Dangerous Girls

And right now, he’s all I’ve got.

“There’s Tate, that’s something,” Gates continues, checking his notes. The table is piled with them, looseleaf and stuffed into cheap cardboard binders.

I frown. “I thought they dropped the investigation into him.”

“They did.” Gates nods. “But even with his plea, we can cast some doubt, stir it up. And this Juan guy, lurking around. This is good stuff.”

My expression must be less than confident, because he pauses, exhaling. “I know I’m behind,” he adds, apologetic. “And I’m not from some big fancy firm, like the other guy. But I’m getting up to speed on everything. I’ll do my best, I promise.”

“It’s not you.” I feel bad for letting my doubt show. “I’m just tired, of all of this. I thought . . . They told me everything would be okay, that they had a plan, and then . . .” I trail off, feeling tears sting in the back of my throat as I bite back the words I can’t bring myself to say.

Then they all left.

Ellingham quit. He’s still representing Tate and the Dempseys, of course. He didn’t even do it himself: He had his assistant call my dad to explain that it would be a conflict of interest, keeping me as a client. I guess we should have seen it coming, but it still hurt, yet another person walking away. Lamar and the gang are gone, Tate’s gone too, and now my dad—back in Boston to try to raise the money for this new legal team, and to pay for all these flights and hotel fees that mount up every time he comes to see me.

“It’s okay.” Gates sits beside me, a puts a hand, gentle on my shoulder. It’s the first kind human contact I’ve had in weeks now, and I have to shrug it off—not because I don’t want it, but because I need it too much.

“Did Dad say when he’s coming back?” I ask, swallowing back my emotion. For weeks now, I’ve had nothing but distant phone calls, with Dad’s voice so harried and guilty down the line. It only makes me feel worse, to think what this is putting him through.

“He’s trying.” Gates looks sympathetic. “But there’s a lot to do. He’s found a firm that has a branch in Amsterdam,” he adds in a hopeful voice. “We’re talking all the time about how best to proceed, how this is all going to play out. It’s a whole different legal system here.”

I nod.

“I’m asking around at the police department.” The other guy in the room speaks up for the first time. He’s younger, in his twenties, I guess, and dressed more casual in jeans and a shirt; dark hair cut conservatively over brown eyes. He’s been taking notes this whole time, and I figure him for Gate’s assistant, or some junior with his law firm. “Word is, Dekker isn’t the most popular guy,” he continues. I have to let out a bitter laugh at that. “So maybe we’ll find a source to give us the inside track on his investigation, find out why he got so fixated on you—and what he might have overlooked in the meantime.”

“Good.” Gates nods, making notes. “Any word from the embassy? Some official support could really help us out right now.”

The guy shakes his head. “I’m getting shut down at every level. Senator Warren must have got involved, or maybe the Dempseys. I shouldn’t even be here; this is all unofficial.”

I look up, confused. “But aren’t you with him?” I nod to Gates.

They exchange a look. “No, this is Lee Evans, a junior consul from the embassy.” Gates explains. “I introduced him when we met last week, remember?”

I don’t.

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I guess things are kind of a blur. . . .”

“No need to apologize,” the Lee guy smiles at me.

Gates’s phone buzzes. “This is my investigator now; I’ll just be outside.”

He steps out, leaving me alone with Lee. Now that I’m paying attention, I can see he’s cute, preppy, and full of concern. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through in here,” he says softly.

I shrug, still wary.

“Are you sleeping okay?” he checks. “Can I bring you anything? Because we can get you some medication if you’re still having problems—”

“No, no more pills.” I stop him. “They make me too fuzzy,” I fidget with my handcuffs. Even here, in the interview room inside the prison walls, with a guard outside the door, they won’t take any chances. I look down at my chafed wrists and the nails I’ve bitten bloody. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to sleep anymore.”

He nods. There’s silence, but it’s not like with Ellingham, or any of the police—accusing and cold. This is warmer, understanding.

“You’ll get through this,” he says. “You’re strong.”

“How would you know?” I snap before I catch myself. “I’m sorry, I know you’re here to help, it’s just . . .”

“I’m just another stranger, I get it.” Lee looks rueful. “You must be sick of us by now.”

“No,” I reply a after a moment. “It’s better you’re here than . . . not.”

Gates comes back into the room. “Visiting hours are almost over. We should get going.”

“Okay.” I stand awkwardly, watching them pack all the paperwork away. “Will you be back tomorrow?”

“We have a lot of files to go through. . . .” Gates looks torn, so I keep my voice bright.

“It’s okay. It’s actually a good thing. Dekker can’t question me without you or a lawyer around. I bet he’s going crazy out there, having to leave me alone.”

“You shouldn’t joke,” Lee warns me quietly. “From what I’ve heard, he’s a dangerous man.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I turn to stare at him. “I’m trying, okay?”

“We know,” Gates soothes me. “You’re doing great. Here.” He reaches into his canvas bag. “Your dad sent this to give to you.”

I take the envelope. Inside, there’s a photo of the two of us from Christmas a couple of years ago. We’re wearing the dorky matching holiday sweaters my mom bought for us, smiling into the camera in front of the tree.

I love you. Everything will be okay—trust me.

• • •

I say my good-byes to Gates and Lee, watching through the bars as they head down the hallway and out of sight, to freedom.