I’ll Never Tell

by Abigail Haas

  Had.

  I hold Judy until I feel another hand on my shoulder, and raise my head. My father is standing anxiously beside me. “Are you okay?” he asks, moving his hand up to stroke my hair, the way he always did when I was a kid.

  I slowly shake my head, waiting until Judy’s weeping subsides, and she finally steps away.

  “Here.” My father offers her his handkerchief. She dabs her face, red-eyed and puffy.

  “We should never have let you go. I said it wasn’t safe, all of you off on your own.” Judy’s voice breaks again.

  “It’s not your fault,” I tell her. “You couldn’t have known. None of us could.”

  She nods, wordless, and then drifts across the room to embrace the rest of the group. I move to follow her, but my father pulls me back.

  “Let me look at you.” He takes my face in both hands, and then hugs me hard against him. “When they called, all I could think was, what if it had been you?”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” I’m crushed against his chest, but he doesn’t let go. I feel a sob well up, imagining him back in that house in Boston, all alone. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He lets me go, taking a step back to recover. “Of course,” he says quickly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’re safe, that’s what matters.”

  * * *

  Slowly, the rest of our families assemble. Tate’s parents, immaculate as ever. Chelsea and Max’s dad, with their new stepmom perching awkwardly in the corner. Lamar’s mom, short and fierce and not letting go of him, even for a second, and Melanie’s dad, scowling at all of us as if we’re the ones to blame. We hover on plush sofas and end chairs, as if we don’t know what comes next. Then a voice cuts through the low chatter, loud.

  “The important thing is that we get on the same page. No one says anything without a lawyer.”

  We all look over. It’s a strange man in a gray suit, setting up a laptop in the next room. He’s in his forties, maybe, with an iPhone in one hand, gesturing to a younger man with more computer equipment.

  “Sorry—this is Mr. Ellingham, head of our legal team,” Tate’s father supplies.

  “Not one word,” Ellingham repeats, moving into the main room. He looks around, pointing at us in turn. “Not to the police, not to reporters. Not until we get this straightened out.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Tate says quietly. “They questioned us all night.”

  “You’re minors,” his father corrects him. “They can’t use any of it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mr. Warren speaks up. He has an arm around Judy, and looks at us in confusion. “Why aren’t the police here right now? Why aren’t the kids talking to them? If they can help with the investigation, if they can help find who did this—”

  “Not without a lawyer,” Ellingham cuts him off.

  Mr. Dempsey softens. “Look, Charles, I know this is tough. I can’t begin to imagine what you and Judy are going through right now. But we have to stick together. Police in a place like this, they’ll want to point fingers at the outsiders.”

  “He’s right.” Tate speaks up again. “Tell them, Anna. About that Dekker guy.”

  All eyes turn to me. I hug my arms around myself, but Tate nods again, encouraging, so I talk. “He was asking me all kinds of things,” I say softly, “about our partying, and Elise, and what she was doing. It wasn’t anything bad,” I add quickly, my eyes going to Judy. “Just regular fun stuff.”

  “But he wouldn’t listen when she tried to tell him about this guy hanging around the house,” Tate finishes for me. “Or ask about suspects or anything. He’s really weird.”

  “You see?” Tate’s father turns back to Mr. Warren. “We’ve got to protect the kids.”

  “I’ve got a public relations team flying in,” AK’s father speaks up, formal in a three-piece suit. “They’ll take care of the press.”

  “I’ve already reached out to a couple of local investigators.” Ellingham adds. “Guys who know the island, the people here. We’ll find who did this, don’t worry.”

  The adults move into the new conference room to talk about the legal side, about questioning protocols and information appeals, leaving the rest of us to sit, dazed. My dad pulls out his cell and dials.

  “Casey? I need you to push my meetings for tomorrow and Wednesday, and see if you can switch Euracorp to a remote conference.” He’s checking his schedule, flipping through the old-fashioned black leather daybook, and it hits me for the first time that life hasn’t stopped. Everything out there is still moving on, like normal. People waking up, and going to meetings, and watching TV—living their lives like a hole hasn’t just been punched through the fabric of the world. They don’t know Elise is dead, and even if they do, it’s no more than a headline on a website, a pretty photo in the top corner of the news report.

  They don’t care that she’s gone.

  I feel a wave of dizziness wash over me. I tug my father’s arm. “I need some air,” I whisper. He nods, not lowering the phone. “No, stick a pin in everything non-urgent. I’ll be here several days at least. . . .”

  I drift away from the group and slip out onto the balcony, breathing in the warm sea breeze. Down on the beach, brightly colored umbrellas and squares of towels line the shore, people playing in the water. Just another day of their vacation.

  “Hey.” Tate steps out on the balcony behind me, pulling the door shut behind him. He slides an arm around my waist, giving me a rueful smile. “Who’d have guessed, my parents can stand to be in the same room together after all.”

  I don’t smile. “We have to tell them.”

  “What?” Tate’s body tenses against mine, but I can’t drop it, not now.

  “You know what.” I force myself to look up at him. “About you going back to the house.”

  “Anna.” Tate glances back inside, but nobody is paying attention to us out here. “I told you, we can’t.”

  “But what if it’s important?” I argue. “You could have seen something.”

  “I didn’t, I told you. I was there, like, five minutes.”

  “Maybe you didn’t even realize it,” I insist. “But if you tell the police, maybe it fits with something else, something someone else reported. You could be a witness without even knowing.”

  “Stop!” Tate hisses. He grabs me by my arms, his grip digging into my skin. “If we tell them, they’ll know we lied. What do you think will happen then?”

  “I don’t know.” I swallow, unnerved by his expression. “But isn’t it worth it, if it helps? If it gives them some kind of lead?”

  “It won’t do anything except make us look guilty.” Tate’s voice is low and fierce. “Is that what you want? I’m doing this to protect you, too.”

  I stop. “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t the only one off on my own, remember? I took a nap, and when I woke up, you were gone.”

  “But . . . I was down by the water,” I protest. “I was right there.”

  “So?” Tate finally releases his grip on me. “Don’t you see? Once they know we lied once, they won’t believe anything else we say. And meanwhile, the guy who really did this gets away with it.”

  I exhale slowly. He’s right—if Dekker knows we lied on this one thing, he won’t trust anything. Reluctantly, I nod.

  “That’s my girl.” He kisses my forehead and hugs me to him.

  “I just . . .” My voice cracks. “I can’t stop picturing her. The way she was just lying there . . .”

  “Don’t think about it,” Tate tells me. He shifts so he’s leaning back against the balcony railing, his hands on my waist. “Think about . . . that time we took my dad’s boat out and sailed up to Marblehead.”

  “Tried to sail.” I take another breath and feel my panic subside. Just his hands on me are enough to anchor me back to Earth again—something solid and real.

  He’s all I have left now.

  “Hey, I got us as far as the Sound. You guys were t
he ones who wanted to turn right back around,” Tate protests, smiling.

  “She got so sick.” I can’t help but grin at the memory: Elise, bundled up in a bright orange life vest, clutching the yacht rail with one hand, using the other to flip us off. “I’ve never seen so much vomit.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that.” Tate laughs. “I had to pay the deckhand triple to wash it all out.”

  I pause, feeling sadness swell through me, bittersweet. “That was a good day.”

  He nods. “The best.”

  I take his face in both hands and kiss him slowly, trying to pretend we’re back there, out on the ocean. Pretend we’ll spend the afternoon laughing with Elise in the sun before heading back home together, happy and safe.

  Pretend, just for a moment, that nothing has changed.

  NOW

  Of all the photos, that one is the worst.

  The photographer was down on the beach, out of sight, but with high definition and telescopic lenses, it’s as clear as if he was just six feet away. My face, bright with laughter, Tate’s hands on my waist, his fingers slipped under the hem of my T-shirt. His back is to the camera, hidden, but I look happy and carefree, just another girl sneaking a kiss in the bright Caribbean sunshine—while a bereaved family weeps inside.

  And so it began. The reporters, speculating why I was so relaxed. Psychologists, handing out quotes about my social disconnection and worrying lack of empathy. The talking heads on TV, picking over the image as if it were a confession all its own. Sure, some of them tried to keep the hordes at bay, discussing post-traumatic shock and delayed reactions, but those few voices of reason were quickly buried under the chorus of outrage.

  Why was I so happy? My friend was dead. I should be sad. Was I happy she was dead? Did I secretly hate her? Did I have something to do with it? Did I do it myself ? I did it. I had to. Maybe he did it too. Together. A pact. A game. Something sexual, fucked-up. Drugs and alcohol. Kids today. Where were our parents? Aren’t they to blame? Did he pressure me? Did I force him? I was happy. Why was I so happy?

  * * *

  One moment. One picture. One glimpse—that’s all it takes to make someone think they know the truth.

  FALL

  “Let’s ditch last period and drive to Providence,” Elise says in greeting the moment I find her in our usual spot around the back of the sports shed on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s a glorious blue-skied September day, my favorite time of year. A day made for mittens and plaid scarves and maple lattes. Not, as we both agree, a day to spend study hall locked in the library.

  I settle beside her, cross-legged on the wall, and wrap my coat tighter against the crisp breeze. Out here, we’re hidden from view from the main buildings—still technically on school grounds, but far from any wandering teachers. “Can’t,” I apologize. “I have French and bio.”

  “So?” She takes both my hands and smiles at me, her best You know you want to grin. “That Lex guy from the café said something about a warehouse rave. Tons of cute RISD guys for you . . .”

  I laugh. “Lise! Come on. Miss Guerta’s just itching to give me a B. And anyway,” I add awkwardly, “I have plans with Tate. We’re doing dinner and a movie.”

  Elise lets me go. “Him? Still?” Her voice has an edge.

  “Don’t.” I dig in my bag for a pack of red licorice, avoiding her gaze. I should be happy: a boyfriend and a best friend, for the first time in my life, but juggling the two of them this past month has been an exercise in exhaustion, both of them wanting all my time, me feeling like a traitor, whomever I pick.

  “I’m just saying . . .” Elise shrugs. “I figured you’d be done with him by now. It’s been, like, months. You can do so much better.”

  “I don’t want better.” I find the pack and offer it to her. She peels off a strip and then dangles it slowly into her mouth. “I want Tate.”

  “But he’s so . . . high school!” Elise exclaims. “With his perfect grades, and his perfect preppy blazer, and all that perfectly mussed hair.”

  I grin. “He does have great hair.”

  “It’s not a good thing!” Elise’s eyes drift past me, and her expression twists again. “And now I know why you wanted to meet here. Because you couldn’t be away from him, even for one stupid hour.”

  I turn. The lacrosse team is jogging out onto the field, Tate and Lamar leading the pack. “I didn’t know they had practice,” I say quickly.

  “Sure you didn’t.”

  “Elise . . .”

  She falls silent as we watch them. Tate sprints effortlessly along the far goal line, yelling instructions to the team as he runs passing drills. His blue school sweats hang easy on his lithe frame, his blond hair glinting in the sun. He owns the field, the team, and I can’t help thinking he looks like some old-time general, leading his troops into battle.

  “Oh Jesus.”

  I turn. Elise is looking at me. “You’re falling for him.”

  “No!” I protest automatically, but it’s just us out here, no one else to gossip. I take a breath. “Maybe. Yes,” I finally say, my voice quiet. “You don’t know him like I do,” I add quickly. “All this Golden Boy stuff, you know it’s just for show.”

  “And what does that tell you?” Elise mutters darkly. She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her bag and slips one out. I watch her light it with a silver lighter and take a long inhale.

  “Since when do you smoke?” I ask, distracted.

  “Since now. Mom.”

  “Didn’t you dump that banker guy because he tasted like ash?”

  “No, I dumped him because he had a two-inch dick and no idea what to do with it.”

  I laugh as she blows a perfect smoke ring. She looks over, catching my gaze. “Want one?”

  I sigh. “I shouldn’t.”

  “That means you want to.”

  “It means I shouldn’t. Mom’ll smell it on me.” I roll my eyes. “She’s getting militant about fragrance. She freaked out last week because I used scented moisturizer, going on about chemicals and toxins and all that stuff.”

  Elise passes me the cigarette all the same. I take it, sucking in a small pocket of smoke.

  “How’s she doing?” she asks quietly.

  I shrug. “You think they tell me anything?” I exhale, blowing another ring into the crisp air. “You know we’re killing ourselves with these things,” I say, taking another drag.

  “But we look so fucking cool.” Elise grins. I laugh.

  We share the rest of the cigarette in easy silence, cross-legged on the wall. I know I should leave it, just enjoy the break with her, but I can’t help but think about the look on her face when she talked about Tate, the tightness in her voice.

  “What did you mean?” I have to ask. “Before, about Tate. Why don’t you like him?”

  “I like him fine.” Elise shrugs. “Just . . . He’s the kind of guy who turns out to be a serial killer.”

  My mouth drops open. “Elise!”

  “All that perfection, playing a part.” Elise grins. “It’s not healthy. His anger’s going to build up and up and up until one day . . . boom! Explosion. American Psycho. Bodies everywhere. I’m telling you.”

  I shake my head, smiling. “He’s not like that. You’d know, if you spent any time with him.”

  “I do,” Elise protests. “We hang out all the time!”

  “In the group,” I correct her. “But you hardly talk to him even then.”

  “Because I’m spending time with you,” she shoots back. “It’s the only chance I get these days.”

  There’s no lightness in her voice. I pause, my skin prickling with guilt. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve bailed on a bunch of plans, but—”

  “It’s fine, I get it, young love, whatever.” Elise rolls her eyes exaggeratedly.

  “Lise, please . . .” I reach for her. “Don’t be like this.”

  “Like what?”

  I pause, suddenly uncomfortable. “This. Can’t you be happy for me?”

  �
��I am, doll.” She gives me a sideways look, then softens. “I’m thrilled. Go, frolic, be prom queen. But be careful, okay? He’s going to break your heart.”

  I blink. “You don’t know that. Maybe I’ll be the one who breaks his.”

  Elise gives me a dubious look. “You don’t have it in you.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “You’ll lose.” She squeezes my hand, watching him on the field. “I’ll take care of it. He gives you any grief, he’ll have me to deal with.”

  The fierce note in her voice warms me, deep in my chest. I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. “Love you.”

  “Miles and miles.”

  “Always.”

  SECOND INTERROGATION

  DEKKER: We ran fingerprints on the knife. Yours were on it, Mr. Dempsey’s, too. How do you explain that?

  ANNA: I . . . I don’t know. It was from the kitchen, I mean, I used it before.

  DEKKER: When?

  ANNA: The night before, maybe? We made guacamole. I helped Max, chopping stuff.

  DEKKER: And Mr. Dempsey?

  ANNA: Yes. Him too.

  DEKKER: Why are you lying to me?

  ANNA: I’m not, I promise.

  DEKKER: And the day of the murder, you didn’t leave each other’s side.