“No?” Gates repeats. “But we have statements from several people at the club; they all say you fought with Miss Warren. In fact, she threw a drink over you.”

Niklas smirks. “It was nothing. A lovers’ quarrel.”

He looks for me across the courtroom, and meets my eyes with that same smug, chilling smile I saw through the barbed wire of the prison fence.

I shiver.

The trial is winding down now. Dekker’s prosecution case went on for weeks, but now that it’s the defense’s turn, the list of people appearing on my behalf is painfully short. Gates has done what he could: attacking the flaws in Dekker’s case any way he can. He sent a parade of forensics experts up on the stand, arguing everything from how the time of death was wide open to how the crime scene was contaminated and the blood spatter suggests someone taller and larger dealt the fatal wounds.

But our strongest hope has always been Niklas. With Juan still vanished into thin air, Nik was the only suspect we can put up there on the stand, to show how he makes more sense as the killer: how he had motive, and opportunity, and practice climbing up to Elise’s balcony. All through the trial, I’ve been holding on to this brief shard of hope—that once they see him, sneering and slouching, cavalier in the face of Elise’s brutal death—the judge would have no option but to think twice about my guilt.

I sit forward in my seat, willing Niklas’s mask to slip, for some incriminating words to slip out.

“So, the night before the victim’s murder, you fought—wait, I’m sorry, you quarreled with her.” Gates layers on the sarcasm. “Why?”

Niklas shrugs, nonchalant. “She was jealous, of my . . . attention. You know how girls are.” He flashes a conspiratorial look at the judge. She glares back, unmoved.

“She wasn’t angry because you attempted to spike her drink with liquid Ecstasy?” Gates demands. Niklas snaps his head back around.

“What? No.” His face darkens. “Who said that?”

“Again, we have statements from several witnesses at the club—”

“Objection!” Dekker rises. “The witnesses say Miss Chevalier accused Mr. van Oaten of spiking the drink. We have no evidence that any drugs were actually—”

“Withdrawn.” Gates sighs.

I knew this would happen, but I still dig my nails into my palm with frustration. They warned me that without chemical tests, and drink samples, it was my word against his that Niklas even spiked the drink at all.

As if reading my mind, Niklas gives me another look, this one dark and full of loathing.

“So, Mr. van Oaten,” Gates continues, “You didn’t attempt to drug the victim that night?”

“No.” Niklas keeps his gaze fixed on me, furious.

“Have you ever taken liquid Ecstasy?” Gates presses.

“No.”

“Never? Interesting. But did you know that it’s a drug most commonly used by date ra**sts—”

“Objection!” Dekker flies to his feet.

The judge nods. “Sustained.”

Gates walks back to our table and leafs through some papers, regrouping. “He’s lying,” I whisper frantically, but Gates just shakes his head at me and gestures to me to keep quiet.

“The victim rejected your advances that night, isn’t that true?” Gates returns to the stand. “She insulted you, publicly, made a laughingstock of you, in fact?”

Niklas shrugs again. “It was nothing.”

“You weren’t hurt, or angry at all?” Gates asks. “A pretty girl, making fun of you, in front of your friends . . .”

“I didn’t care what she thought.” Niklas is relaxed again, his mask back in place.

“Why not?”

“Would you care what a dog thought? A roach?” Niklas smirks. “She was just some American slut.”

There’s an audible intake of breath in the courtroom, and even the judge’s mouth drops open a little. I can picture Judy and Charles behind me, listening to this, but as much as my heart breaks for them, I feel hope rise again in my chest. This is what we need.

“You didn’t value her opinion,” Gates muses. “What about her consent?”

“Objection!” Dekker leaps up again before Niklas can reply. “There is no evidence that Mr. van Oaten made any attempt to rape the victim. In fact, we’ve heard testimony that their encounters were entirely consensual.”

Gates steps up too. “Miss Chevalier has testified that the victim was increasingly uncomfortable with Mr. van Oaten’s sexual fetishes—”

“Yes, well she would say that,” Dekker interrupts with a snort. “I urge Your Honor, please stop the defense’s smearing Mr. van Oaten’s good name. These are not allegations to be taken lightly.”

“Yes, yes.” Judge von Koppel stops him, then pauses for a long moment. I wait, clutching the table in front of me, silently urging her to let Gates keep going. All the things Elise said about Niklas being weird in bed—dominating, wanting to make her beg—it would fit with the murder. We just have to push him far enough.

After thinking, Judge von Koppel sighs. “I’m afraid I have to agree with the prosecution on this. It’s hearsay. We have nothing except the defendant’s testimony regarding Miss Warren’s feelings. Please move on.”

My heart falls. Stop! I want to cry out. He needs to answer this. You have to see! But Gates just checks his notes again, figuring out another move.

“Where were you, the afternoon of the murder?” Gates asks, but I already know it’s over. We’ll get nothing from him, not when he’s lying like this.

“At home,” Niklas drawls. “With my father.”

“The whole afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing?”

Niklas shrugs. “I don’t remember.”

“But you remember that you were home? The whole afternoon?”

“Sure.”

“Is there anything that can verify your story?” Gates presses. “Security records, perhaps. You live on a large estate—I assume there are security cameras and alarms posted.”

Niklas lifts his body forward toward the mike as if it’s a great effort. “The system was down.”

“Down?” Gates repeats. “For how long?”

Niklas shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“So you have no way of proving—”