up a real fight last night.” She glanced at me but didn’t wait for me to respond. “Not the best idea in the world, but not a huge deal. This, though.” She ran a finger down a paper. “A little more problematic. You want to tell me what your relationship was with Peyton Hollis?”

  “We didn’t have one,” I said. We both knew I was lying, but I meant it when I said I wasn’t going to give her anything. She may have wanted my trust, but she didn’t know who she was dealing with. Trust was so rare for me, I wasn’t even sure I would recognize it when I felt it.

  She pursed her glossed lips and then let out a gust of air, ignoring my denial. “And it says here that they recently found her car. Cherry-red Mustang convertible, license plate FNFAIR. You know it?”

  I remained motionless. I had told Martinez about the car months ago. Why were they only finding it now?

  My head had begun pounding, and I wished more than anything that I could rewind the clock to just before I decided to start slamming booze last night. Or maybe before I went to the party at all. Or maybe, while I was rewinding, I could go all the way back to when I was eight. Get a do-over. Warn Mom that something horrible was about to happen and change my entire life forever. “Everyone knows that car.”

  She nodded. “Well, it looks here like they found it in a wooded area behind an abandoned grocery store.”

  Exactly where I had told Martinez to look for it. This made no sense. “So? What does that have to do with me?”

  “So. What that has to do with you is that your fingerprints were all over it. And there was a half-empty pack of cigarettes inside, along with a lighter.” She turned a paper so I could see a photo that was printed on it. “You smoke, correct?”

  “A lot of people smoke. This is hardly earth-shattering.”