Dangerous Girls (2 page)

“That’s not the only thing they’re trying to lay,” I quip. Elise laughs, and high-fives me.

“Maybe they’ll let you watch,” she adds to Mel. “You might learn something.”

“La, la, la!” Chelsea protests, covering her ears. “What’s the rule?”

“No talking about your brother and his sex life.” Elise sighs.

“Or his lack of one.” I grin, but Mel is still sulking. She turns to Elise.

“I don’t know why I can’t just share with you.”

“Because I plan on having fun,” Elise grins, “Like with that dark-haired guy, the one in the VIP booth.”

“They have a VIP booth here?” Chelsea laughs, trying to rinse her hands under the sputtering tap. Her wrists are full of knotted yarn bracelets and exotic beads, fraying until they’re barely hanging on. “They don’t even have running water.”

Elise just applies a coat of gloss red lip balm. “He’s cute, I’m telling you. I think I’ll have him come back to see the house. The view from my bedroom . . .” She winks.

“Elise!” Mel protests, like clockwork, “You don’t even know him. He could be a rapist, or murderer, or—”

“Stop with all the buzzkill,” I interrupt.

“You need a drink,” Elise agrees. She hops down and links her arm with Mel’s, giving me an exasperated look over her head. “Two drinks. And a hot, sweaty local guy.”

“I’m not—”

“Interested, we know.” Elise steers her out, back into the club.

We chorus in unison, “You’re not that kind of girl.”

Melanie pouts. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

Elise rolls her eyes. “No, we say it like it’s a dull thing.”

Back on the floor, Elise points out her target for the night.
He’s lounging with some buddies in the corner: he’s handsome, in his early twenties maybe, with a bored nonchalance that just screams
rich kid
.

“Cute, right?” She grinds against me, flashing flirtatious looks over at the guy; pulling me in to nuzzle at my neck.

I laugh. “He looks like trouble.”

She grins back. “Just the way I like them.” And then she’s gone, ducking through the crowd toward the guy. I watch her go. Within seconds, she’s smiling and laughing with the group, that one guy giving her an approving grin.

Tate reappears next to me. “Where’s Elise?” he yells to be heard.

I shrug vaguely, but Tate looks across the floor to where she’s already angled, cross-legged in the booth with them, leaning in to talk to her prospective conquest. Her hair glows purple and red under the lights, tanned legs long and bare under her skirt. I smile, watching her at work. She’s gorgeous; no man would stand a chance of resisting.

“I don’t like this. We should stick together,” he yells again, frowning.

“Relax!” I slide my arms around him, pulling his lips down to mine. “Elise is a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

“I didn’t do it!”

I leap up, the words flying from my lips the moment the lawyer steps into the holding room. “I didn’t do it,” I say again, gripping my hands together as if I can save myself from drowning. “This is all a mistake.”

Even as I say it, I can hear how cliché it sounds, like I’m stuck in the nightmare of one of those trashy soaps I would watch with my mom as a kid. I swallow back the hysterics, try to sound calm and collected. “You believe me, don’t you? You have to make them see.”

The lawyer’s name is Ellingham, and he’s all jowls and receding hairline, an international law specialist Tate’s dad flew in from New York. He doesn’t speak until the guard closes the
door behind him and we’re alone in the small room. Then he places his briefcase on the table they’ve bolted to the floor and finally looks at me.

“That doesn’t matter, not today.”

I stare back in disbelief. “Of course it matters! They’re saying . . . They say . . .” My voice breaks.

“Today is a simple bail hearing,” he explains, unclicking the stays on the briefcase. It’s leather, expensive. Everything about him is expensive: The crisp shirt, the designer linen suit, the heavy fountain pen he uses to sign the top sheet of the papers. In the prison, they have me wearing an itchy canvas jumpsuit, but my dad brought clean clothes for the hearing. I’ve never been so happy to wear a simple white tank top in my life: the cotton soft against my skin, smelling like our old detergent. Like home.

“This hearing isn’t to argue your case,” Ellingham warns me. “You’ll go sit, state your name, and then enter your plea. Sign here.” He offers the pen.

I sign, awkward in handcuffs. “Can you get them to take these off?” I ask hopefully. My wrists are ringed with red and bruises now, but I’m lucky: the first court appearances had me in leg shackles too, and I flushed with shame to stumble across the room like a drunk freshman trying to walk in heels.

He shakes his head. “Not right now, but once the judge grants bail, you’ll be released.”

“Then we can go home.” I feel a sob of sheer relief at the prospect, and fight to swallow it back. I can’t be the girl weeping in the courtroom, I know. I have to be strong.

“You mustn’t leave the island.” Ellingham looks at me as if I should know all this already. “It’ll be a term of your bail. You have to stay until the trial.”

I nod eagerly. Anything to get me out of jail. They’ve kept me in isolation since the arrest, five long days when I’ve seen nobody but unfriendly guards and the distant sight of other prisoners as they march me between the exercise pen and my cell. It’s too hot to sleep, and I spend every night huddled on my bunk on the thin wool blanket, counting cracks on the ceiling and waiting to wake up and find this is all a dream.

But it isn’t.

The guard knocks, then enters, gesturing for us to go.

“Is Tate okay?” I demand, following Ellingham down the windowless hallway. The guard matches me, step for step, as if I’m about the break free and run. “Will he be there?”

“You’ll be processed together.” He’s already checking his phone, done with me. “Don’t speak to him, or anyone, until you’re out of there. Just your name and plea.”

I nod again. I used to give the lawyer messages to pass along, words of love, little in-jokes, but he never brought any word back from Tate, so I quit even trying. I was so used to texting back and forth with him every hour I was awake, I still
hear phantom rings; a low buzz that makes me leap up, searching around the cell for the phone. But of course, there are none in there, even if Tate were free to call. He’s been locked up, like me, somewhere on the other side of this sprawling compound. The longest we’ve been apart in five months.

It’s the longest I’ve been apart from Elise, too, but I can’t think about that.

•  •  •

They transport me in the back of an unmarked van, with another two guards sitting on each side as if I’m still planning an escape. I want to laugh and tell them I can’t even make it through cross-country trials in phys ed, let alone flee police custody. Besides, where would I go? The island is less than seventy square miles: nothing but beaches and high-rise hotels and cacti growing wild in the dusty swathes of land not overtaken by fast-food outlets and Caribbean beach bars.
Paradise
, all the tourism websites called it. Ellingham is traveling separately in his rented luxury sedan. The driver up front in the van plays a local Aruba radio station, the DJ babbling in Dutch between American pop and rap hits. I remember that first night on the island. Elise and Melanie and Chelsea and me, dancing together in the club. We took photos on our cell phones, uploading them to all our profiles right away with the title “Best Spring Break Ever.” We tagged and commented and reposted, just to make sure everybody back home would see it
and know what a fabulous time we were all having. Know that they weren’t invited.

I wonder how long it’ll take the tabloids to find the photos. Or maybe they already have, and they’re printed on some front page somewhere.

A cautionary tale.

•  •  •

“Tate!”

I know what the lawyer said, but I can’t help it—he’s already sitting at the defendant’s table when the guard leads me in, his head bowed and staring at the floor. “Tate!” I all but sprint down the aisle toward him.

“Miss!” The guard yanks me to a stop, “No running. Don’t make me get the leg shackles.”

I stop. “No, please, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

He glares at me for a moment, then loosens his grip on my arm and shoves me toward one of the empty chairs.

I sink into it, my eyes still on Tate. He doesn’t look up, just sits there, head bowed beside me. “Hey,” I can’t resist whispering. “Are you okay?”

The lawyer hushes me, but I don’t care. “Tate?” I whisper again. “Look at me.”

He does, and the defeated expression on his face moves me more than the blunt metal on my wrists, or the bruise on my ribs from where an unseen passerby shoved me on my first
night in jail. His blue eyes are glazed; red from crying, and everything about him seems hunched and broken down.

Tate, the golden one; future president, king of Hillcrest Prep. Tate, who was always so confident, safe in his world of privilege and success, who could charm even our principal’s cranky secretary into smiling submission. Tate, my boyfriend, my love, looking like a lost boy: scared and alone, his right leg trembling uncontrollably.

“What did they do to you?” I gasp, my own sleepless nights forgotten. His eyes just slide away from me, back to the floor.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and turn to see my father. He reaches out, as if to touch me, but that’s against the rules, and when the lawyer quickly clears his throat, my dad’s hands drop to his lap. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he tells me in a voice that almost makes me believe he’s right. But his face is pale, and there are dark shadows smudged under his eyes. He forces a smile, placing one hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. This’ll all be straightened out.”

“Mr. Chevalier.” Ellingham’s tone is a warning. Dad pulls his hand away.

“Of course. I’m sorry.” He smiles at me again: forced and so upbeat, I have to match it with my own.

“Thanks, Dad,” I murmur back as he takes his seat again.

Tate’s parents are sitting in the row behind us too:
poker-faced and immaculate in tailored suits and carefully styled hair. There are others with them, their heads bent in whispered consultation, brandishing briefcases and notepads and frowns of careful concern. More lawyers, local advisors, assistants, maybe. Mr. Dempsey runs a hedge fund back home, and Mrs. Dempsey runs the Boston social scene; whenever I saw either of them, it was always with some secretary or junior associate scurrying along behind. Now, the numbers make me calm, just a little. I’m not alone in this. They’ll make sure this is okay.

“Rise for the Honorable Judge von Koppel.”

Ellingham stands in place between us, and we line up to watch the judge walk in. The room isn’t a chambers or courthouse, just a regular conference room in a squat, whitewashed building, with tables and folding chairs set out, like the kind you find in hotels for business conventions. Our table is on one side, with our parents and their entourage behind, and the police investigators sit at another table across the aisle. In front, the judge takes a seat behind her table and stares through her wire-rimmed glasses at the papers already waiting for her. She’s in her forties maybe, a cool blonde in a navy suit.

“State your names and plea for the record,” she tells us. Her Dutch accent is lilting, almost sing song. Tate and I do it in turn. Tate Dempsey. Anna Chevalier. Not guilty. Not guilty.

The judge scribbles something. “You are seeking bail for the defendants?”

Ellingham leaps up. “Yes, Your Honor. Given that both are minors, and have been held on only circumstantial evidence—”

“Objection!” There’s a cry from the other table. Ellingham doesn’t pause.

“We ask that the courts release them into the custody of their parents as they await trial.”

The judge looks curiously at both me and Tate in turn. I stare back, unblinking, trying to show her I have nothing to hide. She looks away, toward the prosecution.

“And you object?”

“Yes, your honor.” The police investigator is a short brute of a man, lights gleaming off his bald head. I’ve spent hours locked in small rooms with that reflection, as he yelled and cajoled and yelled some more, demanding a confession to crimes too awful to contemplate.

I hate him.

“Given the serious nature of the crime, and the defendants’ status as foreign nationals, we urge the court to remand them into custody and avoid a flight situation. These people are a risk to the public.” He turns to glare at me, and again, I try to stare him down, unflinching.

“Do you have anything to counter these concerns?” The judge asks Ellingham.

One of the associates from behind us leans forward, and he and Ellingham confer, their voices low. After a moment, Ellingham pulls away. “May I approach?”

She nods, and Ellingham and the police investigator move forward to talk with her at the front of the room.

“Hey,” I whisper again, using the distraction to reach over to Tate. I touch his arm lightly, and he flinches. “Tay, are you okay?”

He looks up and swallows. “I will be,” he replies softly, his eyes on mine. “When we get out of here.”

“Everything’s going to be okay.” I repeat what my dad told me. He nods. “We just have to be strong, and stick together.”

Tate manages a faint smile, and my panic ebbs. We’ll be okay. We have to be.

Ellingham finishes talking up front, and returns to stand between us. The judge shuffles some papers around.

“I’ve been informed that the Dempsey family has rented a house on the island and will be remaining here with their son until trial. Given those assurances, I am setting Mr. Dempsey’s bond at five million dollars, and releasing him to the custody of his parents.”

Tate deflates in a great gasp of relief, and there’s a sob from his mother behind us. My heartbeat thunders. Thank God.

“However, my concern for Miss Chevalier remains.” The judge peers at me, her eyes like ice. “Her family can offer no
such assurances, and so I agree with the investigator. The defendant is a flight risk, charged with a violent crime of the highest degree, and will therefore be remanded to the Aruba Correctional Institute awaiting trial for the murder of Elise Warren. Hearing adjourned.” She bangs her gavel.