Dangerous Girls (22 page)

“Let me give you a touch-up.” The makeup lady materializes, holding a tray of pots and brushes. She’s already spent thirty minutes dabbing at me with foundation and mascara, now she dips a blusher brush into some loose powder and dusts at my face. “I know it seems like a lot,” she chats, smiling and friendly. “But these lights get crazy hot; we don’t want any shine.”

I smile back hesitantly. For all the bustle and activity, most people have stayed away from me: orbiting at a safe distance, as if I’m surrounded by an invisible forcefield. I guess a prison jumpsuit and handcuffs will do that to you. I’d hoped I’d be getting regular clothes, like the ones I wore for my hearing, but the show insisted on keeping me in my prison gear—and filming in here, with the wire visible on the window, and metal bars instead of walls. They want to show the reality of my everyday life, they told Gates and my dad, but if that was true, we’d be filming the interview in my isolation cell:
crammed into the tiny room with the camera guy balancing over the steel open toilet.

“Are you nervous?” the makeup lady chats, still dusting powder on my face. I nod, embarrassed. “Don’t be,” she reassures me. “You’ll do great. Just keep looking at her, and try to ignore the cameras.”

“Don’t cover her bruises!” A sharp Southern voice cuts through the noise, and suddenly, there she is, striding toward us on blue patent heels, a paper bib fixed around her neck, and curlers still resting in her blond bobbed hair.

Clara Rose.

On TV, she’s larger than life, but in the flesh, she’s short: tiny and compact in a bright pink Chanel suit and blue eye shadow. “I told you, nothing on the face,” she scolds the makeup lady, snatching the brush away. “She’s been rotting in jail the past three months, not competing in the Junior Miss America pageant.”

The makeup woman cringes and quickly begins blotting at my face. Clara looks at me and suddenly breaks into a wide, honey-sweet smile. “Anna, it’s so great to finally meet you,” she coos. “And thank you so much for agreeing to take part in this. You’ve been so brave; it’s time America got to hear your side of the story.”

She holds out her hand, and reluctantly, I shake it. “Thank you for having me,” I reply politely.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to sit down earlier,” she says, and beams at me with dazzlingly white teeth. “But I’m sure we’ll— Kenny, no!” She suddenly barks, looking up at where the lighting guy is fixing the lamps. “What did I tell you about washing me out with the yellow?” She strides off toward him, her stilettos tap-tapping on the dull linoleum floors.

I exhale slowly, watching her walk away. It wasn’t my choice: to do the interview, or that it be broadcast as a special extended exclusive edition of the
Clara Rose Show
. After all the things she’s said about me, I figured she would be the last person we’d go to, but Lee argued that was the exact reason we need her to do the profile. All of the news channels back home are painting me in a bad light, but Clara’s the worst, hammering her cold-blooded killer theories almost every night of the week with so-called experts and Akshay’s swaggering guest spots. If we can get her to at least present the possibility that I’m innocent, then maybe people will sit up and start paying attention: petition the American government to get involved, put pressure on the Dutch to throw out the case.

It’s a long shot, I know, but they say it could make all the difference. Dekker has been playing the press like a pro—“leaking” photos of me out partying, slipping them information about Elise’s body, the beach house, Tate’s affair. He holds court on the front steps of the precinct, talking about justice, and morality, and how he won’t let outsiders ruin the peaceful
tranquility of his home island. I’ve sat here in prison, silent, for long enough. Now I need to tell my side of the story.

“You ready for this?” Lee comes over with Gates, who looks bewildered at all this activity.

I take a deep breath. “I guess.”

“Just remember what we talked about,” Gates adds, serious. “Take your time, speak slowly, and ask for breaks if you feel overwhelmed. They’re going to edit this together later, so it’s fine to stop and then start again, if you get flustered.”

“And don’t be afraid to show your feelings,” Lee interrupts. “She’s been trying to paint you as this robot, a sociopath, and we know that’s not true. It’s okay if you need to cry.”

“But don’t get angry,” Gates is quick to caution. “Don’t raise your voice, or ask about her coverage, you need to keep this focused on the facts. What happened to Elise, what Dekker’s doing to you now.”

I nod again, already worn-out.

“You’ll do great,” Lee reassures me, squeezing my arm in a comforting gesture. “We believe in you.”

I smile back, glad that he’s here. With Dad still gone in Boston, Lee and Gates are my only link to the outside world, the only people on my side.

“All righty.”  The older producer guy reappears. “We’re good to get started. Mr. Gates, why don’t you and your friend come watch from the hallway, where we have the monitors set up?”

Lee looks to me. I nod, “It’s okay, I’ll be fine.”

“Like I said”—he pats me again—“just tell the truth.”

They follow the producer out, and soon the mess of cables and stands has been tidied to the back of the room, leaving an unobstructed view from the cameras past the lunchtable I’m seated at, back through the bars of the entrance and down the prison hall. Somebody fixes a tiny microphone to my jumpsuit collar and positions the extra boom mike overhead. Then Clara takes a seat beside me, her hair now perfectly styled; her lipstick bright. She’s checking note cards, her lips moving as she murmurs under her breath.

“Sound good?” she asks in a regular tone.

“Check!” Comes the reply. I blink, but the lights are dazzling, and as hot as the makeup woman told me they’d be.

“Just ignore the cameras,” Clara tells me with that same honey-sweet tone. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes: they watch me, shrewd and darting. “And try not to mumble. Speak clearly, or we’ll have to retake the shot.”

I feel my nerves kick, a flutter in my stomach.

“Are we ready?” The voice comes again. “Okay, rolling in three, two, one . . .”

Clara’s face smoothes. She faces the camera, somber and caring. “Tonight, we take you behind the scenes of the notorious Aruba Correctional Institute to bring you an exclusive interview with Anna Chevalier. Locked up, far from home.
Accused of her best friend’s murder. We get a glimpse into this young woman’s mind, and ask the questions that need answering, right here on the
Clara Rose Show
.”

•  •  •

The questions are simple, at first. We go over the same things I told Dekker in my interrogations. The background for our trip, how we spent those first few days on the island, when we finally realized something was wrong and found the body that night. I pick my words carefully, hesitant at first, always reminding myself that Clara’s warm sympathy is an act for the cameras, not any real concern.

“And your time here in prison?” she asks, furrowing her brow. “I can see, you’ve had some problems.”

I touch my face automatically. “I was attacked,” I say softly. “It’s . . . hard. My dad, he does what he can to come visit, but, being alone all this time . . . I just want to go home.”

Clara nods. “Now, can you talk about Elise at all? I know there have been lots of rumors, that the two of you were fighting, that you had a destructive friendship . . .”

“It’s not true. We—we were best friends,” I tell her. “We did everything together, and yes, we had some disagreements, but they were over little things.”

“Like what?”

“Just, girl stuff, you know?” I shrug. “She was always borrowing my clothes and then not giving them back, that drove
me crazy. And she hated it when I would use her makeup without asking.”

“But what about her relationship with Tate Dempsey?” Clara asks, inching forward in her seat. “She was going behind your back with your boyfriend.”

“I didn’t know,” I say firmly.

“But if you had?”

“I didn’t.”

“But now that you do . . .” Clara changes tack. “How do you feel about it? What would you say to her?”

I blink a moment, thrown. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“You haven’t thought about it?” she presses me. “You’ve been here, locked in prison for two months now. What would you say to Tate, if you had the chance? He hasn’t come to see you, has he? Why not?”

“I—”

“Cut!” The voice comes from behind the bank of dazzling lights.

Clara snaps her head around. “What the hell’s the problem?”

The producer comes rushing forward. “Nothing about the Dempsey boy, his lawyers made it clear.”

“Are you kidding me?” Clara exclaims.

He shrugs helplessly. “You know what we went through with the libel writ. I can’t take the risk; they’ll have us back in court.”

She rolls her eyes, smoothing back her hair. “Fine. Do I need more powder? Debbie?”

The makeup artist trots back over with her brush, but I stay focused on the brief conversation I just overheard. Libel? Back in court? Is this why Tate’s barely been mentioned on Clara’s show? I always figured it was strange. After all, he’s the one person who admitted to lying, and to being back at the house with Elise that afternoon, but he’s still barely had a bad word said about him in the press. And this must be why. The Dempsey money has bought him his privacy; Ellingham working round the clock to protect the family’s good name.

But not mine.

“Okay,” Clara waves the crew away and turns back to me. “Let’s pick it up.”

The camera man silently counts down, and Clara brightens on cue. “We’ve seen a lot of, well, I’ve got to be honest with you, pretty troubling photos over the last few weeks. You girls out partying, drinking. What do you say to claims you led Elise astray, and pulled her into this dangerous behavior?”

I take a deep breath. “It’s not true. We . . . liked to go out together, to parties, like most of the other kids in school—”

“But this wasn’t just your regular sleepover, good, clean fun,” Clara interrupts. “There was drinking, college boys . . .”

“We went out,” I admit, “And maybe, we went down some bad roads, but that was Elise. She . . . loved to have a good time.
She was the outgoing one, you know? She was always looking for an adventure.”

“So she was the one initiating the drinking, the drug-taking . . .”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” I stumble over my words, “I just . . . It wasn’t one-sided, like people are saying. She did bad stuff too, it wasn’t all my idea.”

“So what would you tell her parents, if you had the chance?” Clara leans in again. “What would you say to these fine folks, who’ve lost their daughter in the most tragic, violent way?”

I blink. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you try?” Clara urges gently.

I slowly turn, and look at the camera, at the empty gaping lens, with its distant reflection of myself. I open my mouth, hesitant. “I . . . I’m sorry, that’s she’s gone. There’s not a single day that goes by that I don’t . . . that I don’t think about her.” I can feel myself choking up, the glare of the lights hot on my face, Clara’s expression so fixed and hungry. But all I can think about is Elise dancing around the kitchen in the beach house that day, bright and free and alive.

“I’m sorry,” I sob, tears coming fast now. “I’m sorry I wasn’t looking out for her, that I couldn’t stop this. I miss her too,” I add, pleading. “She . . . She was like a sister to me, and now, now I’ll never get her back!”

My eyes blur with tears. I wait for the producer to call to
cut, for them to stop rolling, but nothing comes. They keep filming, watching me weep, counting the long seconds as my body shakes with grief.

This is what they wanted, I realize, too late. They don’t care about my story, or presenting the other side. They just want to see me crying, and begging, and broken. They want a show.

“Crushed by an elephant or
trampled by bulls?”

“Umm, trampled. You’d go quicker. Every hair in your body plucked out one by one or all at once?”

“Shit. Uh . . . all at once. I’d get doped up on painkillers and get it over and done with. You?”

“God no, can you imagine, a bikini wax all over your body?”

“You’re such a pussy, you can’t deal with any pain. Remember you cried that time Elena did your eyebrows?”

“Did not! I have a very sensitive forehead! Oww!”

•  •  •

“Pass me that.”

“Drowning or gunshot?”

“Depends . . . Where’s the bullet hit?”

“Stomach. It’s slow and painful and you bleed to death.”

“Drowning, then. It only takes a few minutes, right?”

“Yeah, but you’re suffocating. And then your eyeballs explode.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true. I saw it on some Discovery Channel show. The pressure builds up and squeezes all your insides out.”

“You’re so dumb. That’s only if you’re really deep—diving or something. Or in space.”

“Would you still bleed to death in space?”

“What? You’re crazy.”

“Shut up, I’m serious. There’s no gravity, right? So why would the blood come out?”

•  •  •

“See?”

“Why are we even talking about this? It’s morbid.”

“You’re telling me you haven’t thought about it? Come on, how would you do it?”

•  •  •

“Pills, I guess. There’s a bunch left from when . . . Mom . . . I wouldn’t even feel it happen.”

“Coward. You’ve got to feel it, all the way to the end. It shouldn’t be a get-out-of-jail-free card, you know? You should have to earn it.”

“So how?”

“A knife, I guess. Slice my wrists, bleed out all over the new cream carpets. Give my mom something to complain about.”

“Elise!”

“What? It’s the point. One final fuck-you.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

•  •  •

“No. I’m just messing with you. Besides, who’d hold your hand for Elena at the salon if I’m gone?”

Elise’s mother, Judy, comes to
visit me in prison the week before the trial begins.