Dangerous Girls

by Abigail Haas

  I can feel my lawyer tense beside me, like he wants to object again, but he doesn’t.

  “She was . . . normal,” AK told him. “That was the weird thing. I mean, we were a wreck. Mel was crying, and Chelsea . . . Max could barely keep it together. But Anna was totally calm. Like nothing had happened.”

  “She didn’t cry?” Dekker sounds shocked again, but after the theatrics he’s put on this week, I’m not even surprised. The guy could step into a Broadway production any time he liked.

  “Never.” AK shrugs. “Not that I saw, anyway, and I was with her all that night. She didn’t cry when we found the body, or when the police came. She didn’t do anything, except . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “She hit the vending machine, at the police station. She just exploded, swearing and everything.”

  “A violent outburst?” Dekker turns to the room, to drive his point home. It’s packed with reporters, Elise’s family, my former friends lined up to watch the show. I just have my dad with me now, and my lawyer here, trying the best he can.

  “It was weird. It freaked us out.” AK nods. “It was just, like, this flash of rage. She looked possessed. And then she hit Melanie.”

  “Objection!”

  Dekker smirks. “The defense counsel objects to the witness testimony? I wonder why.”

  My lawyer glares. “It’s on the record—a slap; Miss Chan was hyperventilating.”

  The judge nods impatiently. “So noted, continue.”

  Dekker pauses a moment. “No further questions.”

  Judge von Koppel makes a note, icy blond and steely-eyed at her table. “Any follow-up?”

  I scribble a note to my lawyer. He glances over, then stands. “Mr. Kundra, that slaughter line, it was a running joke in your group, wasn’t it?”

  AK coughs. “Uh, yeah.”

  “You would remark on your hunger by using bigger and bigger animals,” he explains for the sake of the room. “ ‘I’m so hungry, I could slaughter a pig, or a cow, or an elephant.’ Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “In fact, you said it yourself, on many occasions.” He holds a piece of paper. “March eighteenth, your status update. ‘So hungry, could murder a fucking rhino’.”

  “Yeah, but that’s a joke!” AK exclaims.

  “Right. And that’s what Miss Chevalier was doing, wasn’t it? Joking?”

  AK slumps, his self-righteousness gone.

  “Mr. Kundra, answer the question.”

  “Yeah, she was joking.”

  My lawyer turns, giving me a smile, but AK hasn’t finished.

  “But who does that?” he asks, his voice loud in the silent courtroom. “Elise was dead. Someone hacked her apart. We still had blood on us, and she’s joking around? Who does that?”

  “No further questions,” my lawyer says hurriedly, but it’s too late. There are murmurs of agreement from the crowd as AK heads back to his seat.

  The damage is done.

  NOW

  Would it have made a difference if I had cried? I’ve had long enough to think about it, but even now, I can’t know for sure. If I’d fallen apart, and wept, and screamed. If I’d curled up, shaking, into a ball in the corner of the police station and refused to speak. Would they have believed me then? Or would they have just found another way to spin it: that my grief was remorse, for the terrible thing I’d done. That my outbursts were too fevered, too public, too much for show. An act, to cover my tracks.

  The truth is, once Dekker got it in his head that the break-in was staged and one of us killed her, there was nothing I could do. He was coming for me, and every little detail of my life was evidence, if you held it up to the light and looked at it just right.

  He was coming for me.

  FIRST INTERROGATION

  VOICE: This is Officer Carlsson speaking, also present is investigating judge Dekker. Record of the first questioning of Anna Chevalier, 5:52 a.m.

  ANNA: Second.

  CARLSSON: What?

  ANNA: It’s the second time I’ve talked to you.

  You already interviewed me, before.

  CARLSSON: Yes, but this is on the record now.

  And Judge Dekker has some questions too.

  ANNA: A judge? But—this isn’t court.

  CARLSSON: In Aruba, a judge leads the investigation. Just think of him like another detective.

  ANNA: I’m tired. Can we do this tomorrow? I haven’t slept. . . . I haven’t slept all night.

  CARLSSON: This won’t take long. Now, when did you see Elise last?

  ANNA: Should we have a lawyer?

  CARLSSON: I . . .

  DEKKER: You haven’t been arrested. These are simple questions.

  ANNA: But Tate said . . .

  DEKKER: Don’t you want to help find the person who did this? We need you to talk to us if we’re going to find them.

  ANNA: I guess. . . . Okay. Can I get something to drink? Water or something?

  DEKKER: Later.

  ANNA: I’m tired, okay? I need something to drink.

  DEKKER: When you’ve answered our questions.

  CARLSSON: But sir, we shouldn’t—

  DEKKER: Fine. Get her the water. Interview paused, 5:56 a.m.

  (pause)

  DEKKER: Interview resumed. So, when did you last see Miss Warren?

  ANNA: Last night. Monday night, I mean. We all went out, to dinner, and the bars along the main strip.

  DEKKER: And then?

  ANNA: Then we all came home and crashed. About two a.m., maybe. That was the last time I saw her.

  DEKKER: She wasn’t there in the morning?

  ANNA: No. (pause) I mean, we thought she was, but I didn’t see her. I went to find her, but her door was locked. So we figured she was crashed out.

  DEKKER: What time was this?

  ANNA: Nine, maybe. We were all booked to go on a dive trip, so the others left around ten. We texted Elise, but she didn’t reply, so we figured she was still asleep.

  DEKKER: Her door was locked. You didn’t find that unusual?

  ANNA: No. I mean, she liked her privacy, and . . . she’d been with Niklas the other night.

  DEKKER: Had she been drinking?

  (pause)

  DEKKER: Miss Chevalier?

  ANNA: Yes. We all had. It’s legal here.

  DEKKER: I’m aware.

  (pause)

  DEKKER: Why didn’t you go on the dive trip with your friends?

  ANNA: Me and Tate stayed back. We were . . . tired. Hungover. We figured we’d just hang out on the beach.

  DEKKER: What time was that?

  ANNA: I don’t know. We left the house around twelve thirty, I think. We chilled on the beach most of the day.

  DEKKER: And you were together all the time?

  ANNA: Yes.

  DEKKER: You didn’t once part? To browse some shops, or use the bathroom?

  ANNA: No.

  DEKKER: You didn’t use the bathroom?

  ANNA: No. I mean, yes.

  DEKKER: So you weren’t together.

  ANNA: For, like, two minutes! We were at the café, way down the beach. We used the bathroom there. We bought sodas. You can check. And . . .

  DEKKER: Yes?

  ANNA: Nothing.

  (pause)

  DEKKER: Do you keep a diary?

  ANNA: What?

  DEKKER: A journal, some record of the day?

  ANNA: No. No diary.

  DEKKER: Very well. What time did you return to the house?

  ANNA: Six, maybe? We hung out for a while, showered, and went out to dinner. . . . This pizza place, just down the street. The others had just gotten home from diving when we got back. That’s when we started to worry and called the cops. Look, I’ve told you all of this already. Can I please just go?

  DEKKER: You were back at the house between six and seven. There was no sign of Elise then?

  ANNA: No. Her door was still closed.

  (pause)

  ANNA
: I texted to see if she wanted to come eat, but there was no reply. We figured she’d gone out.

  DEKKER: And you didn’t check her room?

  ANNA: No. I mean, we were, you know, busy. If she had been there, she would have come out and talked to us. I went and knocked on her door, but, nothing.

  DEKKER: You didn’t hear anything from her room?”

  ANNA: She was on the other side of the house from us. Me and Tate were by the main doors. And we were busy, so . . .

  DEKKER: Busy doing what?

  ANNA: You know, just hanging out.

  DEKKER: Be specific. What exactly did you do, from the moment you returned home?

  ANNA: I . . . We went to our room, and put some music on.

  DEKKER: The police responder first to the scene says there was blood in the hallway; you didn’t see it?

  ANNA: No, it wasn’t there.

  DEKKER: What do you mean?

  ANNA: When we came in, the blood wasn’t there. It was there later. The blood must have been on our shoes or something, after we found . . . after we found her.

  DEKKER: What happened next, after you and Mr. Dempsey returned to your room? You turned on music and . . .

  ANNA: I can’t remember.

  DEKKER: Try. Did you make any calls? Watch TV, perhaps?

  ANNA: I don’t know. . . . I took a shower, I remember that.

  DEKKER: Where was Mr. Dempsey while you showered?

  ANNA: In the bedroom.

  DEKKER: But you were in the bathroom; you wouldn’t have been able to see him.

  ANNA: Well, no, but it was right off the bedroom. . . . He was right there.

  DEKKER: Was the bathroom door open or closed while you were in the shower?

  ANNA: Open, I think.

  DEKKER: You think, or you know?

  ANNA: I don’t know. Open. Yes. Open. He was right there, on his computer. Why are you asking all this? What does it have to do with anything?

  DEKKER: I’m just trying to get all the facts. You said music was on. Was it loud?

  ANNA: Not really, no.

  DEKKER: Were you and Mr. Dempsey making much noise?

  ANNA: I don’t . . . I don’t understand.

  DEKKER: You are a couple, no? You were alone in his room for almost an hour. Were you engaged in intercourse?

  ANNA: I . . . You can’t ask me that.

  DEKKER: I can ask anything I like. Answer the question, please.

  CARLSSON: Sir, I don’t know—

  DEKKER: The question, Miss Chavalier.

  (pause)

  ANNA: No. No, I’m not talking to you anymore.

  DEKKER: I’m just trying to ascertain the level of noise in the house, and—

  ANNA: No! I won’t say anything else without a lawyer. You can’t talk to me like that!

  (pause)

  (pause)

  CARLSSON: Interview terminated, 6:20 a.m.

  THE NEXT DAY

  It’s morning by the time we check into one of the high-rise hotels along the beach. Tate’s family chartered a jet for our parents; they’ll be landing by noon, but for now, I can think of nothing but sleep. The adrenaline is gone from my system; I’m more tired than I’ve ever been in my life.

  “Don’t wake me until my dad’s here,” I tell the others, in the gray carpeted hallway. Even swiping my key card takes almost more energy than I can bear. They must feel the same, because I get nothing but dull nods in reply before they stumble into their rooms.

  Inside, I take five steps and fall face-first on the lurid aqua bedspread. I can’t move. I can barely even breathe.

  There’s a knock on my door. I groan. It taps again, urgently.

  Heaving myself up, I go to the door and pull it open. Tate pushes past me, inside. “What did you tell them?” he says anxiously. “What did they ask?”

  I close the door behind him. “I . . .”

  “That guy, Dekker, when he brought you back in? He asked what we did all day; what did you say?”

  “Nothing! I mean, just what happened.” I stare at him, confused. He was there when I got out of questioning, right beside me in the cab ride to the hotel. He didn’t ask me anything about my interview then; nobody did. By then, we just wanted to be done with it.

  Tate grips my arms. “Tell me, what did you say to him?”

  I shrug, trying to remember. “You know, we went to the beach, we took a shower, went to dinner. . . .”

  Tate frowns. “He didn’t push you?”

  “Yes.” I shudder at the memory. “He kept asking what we were doing.”

  “But did you tell him? About me going back to the house?” Tate’s expression is panicked, and suddenly I realize why: We weren’t together all day.

  He went back to the house. He was gone for a whole half hour.

  “No, I didn’t say . . .” I take two steps back. “I forgot. I just said we went to the beach. I didn’t remember you went back.”

  “Oh thank god.” The words run together in a rush. Tate sinks down so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. “I was freaking out the whole time you were in there. I didn’t know if you’d told them, if they’d catch me in the lie. Thank you. Thank you!” He takes my hand, kissing it. It’s a familiar gesture, something he must have done a hundred times, but this time I want to pull away.

  He forgot his shades. I’d just set up camp on the sand: towel in the perfect tanning position, magazine out to browse. Go ahead, I told him. Bring me back a bag of chips.

  “You went back to the house.” I repeat it slowly. “But, I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just tell them? Why did you lie?”

  Tate blinks. “Don’t you get it? We’re each other’s alibis.”

  “Alibis? For what?” I pause, looking down at him. Tate doesn’t reply, just stares back at me with a nervous expression. “You mean Elise?” I exclaim, my voice rising. “They think we killed her?”

  “Shh!” Tate hushes me. “I don’t know what they think.” He leaps up again, pacing to the door and back. “But that guy, Dekker, he wouldn’t let up: Where were we? What did we do? How long were we at the house? He didn’t ask me anything about Elise, or who else could have broken in.”

  “Me either,” I say with a sudden chill. “I meant to tell him about that guy, the one who hassled us at the market, remember? But he just kept asking about me, and you, and if we were apart at all.”

  “That’s it,” Tate says. “We don’t even know when she died. If one of us was alone, they could say we did it, that we killed her.”

  “But that’s crazy.” I reach for him, to try to calm him from this paranoia, but Tate shakes me off.

  “Is it?” He insists, “Think, Anna: We’re stuck in some foreign country, and Elise is dead, and they’re asking us about our sex lives instead of out there looking for the killer! The others were off on the dive trip; it’s just you and me.”

  I take a couple of breaths, trying to think through the haze of exhaustion. Was it true? Did Dekker suspect us?

  “Then we’re fine,” I tell him at last. “We said we were together all day, and we’ll stick to it. You didn’t go back to the house, and we didn’t leave each other’s side, not for a minute. We’ll be okay.”

  Tate exhales a ragged breath. “You’d do that for me?” He pulls me into a hug.

  “Always,” I say, muffled by the soft cotton of his sweatshirt. I pull back a little, so I can see his face. “You didn’t see her though, did you? When you went back?”

  Tate shakes his head. “I promise. I just went in, picked up our stuff, and headed out again.”

  “But . . .” I pause, “You were gone for kind of a while.”

  “Like, five minutes.”

  “It was longer,” I say. “Remember? I was waiting for you, to put lotion on me, and I was already burning by the time you got back.”

  Tate smiles, “That’s ’cause you burn in, like, five seconds flat.” He tugs my hair, and bends his head to kiss me. I relax into his arms, savoring the feel of his lips
on mine. After everything that’s happened, this feels like the safest place in the world.

  “We just have to stick together,” Tate whispers, stroking my cheek. “You and me, like always.”

  “Like always,” I repeat.

  • • •

  We sleep with our clothes on, curled around each other on top of the sheets. When I wake, it’s all over the news: “American teen murdered on spring break.” “Possible sexual attack.” “Police are pursuing all leads.”

  They don’t have our names yet, but I know it’s only a matter of time. I click the TV off. Tate sleeps on.

  JUNIOR YEAR

  I notice Tate for the first time that summer, a few months after my I have my breakdown in the girls’ bathroom and Elise walks away from her old clique for good.

  I’d seen him around in school before then. Even in a school filled with rich, ambitious, smart kids, Tate Dempsey is Hillcrest royalty: star of the lacrosse team, student government, an athlete’s body, and golden good looks. We have a couple of classes together, but even with Elise in tow—especially with Elise—we live in different worlds. I would catch a glimpse of him in the hallways sometimes, heading to class with some new, adoring girl beside him, or hanging out on the front lawn after school tossing a football around with his buddies. I would think how he wasn’t so much a real teenage guy as the billboard for one. You know, something from a J. Crew catalogue, or the hot guy on a teen TV show who’s really in his twenties—square-jawed, strong and sure among the crowds of boys still figuring out their gangly bodies and tufts of new facial hair.

  But as the year passes, I realize I was wrong. He isn’t loud, or arrogant, like some of those popular guys, but almost quaintly polite: holding open doors if you’re behind him in line, presenting his arguments in a low, confident voice in class. He doesn’t ever interrupt, or pick on the nerdy kids, or swagger around like he owns the place; instead, he has this air of mild embarrassment about him, as if he knows just how much wealth and privilege have been heaped upon his broad shoulders. Everyone else in school seems to take their status for granted, like they don’t realize pure luck is the only reason they’re not crammed in a public school across the city, taking the bus home, walking up four flights to a tiny apartment when they get done with their after-school job.