The video had been exactly as Laura had described. Drunken fooling around, two bodies in awkward, drunken positions, arched backs, and shuddering, but perhaps the latter was because they skimmed through it at three times the normal speed. Then it was over.
“Here,” Laura said. “Watch. Look at the time.” She pressed the play button and the video slowed to normal speed.
At 6:18 a.m. Laura groggily climbed out of bed, stretched, took a second glance at the camera, and then padded over to it, dressed now in an oversized t-shirt and maybe quite a bit hung-over. Her face appeared close to the screen when she leaned down.
“See right there?” she asked, pointing in the upper right of the small screen on the camera. “Six eighteen.”
“Yeah, I see it,” Jenn agreed.
On the screen, Laura frowned and leaned closer, then the screen went black.
***
Alex repeated himself. “You’re absolutely sure about Sharon and Laura?”
“Yes,” she insisted. “I told you I watched the video.”
“When?”
“While you were up here pouting. They’re clean, Alex, which means it has to be one of those other five people down there.”
“Your friends.” His tone was stark and full of accusations.
She had no argument to refute it. “I thought they were.”
PART NINE
Alex had moved down to the main deck after Jenn convinced him that he would seem less suspicious if he were among the others and not keeping his distance. Unwillingness to be a part of the unsteady coalition could be seen as a symptom of guilt, and he reluctantly agreed to make himself visible.
If anything had the potential to be more shocking than the fact that one of Jenn’s so-called friends had murdered one of their own, it was the fact that they all hadn’t totally devolved into savage, bestial creatures fighting to save themselves.
They weren’t necessarily calm—more agitated and guarded than anything—but each appeared remotely convinced in the fact that he or she hadn’t done it. Only Sharon and Laura were explicitly clear of any wrongdoing, but the rest professed their innocence with such vehemence that an unspoken understanding had settled over them.
You believe me about as much as I believe you, but you keep your distance, and I’ll keep mine until someone else can figure this out.
Alex suspected that it was pure disbelief, perhaps a light state of shock that kept The Harlot from becoming a rebirth of Lord of the Flies. They had known each other for years, a ragtag group of people from different stations in life, meeting through random circumstances. Book clubs, wine-tasting groups, Wade the shared contractor, all eventually gravitating toward one another the way people with similar interests tend to do.
All except Mark and Terri, who were something of an outcast couple and got invited for God-only-knows what reasons. It seemed like every collection of friends had someone like that, and if you didn’t know who it was, chances were, you might be the one.
Alex decided it was total disbelief and a refusal to accept the truth.
How could someone who had shared birthday cake at a toddler’s party, someone who had shared their favorite meatloaf recipe, someone who had borrowed an evening gown for a black-tie event, so coldly commit murder when the remainder of their trusted group slept a couple of doors away?
He could see the reasoning behind their denial, somewhat, though he couldn’t quite identify with it. Money, particularly the kind with many, many zeroes behind it, never came with many legitimate friends. People flocked to him not because he was a good guy, not because he was charming and handsome and generous—things Jenn always took for granted—but because they thought he could give them something. It was freedom, fun, a better life and in return, promises of, “Hey, I’ll laugh at all your jokes and tell you how smart you are, I may even let you put your hand up my skirt or in my boxers, whatever your fancy might be, just as long as you invite me along to parties or romantic countries I’ll never see on my own.”
Alex spat in the ocean and watched the glob of white float away.
None of it was ever genuine, but it might be nice to have at least one person he could trust.
He thought he had that in Jenn. He’d begun to see it in Erica.
And now one was dead, and the other may have done it.
The suffocating realization that there was a dead body on his yacht hurtled back and doubled him over.
He hadn’t loved Erica, far from it. Instead, she’d been an insatiable outlet when she was in town. Anyway, how could he say no to a licentious supermodel? Especially after Jenn’s constant emotional ebb and flow had gotten him nowhere closer to what he wanted from her?
He hadn’t loved Erica, but he’d grown attached to her, and now her body was stiffening on the bed they’d shared many times, clothed and unclothed, mostly the latter. Sometimes handcuffs. Sometimes melted candle wax. Always fun.
Droplets of rain began to fall. He checked the sky. Lightning flashed to the west. It would be upon them soon, and then what? Ride it out? It looked worse than a squall, much worse, and they were far enough off the coast for it to be a problem. The Harlot was sturdy, but not a floating tank.
How long had it been since he’d told them he’d radioed the Coast Guard and then tossed the keys overboard? An hour? Two? With the sun behind the thick, roiling, black clouds above them, it was hard to pinpoint the sun. He could guess the time if he could see it. He never wore a watch—damn Jenn for suggesting a weekend without cell phones—and he didn’t dare go below deck to find a clock. My God, let the accusations fly if he got anywhere near Erica’s body without an escort.
Both Mark and Chet had asked if he’d heard any reports from the Coast Guard. How long now, they’re on their way, aren’t they? He’d waylaid them with blatant lies while Wade looked on and nodded his approval.
Both Mark and Chet had also demanded to use the radio.
He informed them that without the keys, without power, it was useless. They didn’t need to know that it had a failsafe backup connected to a gas-powered generator. Nor did they need to know that he had two handheld radio units in the emergency kit stored in the wall of the cockpit.
They had gone away, grumbling and cursing about how useless a twenty-five-million-dollar yacht was. “A shitpile of bells and whistles,” Chet said, “and right now the goddamn thing is nothing but a canoe without paddles.”
Rather than bliss, in this case, ignorance had given Alex extra time.
Since he’d come down from his perch above, he’d had one brief interaction with Wade that amounted to nothing more than the former detective informing him, “Hold steady. I’m going to ask some questions. I’ll figure it out.”
Alex looked over his shoulder, watched Wade listen while Mark and Terri spoke with animated features and insistent motions with their arms. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold steady. The wait was maddening.
He decided that he would almost rather head back to port and take his chances than keep Wade’s constructed ruse alive. He was innocent. There was no evidence, whatsoever, that would tie him to Erica’s murder. Everyone saw him go below deck with her. He was the last one to see her alive. All true.
There could be a couple of damning things that would lift eyebrows. He’d fixed the wound on her head, so if blood turned up on his clothes, that was the reason. He’d volunteer to take a polygraph.
He checked underneath his fingernails. Clean, as he knew they would be.
There was no chance he’d be convicted on such flimsy circumstantial evidence.