Dangerous Girls (24 page)

ANNA:
We went out. And maybe we went down some bad roads, but that was Elise. She, loved to have a good time. She was the outgoing one, you know? She was always looking for an adventure.

CLARA:
Well, Martin, we’ve had time now to go over the footage—exclusive footage, by the way, exclusive to the Clara Rose Show—so what’s your take on this? Is Anna telling the truth here, or is this just the latest in a long series of lies from the accused killer?

MARTIN:
Looking at the clips we’ve seen, I’ve got to say, the thing that strikes me is the complete lack of
personal responsibility. Time and again, she blames everybody else for the situation she’s in: Her friends wanted to go on vacation; her boyfriend told her to lie about their alibis; the prosecutor has some kind of personal vendetta—

CLARA:
Even blaming the victim herself.

MARTIN:
Exactly. And seeing this, you’ve really got to ask yourself, is she just trying to pass the buck, or does this go much deeper, to an almost pathological detachment from reality?

CLARA:
Now, I’ve got body-language expert Heidi Attenberg on the line, author of several books on the subject. What does this footage tell you, Heidi?

HEIDI:
Thanks for having me, Clara. First of all, if you look at her posture during these answers, it’s very composed, controlled. Her hands are folded, she doesn’t twitch or move around at all; this tells us she’s a very self-possessed person, someone who likes control.

CLARA:
Too controlled, perhaps? I mean, this is a girl who’s been locked up in prison for months now I
have to admit, I was expecting her to be . . . more raw, a lot more emotional . . . Even before the cameras started rolling, she sat quietly, barely speaking, like she was analyzing the scene.

HEIDI:
Right, and then when she does have a more emotional moment—here, where she’s talking to the parents and she starts crying, it’s almost too emotional, coming after all that calm.

CLARA:
You’re saying she’s faking it?

HEIDI:
It’s certainly possible. When people cry, for real, it’s an almost involuntary action; they just can’t help it. In the footage, if you keep your eye on Anna’s hands—

CLARA:
We’re highlighting it on-screen here—

HEIDI:
They stay folded, again, very composed. We’d expect to see her touch her face, wipe her eyes, maybe.

CLARA:
That’s fascinating. Now, can we backtrack a moment and show you some footage from before
the interview? This is background roll of Anna talking to her legal team, she’s got her lawyer there, and I want to show you this: Anna, getting very friendly with a young man we’ve identified as Lee Evans, age twenty-three; he’s a junior consul at the American embassy in the Netherlands. We contacted the embassy for comment, and all they’ll tell us is that Evans is not in Aruba in any official capacity. So, Heidi, what do we think? Is this a friend? A secret boyfriend? What does their body language say to you?

HEIDI:
Whoever he is, they have a close relationship. You can see the physical affection when he touches her, the way she smiles at him.

CLARA:
I would say he looks smitten with her.

HEIDI:
Definitely not just a platonic relationship.

CLARA:
Well, then, I’ve got to ask: What does this tell us about Anna Chevalier? I don’t know about you, but if I’m in prison, awaiting a murder trial, boys are going to be the last thing on my mind. But here she is, apparently flirting with a young man, in plain view of everyone.

MARTIN:
And if I can add, we know there was confusion about her and her boyfriend, Tate Dempsey, and their alibis, which were later recanted. Anna’s always claimed he was the one who told her to lie, but looking at this tape, now I’ve got to wonder, you know—this is a girl with considerable feminine power. She’s got this new guy under her spell, even from behind prison bars. Getting a loyal boyfriend to lie for her would be easy.

CLARA:
And we’ll get back to that later. But quickly, Martin, before the break, let’s talk about her bruises. A lot of people were shocked to see them.

MARTIN:
Right, and I know this fight, this prison fight, has gotten her a lot of sympathy from some quarters—

CLARA:
Even thought the prison authorities have assured me she’s being kept in isolation now, away from other inmates.

MARTIN:
I think seeing her like this, up close for the first time, has really driven home the reality of the situation. I mean, whether she’s falsely accused or
not, this is a young girl, a teenage girl locked up in a foreign prison with women—all kinds of criminals, most of them older than her.

CLARA:
Now, Anna says she was the one who was attacked, but the other girl in the incident, a Johanna Pearson, she says Anna is the one who started it. That Anna flew at her in a rage—well, that sounds familiar, doesn’t it? We’ve actually got some photos released to us, showing Johanna’s injuries after the fight. Well, clearly, it looks like Anna got off lightly here.

MARTIN:
Wow. I mean, that’s some serious damage. The wounds to her face, a broken nose—

CLARA:
And the hospital records say Anna broke two of this other girl’s ribs.

MARTIN:
I’ve got to say, this is . . . This changes a lot for me. If Anna can do this with her bare hands, then I bet I’m not the only one wondering, what would she be capable of with a knife in her hand?

CLARA:
We’ll be right back, after this message.

I lie out in the
prison yard every afternoon leading up to the trial. It’s the only perk of isolation, I guess, that I’m alone in my tiny, fenced-off strip of land, far away from the rest of the inmates. I don’t have to watch my back for fights, or gossip, I can just sprawl flat on my back in the yellowed grass, watching the sky.

If I tilt my head just right, I don’t see the barbed-wire fencing or the top of the guards’ tower, just the expanse of blue sky overhead. Every ten minutes or so, a plane takes off, banking in a wide semicircle across the island before heading out—to America, or Europe, or some other place that’s anywhere but here. You’d think the ache would lessen watching them go. I must have seen hundreds of planes leave by now, day after day;
but every time, I feel it fresh, the same sharp longing in my chest, to be on one of those flights, squeezed up against some noisy seatmate in the tiny row, spilling peanuts and watching bad movies on an eight-inch screen.

Going home.

A wolf-whistle cuts through my reverie, sharp. I sit up, turning to find somebody leaning up against the barbed-wire fence. I squint, confused, until the figure shifts out of the sun, and I make out his familiar blond hair and ice-blue eyes.

Niklas.

I freeze.

“How did you get in?” I finally scramble to my feet, slowly approaching him. He’s on the guard’s side of the wire, lounging and smug in loose surfer shorts and one of his preppy pastel polo shirts, the collar popped. I study him suspiciously, staying back from the wire. “You’re not allowed. Visiting hours finished this morning.”

“I pulled some strings.” Niklas’s eyes trail up and down my body, with its baggy prison jumpsuit now dusty from the dirt.

“Why?” I fold my arms across my chest, remembering sharply how unnerved I felt around him, like he was imagining me naked. Of all the guys in the bar that first night, Elise had to pick the creepiest of them all.

“I saw you on TV.” He smirks, casual with his hands in his pockets. “Nice show. I liked the part where you cried,
very touching.” His tone is amused, almost mocking.

I shiver. “What do you want?”

“Can’t I pay a visit, show some moral support?” Niklas asks. “It must be tough for you here, all alone. Your friends all went back home, didn’t they? Guess they didn’t want to stick around for a killer.”

“I didn’t do it,” I say quietly, before I can stop myself.

Niklas tilts his head at me. “Maybe not.” He smirks again. “But that won’t make a difference, will it?”

I take a step back as he chuckles to himself. “Found yourself a prison bitch yet? Some action in the showers?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I always wondered, you and Elise . . . I suggested you come join us, but she said that wasn’t her style. That she didn’t like sharing you.”

I glare at him. “Stop it.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Niklas looks around. “You were the ones saying I’d never make anything of my life, never
be
anyone, and here you are.” The smile slips, and his eyes turn hard as glass. “You girls thought you were so much better than me, didn’t you? Laughing at me, making me look a fool. Well, look where you are now.” He gestures around at the bars and wire. “And Elise . . .”

“What?” I demand. “What about her?”

Niklas stares back at me, hard and unflinching. “Maybe the bitch got what she deserved.”

I down a shot of
tequila, then another, the burn shooting down my throat like fire.

“Look at you go!” Elise whistles. “My girl’s going wild!”

I ignore her and grab another shot, this one lurid blue and peppermint-sweet in my mouth. We’re back in the bar from the first night on the island: the music still loud, the floors still sticky, the crowd still packed half-naked and sweaty in the shack of a room. I can’t believe it was only three days ago we partied here, happy and blissfully naive.

I drain the glass, wincing at the taste.

“What’s the deal?” Elise slips her arm around my waist and pulls me in close. “Not that I’m not a fan of this new party-girl you, but I thought you said you were taking it easy this week.”

“Things change.” I duck out of her embrace and cross the bar, to where Lamar’s waiting against the wall, watching Chelsea and Mel dance and spin around the room.

“C’mon,” I take his hand, pulling him toward the dance floor. “Tate won’t dance. I’m all alone.”

“The girls are out there.”

“Yes, but I need a big, strong guy to protect me,” I tease. “It’s no fun without you.”

“Just one song.” Lamar laughs and lets me lead him into the crowd. It’s a fast song, with a grinding dance bass. I feel the alcohol seep through me: the giddy lift, the sweet veil slipping over my mood. This is what I need, an escape from the doubts creeping into my mind and all the questions as heavy as the flaking pendant against Elise’s neck.

I let the music take over, swaying close to Lamar. My arms are loose around his neck, my body against his. He’s more built than Tate—muscles from the football field, taut under my fingertips as I run them across his shoulders. He backs away slightly.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I spin out, and then back to his body again, close enough to feel the heat beneath his loose T-shirt. He’s still frowning, but his body moves against mine with the beat of the music, slowly relaxing.

He’s always liked me. It’s nothing he’s ever said or done,
but I can tell all the same. Like the way he’ll look at me sometimes, when I’m tucked in Tate’s embrace, or when we’re all dressed up for a night out—heels and skirts and hair falling down low—and I’ll feel his eyes on me, edged with something more than friendship. I never thought of doing anything about it, of course; it was just nice to know. Validation, I guess. And there’s Chelsea, and Tate, always Tate, filling my mind until there’s no room for anything else. But now, through the gentle haze of tequila and dark, pulsating lights, I wonder what it would be like if I’d picked Lamar instead. Easy, and sweet. Fun. Not this all-consuming hunger I have for Tate, the dagger-shards of insecurity slicing through me. He would be a satellite, not my gravity, the pull so strong it scares me sometimes.

I move closer, sliding my hands down his back. He sways for a moment, leaning in, and there’s a longer moment when we’re in sync, closer than we should be, then Lamar detaches himself from me awkwardly. “I should get back, to Chels . . .”

There’s a hand on my shoulder, and Lamar’s eyes go past me. “Hey, man,” he says quickly. “We were just going to find you. She’s all yours.” He swiftly hands me off to Tate, then slips away through the crowd.

I slide against Tate, still moving, not pausing for a second. He places his hands loosely on my waist and gives me a crooked grin. “Should I be worried?” he teases.

“Maybe.” I smile back, still feeling off balance. “Maybe I’m having a torrid affair with Lamar behind your back. You ever think about that?”

Tate laughs, pulling me closer. “No way,” he says, stroking my hair possessively. “He wouldn’t dare. You’re my girl.”

I fall into his arms, until he’s half holding me up and we’re barely moving on the dance-floor, just standing there together.

His.

It’s weird and maybe wrong, but ever since Halloween—my costume pooling on the floor, an unfamiliar lust in his eyes—I’ve felt that way too, like I belong to him. Branded, by his kisses, his touch, all those nights grasping precious time and each other under the soft down covers in his room after dark. I’m as much his as Elise’s now, but the one thought that never slipped in, never even drifted across my mind, was that they could belong to each other.

Without me.

“I need to sit down,” I say, suddenly dizzy. I push him away, breaking for the edge of the dance floor. I grab on to the back of a booth, my head spinning.
This is crazy
, I tell myself, struggling to breathe.
I don’t know anything; I shouldn’t even be thinking . . .