I settle beside her, cross-legged on the wall, and wrap my coat tighter against the crisp breeze. Out here, we’re hidden from view from the main buildings—still technically on school grounds, but far from any wandering teachers. “Can’t,” I apologize. “I have French and bio.”
“So?” She takes both my hands and smiles at me, her best You know you want to grin. “That Lex guy from the café said something about a warehouse rave. Tons of cute RISD guys for you . . .”
I laugh. “Lise! Come on. Miss Guerta’s just itching to give me a B. And anyway,” I add awkwardly, “I have plans with Tate. We’re doing dinner and a movie.”
Elise lets me go. “Him? Still?” Her voice has an edge.
“Don’t.” I dig in my bag for a pack of red licorice, avoiding her gaze. I should be happy: a boyfriend and a best friend, for the first time in my life, but juggling the two of them this past month has been an exercise in exhaustion; both of them wanting all my time, me feeling like a traitor, whomever I pick.
“I’m just saying . . .” Elise shrugs. “I figured you’d be done with him by now. It’s been, like, months. You can do so much better.”
“I don’t want better.” I find the pack and offer it to her. She peels off a strip and then dangles it slowly into her mouth. “I want Tate.”
“But he’s so . . . high school!” Elise exclaims. “With his perfect grades, and his perfect preppy blazer, and all that perfectly mussed hair.”
I grin. “He does have great hair.”
“It’s not a good thing!” Elise’s eyes drift past me, and her expression twists again. “And now I know why you wanted to meet here. Because you couldn’t be away from him, even for one stupid hour.”
I turn. The lacrosse team is jogging out onto the field, Tate and Lamar leading the pack. “I didn’t know they had practice,” I say quickly.
“Sure you didn’t.”
“Elise . . .”
She falls silent as we watch them. Tate sprints effortlessly along the far goal line, yelling instructions to the team as he runs passing drills. His blue school sweats hang easy on his lithe frame, his blond hair glinting in the sun. He owns the field, the team, and I can’t help thinking he looks like some old-time general, leading his troops into battle.
“Oh Jesus.”
I turn. Elise is looking at me. “You’re falling for him.”
“No!” I protest automatically, but it’s just us out here, no one else to gossip. I take a breath. “Maybe. Yes,” I finally say, my voice quiet. “You don’t know him like I do,” I add quickly. “All this Golden Boy stuff, you know it’s just for show.”
“And what does that tell you?” Elise mutters darkly. She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her bag and slips one out. I watch her light it with a silver lighter and take a long inhale.
“Since when do you smoke?” I ask, distracted.
“Since now. Mom.”
“Didn’t you dump that banker guy because he tasted like ash?”
“No, I dumped him because he had a two-inch dick and no idea what to do with it.”
I laugh as she blows a perfect smoke ring. She looks over, catching my gaze. “Want one?”
I sigh. “I shouldn’t.”
“That means you want to.”
“It means I shouldn’t. Mom’ll smell it on me.” I roll my eyes. “She’s getting militant about fragrance. She freaked out last week because I used scented moisturizer, going on about chemicals and toxins and all that stuff.”
Elise passes me the cigarette all the same. I take it, sucking in a small pocket of smoke.
“How’s she doing?” she asks quietly.
I shrug. “You think they tell me anything?” I exhale, blowing another ring into the crisp air. “You know we’re killing ourselves with these things,” I say, taking another drag.
“But we look so f**king cool.” Elise grins. I laugh.
We share the rest of the cigarette in easy silence, cross-legged on the wall. I know I should leave it, just enjoy the break with her, but I can’t help but think about the look on her face when she talked about Tate, the tightness in her voice.
“What did you mean?” I have to ask. “Before, about Tate. Why don’t you like him?”
“I like him fine.” Elise shrugs. “Just . . . He’s the kind of guy who turns out to be a serial killer.”
My mouth drops open. “Elise!”
“All that perfection, playing a part.” Elise grins. “It’s not healthy. His anger’s going to build up and up and up until one day . . . boom! Explosion. American Psycho. Bodies everywhere. I’m telling you.”
I shake my head, smiling. “He’s not like that. You’d know, if you spent any time with him.”
“I do,” Elise protests. “We hang out all the time!”
“In the group,” I correct her. “But you hardly talk to him even then.”
“Because I’m spending time with you,” she shoots back. “It’s the only chance I get these days.”
There’s no lightness in her voice. I pause, my skin prickling with guilt. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve bailed on a bunch of plans, but—”
“It’s fine, I get it, young love, whatever.” Elise rolls her eyes exaggeratedly.
“Lise, please . . .” I reach for her. “Don’t be like this.”
“Like what?”
I pause, suddenly uncomfortable. “This. Can’t you be happy for me?”
“I am, doll.” She gives me a sideways look, then softens. “I’m thrilled. Go, frolic, be prom queen. But be careful, okay? He’s going to break your heart.”
I blink. “You don’t know that. Maybe I’ll be the one who breaks his.”
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?