Dangerous Girls (30 page)

“The law calls for you to convict my client only beyond a reasonable doubt. Time and again, we have shown that this doubt exists: in the lack of evidence supporting the prosecution’s case and Miss Chevalier’s supposed motive for the crime. To convict her now would be a tragedy no less than Elise Warren’s murder, for just as that young woman lost her life, so too would Miss Chevalier if sent back to prison to serve decades for a crime she didn’t commit. Justice demands her acquittal. The
evidence
demands her acquittal. I place her life in your hands, and urge you to do the right thing. Thank you.

The judge doesn’t come back
with a verdict that day, nor the next one. I get up every morning and leave prison like it could be the last time, then spend the day in the conference room at the courthouse, pacing, nervously waiting for news. Gates and Lee swear it’s a good thing, that it means she’s taking her time to pick apart every little detail of the case, but I won’t let myself get swept up in false hopes.

“She could have made her mind up on day one,” I tell them, “And just be back in her office, catching up on her DVR and gossip magazines.”

Lee gives me a look. “I know this is hard, waiting,” he says. “But it’s the best you could hope for, it taking so long.
We always knew Dekker’s case was weak, and now she gets to see that for herself.”

I sigh. “I know, I just . . . What if—?”

“Don’t.” He stops me. “You’ve just got to have faith.”

I look at him, his brown eyes so calm and trusting. He’s the one person who has stuck with me through it all—despite the lies people told about me, all the terrible things they have said. “How can you still believe in me, after everything? Even they don’t. . . .” I drop my voice. Gates and Dad are on their cell phones, deep in two different conversations about legal process and our chances of getting the verdict overturned. For all the delay, I know they still expect the judgment to come back guilty. Maybe they even think I deserve it.

Lee leans closer. “I know you,” he says softly. “I know you’re a good person. And even if this comes back wrong, it’s not the end. We can appeal,” he reminds me. “Get Dekker’s evidence thrown out. Whatever it takes, I’ll be here.”

I want to believe him. He’s been here before, after all, but I’m not his sister—I can’t stay hopeful through years in prison. I’m not that strong.

•  •  •

The hours tick past, with no news. Then, just before four p.m., a knock comes on the door. We all leap up. A guard beckons Gates out; he exits, giving me a nod as he passes.

“Oh God,” I breathe. My skin prickles hot with nerves; my stomach turns over. “This is it.”

Lee grabs my hand and squeezes, but when Gates comes back in a moment later, he quickly shakes his head. “It’s not that,” he says. “There’s someone who wants to see you.” He pauses, uncomfortable. “Tate Dempsey wants to talk with you.”

Tate.

I blink. Months of silence, all my letters left unanswered, and
now
he wants to see me?

“You don’t have to,” Lee tells me, but I slowly shake my head.

“I . . . Yes,” I say, suddenly calm. “Let him in.”

Gates nods to someone in the hallway. My dad gets up, clearing his throat. “We’ll, uh, give you some privacy.”

They exit, but Lee is the last to leave. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I can stay, if you want—”

He stops talking as Tate steps into the room.

I glance up, almost afraid to look at him after all this time. But there he is, looking just the same as ever: neatly dressed in a preppy oxford button-down and dark pants, his hair golden and tousled. He stands by the doorway, awkwardly slouching with his hands in his pockets. Finally, I let my gaze settle on his face.

God, how I loved that face.

“It’s fine,” I tell Lee softly. “Really.”

He nods. “I’ll be right outside,” he says, stepping around Tate and closing the door behind him.

Silence.

I watch Tate scuff the ground with his spotless sneakers, looking anywhere but directly at me. Finally, I sigh.

“What do you want?”

He walks closer, then stops. “Can I . . . ?”

“Sit?” It’s almost funny, that he would think it matters. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

He lowers himself carefully onto one of the folding metal chairs, and takes a breath. Then another. “How are you doing?” he asks.

My mouth drops open.
Is he serious?

“Just great,” I reply, sarcastic. “Except for this whole pesky murder conviction hanging over my head.”

Tate seems to crumple in front of me. “God, Anna, I’m so sorry.” He reaches for my hand across the table, but I flinch back. “It wasn’t my idea, to cut the deal, I swear to you. But my parents said I had to. Dekker was coming after me; they said I would go on trial for sure.” Tate stares at me, imploring, with those blue eyes I know by heart. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always had a choice!” I burst out. “I’m here because of you. I lied for you. You’re the one who sold me out—you betrayed me!”

Tate hangs his head.

I fight to stay calm. There’s nothing he can say, I realize. Nothing at all. He was weak, and selfish, and he let me down in every way he could. But what else was he going to do? He always wanted to be so good: the perfect son, the best boyfriend. Elise was right, in the end: All that perfection had to fall apart sometime.

I swallow, gathering my strength. “When did it start?” I ask softly. “You and Elise. Tell me. Please.”

Tate reluctantly lifts his head. “Anna . . .”

“You owe me this much, at least.”

He looks away again. “Jordan’s party,” he says finally. “It was . . . maybe a month before the trip?”

I nod. I remember.

“My parents were on at me, about summer internships, and volunteering, and . . . I just wanted to forget it all. You were home, sick, and . . . I wound up out in their gazebo with Elise and a bottle of tequila.”

Even after all this time, hearing it still stings. I fight the image of them together, sprawled, laughing. The looks that turned into more.

“But, why?” I ask. “I don’t understand. You said you loved me.”

“I did.” Tate looks helpless. “It just . . . happened.”

“And kept happening.”

He looks shameful, at least. “You know Elise, what she was
like. She made you feel . . . like everything was dangerous. A risk. Like, you were the center of everything, you know?”

I do.

He stops, tugging at the skin around a hangnail. “She said she wanted to know—what it felt like for you. Being with me.”

A noise comes from the door, interrupting us. Gates is there. “It’s time,” he says. “She has a verdict.”

Oh God.

I get to my feet unsteady.

“Anna . . .” Tate looks up at me. “I’m sorry, you have to know. I never meant for any of this—”

“I have to go,” I cut him off. I follow Gates and my dad back down the hall to the courtroom, the guard flanking me every step of the way.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” my dad says, but his voice is weak and uncertain. I falter in the doorway, suddenly realizing everything that’s waiting for me.

My freedom, or the end of my life completely.

A hand goes to my back, steering me gently across the threshold. I walk, numb, to the table, and sit one final time. Dekker is already in his seat, looking smug and confident.

“Daddy?” I whisper, panicked, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s staring straight ahead, his foot tapping in an uneven rhythm.

The judge enters and takes her seat. She looks out at us
from over those thin gold spectacles. “Would the defendant please stand?”

I don’t know how, but somehow, I manage to rise to my feet. My whole body is shaking, blood pounding in my ears. I try to find some clue on her face, but her expression is unnervingly blank. Wouldn’t she smile at me? Wouldn’t she give me some kind of sign if the verdict was good?

“I have reviewed all the evidence presented to me, and in the matter of the prosecution versus Anna Chevalier, I have reached a verdict.”

The courtroom is completely silent as the judge’s voice rings out. “On the charge of murder in the first degree . . .”

I don’t move. I don’t even breathe. My heartbeat takes over as I watch her lips form the words. I can’t hear a thing, but I see it now, written on all their faces. My dad lets out a sob. Lee’s body crumples. Gates hangs his head, slack-jawed.

My legs give way. I fall into blackness, and it’s over.

Her body is on the
floor, half-naked in pink bikini bottoms with her tank top ripped away in ribbons and stab wounds cutting scarlet across her chest.

Tate gets to her first. He hugs her torso against him, the trails of blond hair matted with blood, her face pressing against his blue shirt.

“Elise!” Melanie whimpers over and over again by the wreckage of the door, her voice shrill and gasping. Chelsea falls to her knees in the blood, taking Elise’s lifeless hand. AK and Lamar stand beside me, not breathing.

“She was like this.” Max’s voice is breaking, tears streaming down his face. He’s crumpled in a heap by the open balcony doors, broken glass scattered on the floor. “The door
was smashed and open, and she was just, lying there. I didn’t touch her.”

There’s blood everywhere. Dark and thick, pooling around the body, smeared across the terra-cotta tiles. Her body is sticky with it, and for a terrible moment, we’re all frozen. Staring.

She must have struggled. Clawed for rescue, gasping and half-dead.

And now she’s gone.

“God, someone cover her up,” my voice breaks, but nobody moves, so I quickly pull off my jacket and lay it gently over her body. It’s too small. Her legs splay out from underneath, pale against the blood. Her arms hang limply from Tate’s clutched embrace.

Melanie sobs louder.

“We should go,” Lamar says suddenly, backing away. “This is a crime scene, right? We shouldn’t be in here, messing things up.”

Chelsea whirls on him. “This isn’t
CSI
! This is Elise, this is . . .” Her whole body shudders, and Lamar rushes to hold her up.

I swallow, looking around at the devastation. “Come on, he’s right. We can’t be here.”

AK pulls Max from his corner, and Melanie stumbles on ahead. Tate doesn’t move.

“Tay?” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Tay, she’s gone. There’s nothing you can do.”

His body shakes, and then he places her carefully back on the floor, tenderly brushing hair from her eyes. They stare up at me, blue and lifeless. A wave of nausea rolls through me, and I have to look away.

I pull Tate to his feet and we slowly head out front, to where the others are waiting on the paved driveway in the glare of security lights.

“Who would do this?” Melanie finally demands, her voice raw. “Who would do this to her?”

I close my eyes and sink back against Tate’s chest, feeling his arms press tightly around me. But the sight of her body stays, vivid in my mind: so red, and torn, and empty.

“They’ll find him,” Lamar says quietly, Chelsea sobbing into his neck. “We’ll make him pay.”

We wait in a silence punctuated by sobs. Headlights pass on the main street nearby; we can faintly hear music from the hotel down the beach. Behind us, the ocean is an inky shadow beyond the bright lights of the bars. And Elise is gone now, forever.

“Now, Anna, I know that
we all want to hear: What did you feel, when you heard that verdict being read?”

I pause, flashing back for a moment to that day in the courtroom and the few seconds that changed everything. “Relief,” I finally answer with a small smile. “Just, relief. I was overwhelmed, I could hardly speak. After all that time, expecting the worst, to finally be found innocent . . . And it wasn’t just about me,” I add quickly. “I was relieved for Elise, too. The worst part of all of it was knowing that if I was found guilty, the person who really killed her would be getting away with it. At least now, maybe they can find him.”

Clara smiles at me, warm and supportive. She’s walking beside me in the graveyard, fall leaves tumbling red and
orange to the ground around us. The interview setting was their idea, of course: to cap my homecoming tell-all with a heartfelt visit to Elise’s grave. I didn’t want to do it—I didn’t want to ever lay eyes on Clara Rose again—but the money they were offering was too big to pass up. From the moment the verdict came back innocent, we’ve had networks and newspapers all clamoring for my exclusive interview. Every time I said no, it only made them chase harder, so in the end it was easier just to pick one and be done with it. And after all the money I cost him, it’s the least I can do for my dad to try to pay him back somehow.

“So what’s ahead for you now?” Clara asks, bundled in a fitted powder-blue jacket. I have a white woolen coat on, and pink mittens, the result of intense debate among the wardrobe team. They wanted me in red, but I wasn’t about to fall for that again. I insisted on the white, worn over a knee-length skirt and a pale pastel sweater. The colors of innocence.

“I’m taking some time,” I reply. “Spending time with my family, and friends. It’s good just to be home again for now; I missed it so much. Then I’m thinking about college. I’d like to study law, eventually,” I add. “This whole experience has shown me how important it is to have people who believe in you, and who fight for what’s right.”

“Inspirational.” Clara nods. “Just wonderful. Now, I know
so many of our viewers were rooting for you,” she coos, “sending their thoughts and prayers all through your detention and trial. Do you have any message for them?”

“Just thank you.” I clasp my hand to my chest, looking directly into the camera. “The people who never gave up on me . . . It means more than you could ever know.”

“And thank you, Anna, for sharing your story with us.” Clara smiles. “I know that everyone here, across the country, wishes you all the best in what’s to come.”

“Thank you, Clara,” I tell her warmly.

“And, cut!”

“You get that?” Clara yells across to the producer.

He gives the thumbs-up. “Can we set up the graveside shots now? Maybe some more powder on Anna?”