Page 7 of The Expat Affair

“Over the course of the evening, how much would you say you had to drink?”

I pause. I’ve always hated this question, the way it always comes with an undertone of judgment. I could play the number of drinks down, but there were witnesses to last night’s boozing, bartenders and waiters and the people sitting all around us, and we weren’t subtle about it. We were loud and having a good time.

“More than I usually do,” I say, and that part at least is the truth. “We’d been out since 7:30.”

“How much?”

I shrug. “A couple of drinks at the bar, a bottle of wine with dinner, champagne on Xander’s terrace. But I made sure to drink lots of water, too. And I ate, so it’s not like I drank all that on an empty stomach.”

“Any drugs? Weed, shrooms, cocaine, pills?”

“I know what drugs are, and no.” I frown. “No drugs.”

He flashes what appears to be an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but you wouldn’t be the first American tourist to come here for the drugs. But even without them, that’s a lot of alcohol in a fairly petite frame. You must have been quite drunk.”

Wasted, though I hold back on offering up that truth. Yes, I drank more than I should have, certainly more than is wise for a person my size. Yes, after midnight the edges of the evening turn slippery and vague, but are there any black holes? Any blank spots in my memory where I might not have noticed a killer tiptoeing from room to room? Also yes, as much as I’m reluctant to admit it. Everything after the champagne is a bunch of random snippets for me to puzzle together. There are plenty of blank spots.

“We werebothdrunk, yes. We passed out pretty hard. And before you ask, I don’t know what time Xander was killed, or how long he’d been in the shower. I only know that when I woke up at just before eight, the water was already running. Still hot, too.”

“We don’t have boilers like in the States. Our water heaters are gas-fired, meaning the hot water never runs out.” He pauses, regarding me. “It just seems very unlikely.”

I shrug again, both shoulders hiking high enough to touch my ears. “I don’t know what to tell you, Detective. I’m a really heavy sleeper.”

“No. I mean it seems unlikely that someone would go to the trouble of murdering Xander and not you. Especially seeing as you are a witness.”

“I just told you I was asleep. I didn’t witness anything but the aftermath.”

He doesn’t respond to that, just sits there and watches me for so long it becomes uncomfortable. Detective Boomsma doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m lying, that I know more than I’m telling. He thinks I’m holding something back, which I suppose I am.

“Are you in the Netherlands as a tourist?” he asks. “Or are you here on a more permanent basis?”

“I have a DAFT visa, if that’s what you’re getting at.” The Dutch American Friendship Treaty, an agreement that allows Americans to live and work in Holland as long as they remain gainfully self-employed—though so far, thegainfullypart is up for debate. Freelancing is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought it would be.

“So you’ve been to the IND.” The Dutch immigration services. He pauses to receive my nod. “Then we have already collected your fingerprints when you gave your biometrics. But a DNA sample would be helpful. You can give one at the station.”

“I puked all over the bathroom floor, Detective. You can mop my DNA sample off the marble.”

“We would still need an official swab to match with your...sample, as well as whatever other evidence we find at the scene. That way we can rule you out.”

Or box me in. A cool breeze whispers up the back of my neck, a warning to tread carefully.

“And if I say no?”

“That is certainly your right. But it would be easiest for both of us if you cooperate. It will only take a few minutes.”

Not a threat, exactly, but I can read between the lines. He’ll visit a judge, get a subpoena—do they even call them subpoenas in the Netherlands?—and force me. Another mountain of attorney fees I can’t afford, when I still haven’t paid off the first pile.

Then again, surely this conversation can only have convinced this man that Icannotbe guilty. After all, he’s the one who brought up Xander’s size, a good two heads taller than me, in the same breath he called me petite. I could barely reach both hands around Xander’s neck without a stepladder, much less climb up his soap-slicked body and overpower him with something as flimsy as a zip tie. Giving the police my DNA will help them cross me off the list of suspects.

Still.

“I left my bike in town last night. Xander and I walked home from the restaurant.”

“I’ll give you a ride.”

I can’t imagine anything I want to do less than climb in this man’s car and let him drive me to the station. I look around, and every eye in the place is on me. The girl manning the row of blenders, the apron-clad cashier, a cluster of people waiting in line. They’re all looking at me. Waiting to see how I will respond.

And this is where my pride gets the better of me.

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