Dangerous Girls

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 the 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 hoards 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, f**ked-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 lattés. Not, as we both agree, a day to spend study hall locked in the library.