We start senior year like kings, like nothing can ever tear us apart.
We’re wrong.
AFTER
Our parents arrive on the island by lunchtime the next day, and with them comes every American news team and TV crew within a thousand-mile radius.
They lay siege on the street outside, lining up news vans and portable satellites, snaking electrical wires across the parking lot. The hotel posts security on every entrance, and sets us up in a suite on the fourth floor with full-length windows overlooking the sparkling sands and perversely blue waters of the beach below. I begin to understand the shock of the staff in the police station last night, their dazed tears and murmured apologies. Ugly things shouldn’t happen in a place this beautiful.
“Anna.”
I turn. Our parents are being shown in by the hotel manager. Elise’s mother crosses the room straight to me, her arms outstretched. “Anna, sweetheart.” Her face is pale and bleak, and I register somehow that this is the first time I’ve ever seen her without makeup.
“Judy.” My voice breaks, and she collapses against me, sobbing. I hold her tight, feeling the anguished cries wrack through her slim body.
“How could this . . . ?” Her words hiccup against my shoulder. “I don’t understand.”
“I know.” I hang on, arms wrapped around her. “I know.”
Of all the parents, I like Elise’s mom the best. She and Elise were always locked in constant battle, but right from the start of us hanging out, Judy welcomed me into their lives. She works long hours as a cardiac surgeon at Mass General, and Mr. Warren is always out too, off at political functions and fund-raisers—planning his next move: to mayor, or congressman, even—but whenever she is around, Judy is always sure to ask me about school and college plans. Not in that fake, polite way, like Tate’s parents, who always speak to me with a faint icy edge, as if they’re just waiting for him to get me out of his system and move on. No, Elise’s mom cares; sitting up with us sometimes to watch TV, or eating a late-night snack in the kitchen with us when we get home from parties and she’s back from a shift at work. Elise always recoiled from her affection, accusing her of being overbearing and smothering, but Elise doesn’t realize how lucky she is to have a mother who even notices.
Had.
I hold Mrs. Warren 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.” Mrs. Warren’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 a BlackBerry 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, Brad, 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.”