“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.”