by Abigail Haas
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.”
NOW
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.
EVIDENCE: TEXT MESSAGE RECORDS
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.
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?
DAY 52
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.”
> NOW
You see? How simple it is, how one little piece of information changes everything. How it all just falls into place.
Betrayal.
THEN
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.
THE TRIAL
“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.”
“Noted.” Judge von Koppel sounds bored. I wonder if that’s a good thing or not.
“Now, Miss Chevalier,” Dekker turns on me again, this time with renewed determination. “Would you say you’re a jealous person?”
“No.”
“You weren’t possessive at all, of your relationships with the victim, or Mr. Dempsey?”
I say it again, calm and collected. “No.” My hands are folded in my lap, my legs crossed at the ankles. They coached me for hours about how to sit, how to speak, even how to take a sip of water.
“Not even a little?” Dekker keeps digging. “After all, teenage relationships can be stressful things. A whirlwind of emotions and new feelings.”
I keep my gaze fixed on him. “Not really. It was all pretty simple.”
“Simple . . .” Dekker goes over to his table and flips through some paperwork. “But what about the incident of the fifteenth of October?”
“I’m sorry—” I pause. “I don’t know what that is.” I look over to my lawyer, but he just shrugs.
“Then let me refresh your memory.” Dekker smiles. “October fifteenth, last year. You were involved in an altercation with a classmate, Lindsay Shaw.”
Lindsay, the queen bitch herself. My stomach drops. This can’t be good.
“Here’s the incident report from the school,” Dekker continues, “and Miss Shaw’s sworn statement.” He passes the pages up to the judge before turning back to me. “Miss Shaw says that you accosted her, during gym class, and accused her of flirting with Mr. Dempsey.”
This is what he looks so pleased about? I shake my head. “That’s not what happened. It was nothing.”
“Nothing? She says you threatened her, physically, and warned her to stay away from him.” Dekker continues, “Several witnesses confirm you attacked her, in a violent outburst, armed with a hockey stick.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I protest. “We were playing field hockey; we were on opposing teams. I tackled her, and then she tripped.”
“She tripped?” Dekker’s voice rises. “Miss Shaw was taken to the emergency room. She required six stitches to a wound on her cheek.”
I see the look on my lawyer’s face. “It was an accident,” I insist, my voice rising. “And I wasn’t jealous. She had it out for me, right from the start of school. Ask anyone, she was the one bullying me.”
“So she deserved it?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” I try to keep a grip, but Dekker keeps badgering me.
“So what really happened? You’ve said yourself, she was bullying you.”
“Yes, but—”
“She flirted with your boyfriend.” He doesn’t let me finish. “She taunted you, publicly, until you just couldn’t take it anymore. You attacked her—”
“Objection!” My lawyer leaps up. “Relevance? This is a schoolyard argument from almost a year ago—”
“I’m establishing the defendant’s state of mind under pressure,” Dekker calls back, “and her habit of violent outbursts.”
Judge von Koppel pauses. “Overruled. Continue.”
Dekker approaches me, but just as I’m bracing myself for more questions about the hockey incident, he gives me a sly smile. “Let’s leave your attack on Miss Shaw for a moment, and talk about the victim. We’ve heard from several witnesses that you had an unusually close relationship.”
I pause, regrouping. He’s trying to throw me off balance, I can see that—making sure I’m worked up about the Lindsay thing, so I’m still angry and frustrated when I talk about Eli
se. But I won’t fall for that trick. I take a breath, making sure I’m calm again before answering. “We were friends. That’s not unusual.”
“But you spent all your time together, to the exclusion of Miss Warren’s other friends.”
“That was her choice.” I give a little shrug. “She just preferred hanging out with me.”
“And that’s what you did together—hang out?” Dekker’s got that smug expression again, the one that sends a chill through me. “Tell us about it.”
I look to my lawyer again. “I . . . don’t understand.”
“What did you do together?” Dekker asks. “How did you spend your time?”
“Usual things,” I say carefully. “We would go shopping, to cafés, just hang out together, after school . . .”
“You went to bars together,” Dekker adds. “Out drinking. And to college parties, with older men.”
“Yes,” I admit, “but it wasn’t just us. We were a group, all year. Chelsea, and Max, and AK—”
“Yes, but you preferred to be alone with Miss Warren, didn’t you?” Dekker meets my eyes with that sly look of his.
I stare back, trying to figure out his game. “No. I mean, we were close, but I liked being with everyone.”
Dekker goes back to his table to rustle some more papers. “In their statements, both Melanie Chang and Chelsea Day, and several of your other friends, said that you and the victim would often sleep over at each other’s houses.”
“Yes,” I reply slowly.
“And where did you sleep?” he asks.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“When you slept over, with Miss Warren?” Dekker manages to keep his expression serious, as if he’s asking a deeply important legal matter and not just another of his sleazy suggestive questions. “You didn’t stay in the guest suite, did you? You would always sleep in the same room. In the same bed, in fact.”
I look across to my lawyer. “Objection!” He leaps up obediently. “This is completely irrelevant.”