Dangerous Girls (15 page)

“I think you like trouble.” Niklas reaches out, tracing his index finger down the side of her face, her neck, along her collarbone. Elise doesn’t flinch.

“Promises, promises,” she coos. The look in her eyes is so intimate, I turn away.

•  •  •

We claim our food in Styrofoam cartons and plastic bags and begin walking back along the beach. I slip off my shoes and sink my toes into the cool sand, listening to the distant rhythm of the waves. My buzz has faded now to a sleepy satisfaction, and I snuggle against Tate, yawning. The ocean is an inky-black shadow to our left, with the lights of the hotels and beach houses string together in a line of glittering neon, snaking out around the bay.

“I don’t like him.”

Tate’s voice startles me from my reverie. I pause for a moment, then look ahead to where Niklas and Elise are a dark shadow, indistinguishable in the dim light. “He seems fine to me. He’s into her.”

“He’s an asshole,” Tate replies, curt.

I laugh. “Maybe. But that’s her type, right?”

Tate doesn’t reply for a minute, but I can feel him, tense beneath his thin shirt. “She can’t keep doing this,” he says at last.

“What?”

“Picking up strange guys.” Tate doesn’t let it drop. “It’s not safe.”

“Come on.” I sigh. “She does it all the time.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound placated. “And it’s bad enough back home, when one of us is around, but this is just stupid. She was going to just go off with him? He could be dangerous.”

“Sure, he’s a real criminal.” I laugh. “Come on, Tate. I told you, Elise can take care of herself. And she’s not going off on her own,” I add. “We’re all going back to the house.”

Tate kicks the sand. “I guess.”

I snuggle closer to him, slipping my hand into his back pocket. My fingers brush against something cool and metallic. “What’s this?” I pull it out. “My necklace!”

“Oh, yeah, I found it in my bag,” Tate replies. “Like you said.”

I smile, leaning up to kiss him. “Thanks, baby.”

There’s the sound of laughter ahead of us. His eyes flick past me, still tense. Niklas.

I sigh. “It’s cute you’re looking out for her,” I tell him. “But Elise does her own thing, you know that.”

“I still don’t like him.” Tate’s voice is petulant.

“I know. And if he turns out to be an ass, you guys can kick him out. She’ll be right down the hall,” I reassure him. “Nothing bad’s going to happen there.”

You see it now. It’s
obvious. You’re probably wondering how I could have been so blind.

But I was.

It’s not like it was all laid out for me, so clinical and neat. I loved them. I trusted them. It never crossed my mind, not even for a moment. Why would it? We were happy, all of us. We were family. Even now, I go back over every memory, tearing them apart any way I can, trying to see the truth beneath the fabric of all of their lies. Still, I come up with nothing.

There was no reason for it; that’s what burns and blazes and aches, filling my days with sick confusion and my nights with restless questions. No fucking reason for them to break everything we had, to just shatter it as if it meant nothing.

As if
I
meant nothing to them.

Maybe it would be different; if I thought for one moment that she really loved him, maybe I could understand. If Tate and I were fighting, bored, unhappy. Something, anything, to explain why they could do this to me. To us.

But Tate? He won’t say a word. And Elise took her reasons to the grave. So I don’t get my answers. I guess I’ll never know.

ELISE WARREN, PHONE NUMBER 212-555-0173

FROM: ANNA

TIME: 9:17 a.m.

You want eggs?

FROM: ANNA

TIME: 9:22 a.m.

Hey sleepy. Wake tf up!

FROM: MEL

TIME: 9:25 a.m.

You coming? We leave in 10.

FROM: CHELSEA

TIME: 9:30 a.m.

you went hard last night. come dive.

FROM: ANNA

TIME: 9:45 a.m.

god you sleep through anything. we’re staying too, come meet us on the beach.

FROM: MEL

TIME: 9:50 a.m.

r u mad? txt back!

FROM: MEL

TIME: 9:55 a.m.

fine. c u when we get back.

FROM: ANNA

TIME: 11:22 a.m.

down by the café, look 4 the red towel.

FROM: TATE

TIME: 1:10 p.m.

trying to get away. c u at the house.

FROM: CHELSEA

TIME: 1:47 p.m.

FISHES!

FROM: NIKLAS

TIME: 4:12 p.m.

want 2 hook up 2nite?

FROM: ANNA

TIME: 6:32 p.m.

guess ur out. call if u wanna grab dinner

FROM: MEL

TIME: 7:51 p.m.

on r way back. did i do something? talk 2 me.

FROM: AK

TIME: 8:19 p.m.

hey slut, where r u?!

FROM: ANNA

TIME: 8:26 p.m.

This isn’t funny. we’re worried. where r u?

I know it’s important when
they come pull me out of breakfast. The routine is carved in stone here, every day the same. Unless you have a court date, visitors wait until the afternoon. No exceptions. So when I’m taken to the interview room and find Ellingham and my dad waiting, pacing in the small, empty space, I feel a shiver of fear.

“What is it?” I go quickly to my dad, forgetting for a moment that I’m not allowed to touch him. He backs away, looking to the guard.

I stop. “Sorry,” I murmur, deflating.

“It’s okay.” Dad gives me a tired smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You should sit down,” Ellingham tells me.

I obey, my fear growing. “What? What is it?”

“There’s been a . . . development.” Ellingham takes a seat across the small table. “I just got a call from Mr. Dempsey. They’re dropping all charges against Tate.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. My heart leaps. “I knew it!” I spring to my feet. “Did they find Juan? The officer said they were looking for him,” I babble, not waiting for a reply. “I knew it would be okay.”

I feel a sob in my throat as relief blossoms, sweet in my chest. It’s sharp and strong, and I have to hug my arms around my body to keep from embracing him.

“No, that’s not it.” Ellingham clears his throat, and just like that, my elation wavers, caught on a precipice.

“But, you said . . .” My voice trembles with confusion. “They’ve dropped the charges. That means I can go home, right?”

I look between them for confirmation, but my dad just glances away.

“They’ve ended the investigation into Tate,” Ellingham says, his voice reluctant. “He’s flying home this afternoon. But your murder charge still stands. You’ll go to trial as expected in a couple of months.”

I sink back down onto the hard plastic chair, reeling.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “What happened?”

My dad finally speaks. “Tate cut a deal with the
prosecutor. He admitted you lied about your alibis.” The disappointed look in his eyes is enough to break my heart.

“I can explain!” I cry. “He asked me to; he said they’d suspect him if they knew he went back to the house. I never meant to lie.”

“But why didn’t you tell me the truth from the start?” My dad looks at me, searching. “We could have done something, found a way . . .”

“I don’t know,” I say helplessly. “He said it would be worse for us, that they’d think we did something wrong.”

“They do.” Ellingham’s voice is matter-of-fact.

I pause, trying to process it. Tate told. After all this time, insisting we had to stick together, he turned around and . . .

“Why did they drop the charges against him?” I ask slowly. “If they knew he was at the house with her, wouldn’t that make him a suspect?”

Ellingham clears his throat again. He looks uncomfortable, as if he wishes he could be anywhere but this small, bleak room under the fluorescent strip lighting. Then I remember: he works for Mr. Dempsey. He was never here for me.

“Our investigators uncovered security footage from the convenience store near the house,” he explains stiffly. “It shows Elise out that afternoon, around 3 p.m.”

I don’t get it. I turn to my dad for help.

“The timeline doesn’t fit,” Dad tells me gently. “She was
still alive, after he went back to the house. His alibi still holds, for the new time of death.”

I shake my head. “But why am I still here?” I ask them. “The only reason I was lying was to protect him. And if they’re sure he’s innocent . . .”

“His alibi holds, but yours doesn’t,” Ellingham tells me. “Tate says he took a nap when you were on the beach that afternoon. When he woke up, you were gone. That’s at least forty minutes unaccounted for, maybe more. Plenty of time to go to the house and back.”

“But I was right there.” My voice comes out a whisper. I look to my dad again, pleading. “I was down by the water. I walked a little, along the shore. I was right there the whole time.”

“Tate says he didn’t see you.” There’s no argument in Ellingham’s voice, just plain fact. “That’s enough for Dekker to argue that you had the opportunity and means to kill Elise. And with their affair, he can claim you have motive, as well.”

You see? How simple it
is, how one little piece of information changes everything. How it all just falls into place.

Betrayal.

I slowly push my seat
away from the table. The legs scrape on the tile floor.

“What are you talking about?” I say slowly.

“Elise and Tate.” Ellingham is studying me carefully. “They were having an affair. Hooking up, I believe you would call it.”

“No.” I shake my head. “You’re lying.” I look around. “Dekker’s watching, he’s trying to catch me out. This is some kind of trick.”

“I assure you, it’s not.”

“Tate told the police today,” my dad says gently. “When he came clean about the alibis.”

“No.” My voice is a whisper.

“Apparently they’d been together several months,”
Ellingham continues, as if he doesn’t realize how his words are slicing through me. Or maybe he does and he just doesn’t care. “Since January, Tate said.”

“No!” My scream cuts through the room. “You’re lying! He would never . . .” I catch my breath, ragged. “
She
would never!”

There’s a long silence, then Ellingham stands. “I should go,” he says, reaching quickly for his briefcase. “Give you time to . . . think things through.”

“But you’ll call me later?” My dad rises, looking concerned. “We need to talk about her defense strategy, now that Tate is out of the picture.”

“Of course.” Ellingham’s smile is blank and professional. “You have my number.”

He sweeps out, the guard closing the door firmly behind him. Dad and I are left alone.

“I didn’t know.” My voice breaks. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

“I believe you, sweetie.” Dad reaches across and takes my hand. The guard looks away, and that’s when I know just how desperate my situation is. That a hand held across the table is the only hope I’ve got. “We’ll be okay, I promise.”

“But how?” The full weight of Ellingham’s revelations begins to crush me, so hard I can barely breathe. I look around the tiny room, knowing that outside there’s nothing but metal bars and security gates and guards, armed and ready to keep me here, locked forever. My panic takes flight,
and I feel it all the way to my bones. “It’s just me now,” I whisper, disbelieving.

“No, sweetie.” Dad clutches my hand tighter, but I shake my head. The tears I’ve been holding back for weeks finally slip through, a grief so deep I could drown.

“He left me.” I choke on the words and my own, bitter sobs. “They both left me here alone.”

I lay my head on the table and weep.

“So you didn’t know?”

Dekker’s question rings out, taunting and full of scorn.

I take a breath, looking for Tate in the courtroom, but he’s not here. “No.”

“The victim was conducting an affair with your boyfriend for months, right under your nose, and you mean to tell the court you had no clue it was going on?” Dekker turns to the audience, his face a picture of disbelief.

I try to stay calm. There’s no jury, my lawyer keeps reminding me, so all of Dekker’s wide-eyed performing won’t mean a thing in the end. The only person who matters—the one with my fate resting in her delicately manicured hands—is the judge, von Koppel, sitting six feet to my left at the central table at the head of the room.

I direct my answer to her alone, trying to keep my expression neutral and my voice even and resolute. “No. I had no idea—not until he confessed, after he cut a deal with you.”

Dekker quickly interrupts me. “Please let the record show, there was no deal, as the defendant implies. Mr. Dempsey volunteered new information that led to his charges being dropped, that is all.”

“Sorry,” I reply. “My mistake.”

It’s not. My lawyer told me to bring it up, to bring up anything that might make Dekker look biased, or corrupt, or just plain incompetent. Dekker narrows his eyes at me in a fierce glare, but I try to stay calm. I have to score what points I can, they told me over and over again. It may seem petty, like some silly game, but the rest of my life is on the line. If I can throw him off, even a little, it might make all the difference.

“Also, please note I object to the word ‘confessed’,” Dekker continues, still glaring. “Mr. Dempsey merely cleared up earlier inconsistencies in his testimony to police.”