Page 11 of Shark Cove

A bright yellow box of rat poison rested there, as out of place as a neon sign.

Rat poison.

Why would Ms. William need rat poison, and why keep it here?

Six months ago, Camille had been so sick she’d had to go to the hospital and have her stomach pumped. They’d found traces of rat poison in her system, and no one knew how it had got there, least of all Camille.

Regina Wiliam had been in a tizzy. She’d sent Camille to all sorts of doctors and psychologists and blamed her ex for pushing Camille to attempt suicide.

But what if Regina William had poisoned Camille herself, to try to show that Camille was disturbed, and to get back at Leonard William even more?

Malia took a picture of the terrible yellow box with its crossed-out rat on the front.

Camille had eventually gotten rid of the doctors and psychologists by being her usual sunny self, but after that, she had never wanted to eat at home. She wouldn’t eat what her mom cooked, always making excuses that she was counting calories or had just eaten—but never once had she said a word against her mom.

Camille was loyal like that.

Malia’s stomach churned. Everything in the room looked suspicious: the bottles of Xanax and Ambien to drug somebody. A missing satin cord hanging from the drapes could have been used to tie Camille up. The rug was gone—what if Regina William had killed Camille herself, or drugged her and taken her somewhere? Camille had always been an “illness-prone” kid. How many of those illnesses and accidents might have been caused by Regina William?

Malia was so spooked that her hands were shaking, but she made sure the bathroom looked like it had originally. She almost dropped the vacuum cleaner as she lugged it out of the closet, remembering to hold the handle with the tissue. The tissue promptly shredded once she started vacuuming, stopping to turn the machine off every few minutes to listen, terrified someone would approach and she wouldn’t hear them coming.

Finally, Malia’d vacuumed all her footprints out of Camille’s room, Regina William’s room, and the hall. She put the vacuum away and, setting her feet on the edges of the wooden baseboard, made it to the polished wood stairs where her footprints didn’t show.

Outside, she hid the keys back under the rubber rock.

Sweat prickled over Malia’s body as she trotted away from the house, mentally checking over every step she’d taken to leave all as she’d found it. She hurried down the path through the vacant lots, vigilant for anyone to spot her—but as usual the Estates were deserted during the day; all were quiet but for one lone gardener doing someone’s yard with a blower that sounded louder than a jet engine. The great purple cone of Haleakala volcano was a ridiculously beautiful backdrop in the distance, framed by waving palm trees and swatches of picturesque cloud.

Hiking back down the highway toward school, Malia’s stomach rumbled. She’d been too keyed up to eat breakfast, and now it was noon, the Maui sun high overhead. She put her ball cap on and stuck her thumb out. If she got to school soon, she’d be able to eat a late lunch in the cafeteria. The next passing vehicle, a shiny red sports car, pulled over.

Malia glanced into the low-slung luxury vehicle. The driver had moussed-looking hair and was dressed in Hawaiian business casual—tan pants and an aloha shirt. “Where you headed, cutie?” He had very white teeth.

“Back to school. Got a late start this morning—missed the bus.” Malia smiled at the guy as she got in, feeling sweaty and gross. She perched on the edge of the leather seat, setting her backpack in front of her knees, and enjoyed the smell of buttery new leather as she shut the door with a soft, expensive sounding click.

“Which one? I’m headed to Lahaina.”

Malia put the seat belt on. “You’ll pass right by my school. Paradise Preparatory Academy.”

“Oh, a prep school girl. I thought you were a local.” He pulled back onto the road.

Malia never knew how to take comments like that. Her Mexican heritage passed for mixed Hawaiian, what they called “local” here in Hawaii. It was usually easiest not to argue with those assumptions—but inside, she always felt a little wrong about it.

The car floated like a cloud down the road. “This is a really nice car.”

“That’s why I drive it.” The guy seemed to be looking at her breasts—but he had mirrored sunglasses on, so she couldn’t be sure. “What’s your name, sweet cheeks?”

“Malia.” She didn’t like being called “sweet cheeks,” and she’d forgotten to put her concealing sweatshirt on over her tight clothing. She unzipped the backpack and took the sweatshirt out, shrugging into it despite the awkward seatbelt.

“You look way too hot to be wearing something like that,” the guy said. There was something off in the way he said it. He reached over and put his hand on her bare leg.

Malia jumped like it was a hot coal. He laughed.

Malia looked around at where they were—at least fifteen minutes from her school, driving through Wailuku. “Hey, I think I better stop and pick up something for lunch. Why don’t you let me out on the corner?”

“Don’t think I will.” This time when he smiled, the guy’s white teeth reminded her of a shark’s.

Malia gathered her nerve. She narrowed her eyes at the driver. “My mom is a detective with Maui Police Department. You don’t want to mess with me, Mr. License Plate Number HV22RED. I also am trained in self-defense and can gouge your eye out with my thumb.”

The man chuckled, nervously this time. “Just kiddin’ with you, hon. I’ll drop you off right where you’re going. The streets aren’t safe these days.”

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