You Owe Me a Murder Page 4
Her eyes glittered like broken glass. “For our problems. I kill your ex. You kill my mum. We both get what we want.”
I jolted, shocked at what she’d said, and looked at her nervously. Her eyes glinted with mischief. She had to be joking. Then she started giggling and I broke down too, the laughter burbling up from my chest. “And we’d both get about twenty to life in prison,” I pointed out. “No thanks. I’ve seen enough prison documentaries to know I wouldn’t make it a week. I look like crap in orange jump suits and I don’t have an ounce of street smarts.”
She gasped, trying to get her laughter under control. “But that’s why it’s the perfect crime. There’s nothing to connect you with my mum. You’ve never even met her. Why would you murder her?” Nicki winked. “No motive—no reason for the police to suspect you. Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows.” She nodded at me. “An ex-girlfriend, for example.” Then she pointed at her chest. “Or a daughter with an ax to grind against a loser parent.”
All the vodka in my system was slowing everything down, blurring my thoughts, but I could still connect the dots of her plan. “But we’re total strangers, so if we did the other person’s murder, we’d never get caught.” I started to giggle again. “It is the perfect crime. You’re a genius.”
Nicki made an exaggerated seated bow and almost slipped out of her chair. I had to grab her and pull her back by her shirt. I picked up the bottle to toast her with another drink and was disturbed to see how much we’d already consumed. I burped, a hot sour taste in the back of my mouth. I decided against drinking any more. The last thing I needed was to start throwing up.
“I love the concept, but I’m no killer,” I admitted. I held the vodka out to her, but she waved it off.
“You didn’t think you were someone who could steal a few hours ago,” Nicki pointed out. “Maybe you sell yourself short.”
I swayed in the seat, thinking about what she’d said, about how maybe my biggest problem wasn’t Connor or my mom, but me. I didn’t like to do things that scared me. I was always more worried about living up to what other people wanted. Trying to be what they wanted. I didn’t push myself and then I was mad that things didn’t happen. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be in the driver’s seat, but it didn’t make sense when everyone else seemed to do it better.
I wouldn’t even have come on this trip if I hadn’t been following Connor. Emily was after me to try new stuff. She’d wanted me to apply to the same camp where she was working, but I hadn’t been willing to do it because the idea of being responsible for kids made me nervous. But Emily was having a great time. If I’d gone with her, none of this would have even happened. We could have crushed on cute male counselors and ate our weight in s’mores and burned hot dogs.
Nicki stared at the screen in the back of the seat in front of her, the flickering images from an old episode of The Big Bang Theory reflected in her eyes. “I’m going to get some more water. Do you want any?”
I nodded. Water and Tylenol were a good idea. Nicki slipped out of the seat and headed toward the back galley. She slid behind the curtain so quickly it was like a magic trick.
I stretched my legs out into the seat she’d vacated. I blinked slowly, watching Sheldon’s lips move on the screen. I chuckled again. My eyes drifted shut.
I’d been dreading this trip for the past few weeks, but maybe it was an opportunity. I could hit the reset button in my life. If I was brave enough to go to England, if I could survive the whole thing with Connor, then I could do all sorts of things. I felt a rush of excitement, like I had when I’d stolen the vodka. A new place. A new me.
Four
August 16
15 Days Remaining
“You need to put your seat in the full upright position and buckle your seat belt. We’ve been cleared to land.”
My eyes snapped open. The flight attendant stood at the end of the row looking down at me. I squinted, the sun streaming in through the window, drilling into my brain. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the red waves of pain crashing against the inside of my skull.
“Sorry to wake you, but we’re landing soon,” she said. Her red lipstick had bled into the fine lines around her mouth, as if it were growing alien tentacles.
I rubbed my face and nodded. I pushed the firm button in the armrest and sat up. I pulled my sweaty shirt from my skin, letting the cool air lick my back. Nicki was gone, the rest of my row empty. I didn’t even know when she had gone back to her own seat. I opened my mouth and grimaced. My tongue felt thick and furry. I must have fallen asleep.
Or passed out.
I was never drinking vodka again. I should have known better—I wasn’t a big partier. I paused to take stock of my stomach. It rolled over uneasily. It felt as if there were a thick layer of oil floating on the contents, but they seemed inclined to stay in place.
The air in the plane was dry. I needed water. I also wanted to find Nicki so I could get her phone number. I’d always scoffed at my mom’s belief that the universe brings you things that you need, but this time she was right. Nicki had made me see everything differently, jolted me out of feeling stuck and sorry for myself. Writing that list about Connor had drained the toxic feelings that had been building inside me. I was actually excited for this trip now. When I got settled, I’d send Emily a long letter telling her that she’d been right, that there was life after Connor. I would let Em talk me into doing something different for senior year, maybe join the film club or sign up for a ski trip to Whistler. So what if I couldn’t ski? I’d learn, or at least I’d try.
My foot fished under the seat searching for my beat-up Converse. I found them and jammed them on, ignoring how tight they felt. I stood, stretching, feeling lighter than I had in weeks, and peered over the heads of everyone in front of me.
“You have to take your seat,” a steward called out several rows ahead.
“I need some water,” I croaked. “And my friend—”
“You need to take your seat,” the steward repeated with a tone that implied he’d be okay with making me do what he wanted if I wasn’t compliant. I plopped back down.
The seat-belt sign blinked off and on with a ping. I buckled up.
A dark shape out of the side of my vision caught my attention and I realized we were much closer to the ground than I’d thought. The plane banked on its side and descended for the final approach. A few minutes later the tires bounced down on the runway with a screech. For a second it seemed we would speed down and off the runway, but with a lurch we began to slow. The seat belt dug into my stomach, pushing the acid up into my throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Heathrow Airport. Local time is 10:08 in the morning and the outside temperature is fifteen degrees Celsius. For your safety and comfort, please remain seated with your seat belt fastened until the captain has turned off the fasten-seat-belt sign.”
The announcements droned on. I peered out the window trying to see if the landscape looked different, foreign. I’d never been overseas before and I wasn’t sure what to expect. All I could see was the dance between planes lining up to leave and baggage carts weaving in and out of the open lanes. It looked like any other airport, but it wasn’t. This was London. My heart skipped a beat, like a record jumping around.
People leaped up as soon as the plane stopped, grabbing their luggage and clogging up the aisle like a human knot. It took forever to file off, and as soon as I cleared the Jetway I picked up speed, trying to swim upstream in the crowd headed toward customs. I wanted to find Nicki. I passed Connor and the rest of our group.
“What’s the hurry—you run out of booze?” Connor called out, and I heard a few others snicker.
I ignored him and dodged past roller bags and people stopping suddenly in the center of the walkway to check their phones, but even when I bopped up onto my tiptoes I couldn’t spot Nicki. I’d missed her.
The customs hall was packed. A cacophony of different languages fought for dominance as people talked loudly to be heard, but everyone stayed in tidy lines waiting for a turn. I rubbed my neck and caught a sniff of myself. I needed a shower.
I kicked my bag forward as I shuffled one person closer to my turn. The Student Scholars program would be waiting outside the hall to whisk us to an international student residence hall. In the brochure, it looked a far cry from a Four Seasons hotel—but at least it would have a bed. I sent up a silent prayer that they wouldn’t do any kind of welcome reception. I wanted a nap and a shower before I did anything else.
That’s when I spotted Nicki ahead of me and a few lines over. She waved. I stepped toward her.
A security guard moved in front of me. “You need to stay in line,” she said, motioning at the rope that kept us in our section.
“My friend is over there—”
“That line is for UK residents only,” the security guard droned.
“Okay, but I just need to get her number.”
The guard’s mouth pulled tight. “That line is for residents only,” she repeated. “You can catch up with your friend later.”
I stepped back into place, trying to figure out how I could tell Nicki, charades style, to wait for me outside the hall, but she was already at the customs desk sliding over her passport. The universe might have put her in my way to turn things around, but it clearly didn’t plan to keep us in touch. I didn’t know her last name or any way to reach her.
Maybe it was better this way. We didn’t really have much in common. I felt uncomfortable with the idea that we’d stolen the vodka and risked drinking it on the flight. That wasn’t like me. But I wasn’t sorry I’d met her. We were strangers, but she’d changed everything for me. I’d come on this trip because I’d felt as if I couldn’t let my mom down ag
ain and because I was ashamed I’d gotten myself into the situation at all, but it was up to me how I handled the rest of the trip. I wasn’t going to waste it.
Five
August 16
15 Days Remaining
The residence hall had a giant light hanging in the main stairwell, a wrought-iron monstrosity. Somewhere a haunted castle was missing a lighting fixture. I’d expected everything in England to be old-fashioned—fussy floral prints, tweeds, and country plaids. Labrador dogs lazing by stone fireplaces with stern butlers lurking in corners ready to address every whim while silently judging you. But it wasn’t that straight-forward.
We were staying in Metford House in South Kensington, a large stately brick building that was for international students studying in the city. Inside it was a weird mix of modern art and outdated everything else. The dark green carpet looked as though it had been installed when Queen Victoria was on the throne. The main lobby had wood-paneled walls, but the furniture was a mix of a modern leather sectional and tartan-patterned wingback chairs that looked as if they were from a big-box store. The paintings on the walls all seemed to have been done by a toddler with anger issues. There was a desk across from the front door and then the huge staircase that led up to the rooms.
I stood on the landing for my floor and sniffed. I could smell some kind of air freshener, a spicy and citrus scent that was doing its best to hide the smell of mildew and too many people living in a small space.
As I headed to the lobby, I stumbled and grabbed the banister to keep from pitching down the staircase. The steps seemed too shallow. I felt as if I wanted to take one and a half steps every time I moved.
“Look where you’re going,” an Irish voice called out as he dodged past me carrying a huge basket of laundry up from the basement.
I moved to apologize, but he was already taking the steps two at a time. I felt out of sorts, as if things weren’t quite clicking. Jet lag made sudden sense to me. My body was in London, but my brain was still somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean scrambling to keep up. It was as if I weren’t fully connected to reality.
I barely remembered arriving at Metford a few hours ago. We’d been met outside the customs hall at the airport by the Student Scholars representative. Our guide would make sure no one in our group got lost and that we saw everything cultural so our parents could justify the trip as educational. Tasha was tall and willowy and wore her hair in a huge Afro like a halo around her head. I guessed she was in her late twenties, not much older than us, but enough that she had an air of confidence none of us could replicate. She had on a tight-fitting leather jacket, distressed jeans, and what seemed like a thousand silver bangles on one arm. Compared to our group of teenagers—unwashed, jet-lagged, and bleary-eyed—she looked like a different creature. We stared at her as if she were an alien as she directed us toward a large van.
Kendra in our group asked if she could touch Tasha’s hair.
Tasha pulled back out of her reach. “Are you a stylist in your spare time?”
Kendra shook her head.
“Then keep your hands to yourself.”
I snorted at her reply and Kendra shot me a hot, angry look. I tried to communicate that I hadn’t meant to laugh to be mean; Tasha’s comment had just struck me as funny. Normally I was the one to make a social faux pas. But Kendra’s lip curled up as though she’d tasted something bad, and I had the sense I’d burned a bridge with her already.
Tasha smiled at the rest of us. “Now, let’s get going.”
It felt as if it should have been the middle of the night, but, stepping outside into the parking lot and the warm sunshine, I was shocked to realize it was barely eleven in the morning. Tasha stashed our luggage in the back of the large van as though it were a giant Tetris puzzle, telling us to hold our carry-ons on our laps.
Tasha fired off details about the city as the van careened through the streets, narrowly missing pedestrians, other cars, and looming red double-decker buses. My eyes darted around, trying to take in everything at once, like a starving person at an all-you-can-eat buffet. At Metford, Tasha had taken charge at the front desk, filling in paperwork, collecting our passports, passing out keys to each of us, and pointing to the wall of cubbyholes on the back wall where we would be able to get mail or messages. I stood over my suitcase, swaying with exhaustion.
“Okay, people, listen up.” Tasha clapped her hands and a few people jolted back to wakefulness. “I know jet lag’s a bitch, but there’s only one way to get over it—get on schedule.” She glanced at the ancient grandfather clock in the corner of the lobby. “It’s just after twelve now. I’m going to give you two hours to get settled, take a shower, and, if you feel like you must, lie down. There’s a communal bathroom on every floor. Girls on the odd floors, guys on the even. Your key has your room number on it. Get yourselves squared away and we’ll meet downstairs in the library at two for orientation. No excuses.” A few people groaned. Tasha shook her head. “C’mon, now. Stiff upper lip and all that. If you sleep now, you’ll be up all night. You’ll thank me later. Off you go.”
I’d napped for as long as possible, waking with only fifteen minutes to spare for a quick shower and to pull on clean clothes. I didn’t bother to put anything away in my room, not that there was a lot of space. In the brochure it had looked tiny, but in real life it was freakishly dollhouse small. Each room barely fit a desk under the narrow window against the far wall, a twin bed, and a row of hooks running the length of the room with a shelf above for all our clothing. There wasn’t even a closet. The floor was worn brown linoleum tiles. It looked like an attic that you’d find in a Charlotte Brontë novel, one where you kept a crazy relative. I couldn’t help but compare it to my room back home: my queen-size bed, an entire wall of bookcases, a giant bay window where I liked to sit and read, and a thick cream carpet that my mom had picked out stretching across the floor.
Somehow this space seemed to fit me better. It seemed to have potential, like a cocoon I could emerge from in a few weeks, different. Better.
My wet hair dripped down my neck as I stumbled down the stairs. In the library the rest of the group were wolfing down sandwiches from the buffet set up at the back. Connor glanced up as I came in and pulled Miriam closer to his side as if he thought I might try to wriggle between them. I turned coldly away. I surveyed the rest of our group and tried to remember what I could about them from the information session a few weeks ago.
Jazmin was the tall Indian girl. Her features were sharp and angular, as if they could cut someone, and her attitude matched. She struck me as someone who didn’t have a lot of patience for bullshit but had a huge capacity for sarcasm. Kendra was talking to her. Kendra looked like the before picture in every makeover story. Her eyebrows begged for the attention of tweezers and she had the misfortune of possessing a resting bitch face. Or she was terminally in a bad mood; that seemed possible too. The only thing I could remember about her was that she had a perfect grade point average. I knew that because she had told all of us a million times during the information session.
Jamal was constantly in motion, like a toddler with ADHD who had just consumed a bag of Sour Patch Kids. He was also tech obsessed. I suspected he wished for a Batman utility belt so he could keep his gadgets at the ready. As it was, he was weighed down with an Apple Watch, his iPad, a phone, a Fitbit, and a digital camera that looked capable of taking photos from the moon. At that moment I overheard him telling Sophie about the various apps he’d downloaded specifically for the trip and then alphabetized to be easily found.
I smiled shyly at Sophie and she waved back. She was covered by a layer of baby fat—everything about her was round and soft. Someday she was going to take off her glasses and shake down her hair, and everyone would be shocked at how beautiful she really was. Until then, she dressed as if she were a forty-year-old suburban mom with an addiction to Lands’ End sensible clothing.
Just before I could walk over to her, the guy next to me held out a fork with a thin slice of disturbingly pink meat hanging off the end. I scrambled to remember his name, and then it came back to me: Alex.