by Sara Shepard
“You’d better go.” She sniffed and turned back to Wren. “It’s so crazy here. And I don’t know when my parents will be back.”
“All right.” He tilted her head up. “But can we see each other again?”
Spencer swallowed, and tried to smile. As she did, Wren bent down and kissed her, wrapping one hand around the back of her neck and the other around the very spot on her lower back that, just Friday, hurt like hell.
Spencer broke away from him. “I don’t even have your number.”
“Don’t worry,” Wren whispered. “I’ll call you.”
Spencer stood out on the edge of her vast yard for a moment, watching Wren walk to his car. As he drove away, her eyes stung with tears again. If only she had someone to talk to—someone who wasn’t banned from her house. She glanced back at the Ali shrine and wondered how her old friends were dealing with this.
As Wren pulled to the end of her street, Spencer noticed another car’s headlights turn in. She froze. Was that her parents? Had they seen Wren?
The headlights inched closer. Suddenly, Spencer realized who it was. The sky was a dark purple, but she could just make out Andrew Campbell’s longish hair.
She gasped, ducking behind her mother’s rosebushes. Andrew slowly pulled his Mini up to her mailbox, opened it, slid something in, and neatly closed it again. He drove away.
She waited until he was gone before sprinting out to the curb and wrenching open the mailbox. Andrew had left her a folded-up piece of notepaper.
Hey, Spencer. I didn’t know if you were taking any calls. I’m really sorry about Alison. I hope my blanket helped you yesterday.
—Andrew
Spencer turned up her driveway, reading and rereading the note. She stared at the slanty boy handwriting. Blanket? What blanket?
Then she realized. It was Andrew who helped her?
She crumpled up the note in her hands and started sobbing all over again.
33
ROSEWOOD’S FINEST
“Police have reopened the DiLaurentis case, and are in the process of questioning witnesses,” a newscaster on the eleven-o’clock news reported. “The DiLaurentis family, now living in Maryland, will have to face something they’ve tried to put behind them. Except now, there is closure.”
Newscasters were such drama queens, Hanna thought angrily as she shoved another handful of Cheez-Its in her mouth. Only the news could find a way to make a horrible story worse. The camera stayed focused on the Ali shrine, as they called it, the candles, Beanie Babies, wilted flowers people no doubt just picked out of neighbors’ gardens, marshmallow Peeps—Ali’s favorite candy—and of course photos.
The camera cut to Alison’s mother, whom Hanna hadn’t seen in a while. Besides her teary face, Mrs. DiLaurentis looked pretty—with a shaggy haircut and dangly chandelier earrings.
“We’ve decided to have a service for Alison in Rosewood, which was the only home Ali knew,” Mrs. DiLaurentis said in a controlled voice. “We want to thank all of those who helped search for our daughter three years ago for their enduring support.”
The newscaster came back on the screen. “A memorial will be held tomorrow at the Rosewood Abbey and will be open to the public.”
Hanna clicked off the TV. It was Sunday night. She sat on her living room couch, dressed in her rattiest C&C T-shirt and a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs she’d pilfered out of Sean’s top drawer. Her long brown hair was messy and strawlike around her face and she was pretty sure she had a pimple on her forehead. A huge bowl of Cheez-Its rested in her lap, an empty Klondike wrapper was crumpled up on the coffee table, and a bottle of pinot noir was wedged snugly at her side. She’d been trying all night not to eat like this but, well, her willpower just wasn’t very strong today.
She clicked the TV back on, wishing she had someone to talk to…about the police, about A, and mostly about Alison. Sean was out, for obvious reasons. Her mom—who was on a date right now—was her usual useless self. After the hubbub of activity at the police station yesterday, Wilden told Hanna and her mother to go home; they’d deal with her later, since the police had more important things to attend to at the moment. Neither Hanna nor her mom knew what was happening at the station, only that it involved a murder.
On the drive home, instead of Ms. Marin reprimanding Hanna for, oh, stealing a car and driving piss-drunk, she told Hanna that she “was taking care of it.” Hanna didn’t have a clue what that meant. Last year, a cop had spoken at a Rosewood Day assembly about how Pennsylvania had a “zero tolerance” rule for drunk drivers under twenty-one. At the time, Hanna had paid attention only because she thought the cop was sort of hot, but now his words haunted her.
Hanna couldn’t rely on Mona, either: She was still at that golf tournament in Florida. They’d spoken briefly on the phone, and Mona had admitted the police had called her about Sean’s car, but she’d played dumb, saying she’d been at the party the whole time and Hanna had been too. And the lucky bitch: They’d gotten the back of her head on the Wawa surveillance tape, but not her face, since she’d been wearing that disgusting delivery hat. That was yesterday, though, after Hanna got back from the police station. She and Mona hadn’t talked today, and they hadn’t discussed Alison yet.
And then…there was A. Or if A was Alison, would A be gone now? But the police said Alison had been dead for years….
As Hanna scanned the guide feature on TV for what else was on, her eyelids swollen with tears, she considered calling her father—this story might be on the Annapolis-area news, too. Or maybe he’d call her? She picked up the silent phone to make sure it was still working.
She sighed. The problem with being Mona’s best friend was that they had no other friends. Watching all this Ali footage made her think of her old group of friends. They’d had their rocky, horrible moments together, but they used to have a lot of fun, too. In a parallel universe, they’d all be together now, remembering Ali and laughing even though they were crying, too. But in this dimension, they’d grown too far apart.
They’d split up for valid reasons, of course—things had started to go rotten way before Ali went missing. In the beginning, when they were doing that charity drive stuff, it was wonderful. But then, after The Jenna Thing happened, things got tense. They were all so afraid that what happened to Jenna could be linked to them. Hanna remembered being jumpy even when she was on the bus and a cop car would pass by them, going in the other direction. Then, that next winter and spring, whole topics were suddenly off-limits. Someone was always saying, “Shhh!” and then they all fell into an uncomfortable silence.
The eleven-o’clock newscasters signed off and The Simpsons came on. Hanna picked up her BlackBerry. She still knew Spencer’s number by heart, and it probably wouldn’t be too late to call. As she dialed the second digit, she cocked her ear, her Tiffany earrings jangling. There was a scratching noise at the door.
Dot, who had been lying by her feet, picked up his head and growled. Hanna took the Cheez-It bowl off her lap and stood.
Was it…A?
Knees shaking, Hanna crept into the hall. There were long, dark shadows at the back door, and the scratching noise had grown louder. “Oh my God,” Hanna whispered, her chin trembling. Someone was trying to get in!
Hanna looked around. There was a round jade paperweight on the little hall table. It had to weigh at least twenty pounds. She heaved it up and took three tentative steps for the kitchen door.
Suddenly, the door burst open. Hanna jumped back. A woman stumbled through the entranceway. Her tasteful, gray pleated skirt was up around her waist. Hanna held up the paperweight, about to throw it.
Then she realized. It was her mom.
Ms. Marin bumped into the telephone table as if she were wasted. Some guy was behind her, trying to unzip her skirt and kiss her at the same time. Hanna’s eyes widened.
Darren Wilden. Mr. April.
So that was what her mom meant by “taking care of it”?
Hanna’s stomach clen
ched. No doubt she looked a little insane, tenaciously clutching the paperweight. Ms. Marin gave Hanna a very long look, not even bothering to turn away from Wilden.
Her mother’s eyes said, I’m doing this for you.
34
FANCY MEETING YOU HERE
On Monday morning, instead of sitting in first-period bio, Emily stood next to her parents in the high-ceilinged, marble-floored nave of Rosewood Abbey. She tugged uncomfortably at the black, pleated, too-short Gap skirt she’d found in the back of her closet and tried to smile. Mrs. DiLaurentis stood in the doorway, clad in a cowl-neck black dress, heels, and tiny freshwater pearls. She walked up to Emily and engulfed her in a hug.
“Oh, Emily,” Mrs. DiLaurentis sobbed.
“I’m so sorry,” Emily whispered back, her own eyes watering. Mrs. DiLaurentis still wore the same perfume—Coco Chanel. It instantly brought back all kinds of memories: A million rides to and from the mall in Mrs. DiLaurentis’s Infiniti, sneaking into her bathroom to steal TrimSpa tablets and to experiment with her expensive La Prairie makeup, going through her enormous, walk-in closet and trying on all her sexy size-2 black Dior cocktail dresses.
Other kids from Rosewood streamed around them, trying to find seats in the high-backed wooden pews. Emily hadn’t known what to expect at Alison’s memorial service. The abbey smelled like incense and wood. Simple cylinder-shaped lamps hung from the ceiling, and the altar was covered with a billion white tulips. Tulips were Alison’s favorite flower. Emily remembered Ali helped her mom plant rows of them in their front yard every year.
Alison’s mom finally stood back and wiped her eyes. “I want you to sit up in the front, with all of Ali’s friends. Is that okay, Kathleen?”
Emily’s mom nodded. “Of course.”
Emily listened to every click of Mrs. DiLaurentis’s heels and the shuffling of her own chunky loafers as they walked down the aisle. Suddenly it hit Emily why she was here again. Ali was dead.
Emily clutched Mrs. DiLaurentis’s arm. “Oh my God.” Her field of vision narrowed, and she heard a waaaah noise in her ears, the sign that she was about to faint.
Mrs. DiLaurentis held her upright. “It’s okay. Come on. Sit down here.”
Dizzily, Emily slid into the pew. “Put your head between your legs,” she heard a familiar voice say.
Then another familiar voice snorted. “Say it louder, so all the boys can hear.”
Emily looked up. Next to her were Aria and Hanna. Aria wore a blue, purple, and fuchsia-striped cotton boat-neck dress, a navy velvet jacket, and cowboy boots. It was so Aria—she was the type who thought wearing some color to funerals celebrated the living. Hanna, on the other hand, wore a skimpy black V-neck dress and black stockings.
“Dear, can you move over?”
Above her, Mrs. DiLaurentis stood with Spencer Hastings, who wore a charcoal suit and ballet flats.
“Hey, guys,” Spencer said to all of them, in that buttery voice Emily had missed. She sat down next to Emily.
“So, we meet again,” Aria said, smiling.
Silence. Emily peeked at all of them out of the corner of her eye. Aria was fidgeting with a silver ring on her thumb, Hanna was fumbling around in her purse, and Spencer was sitting very still, staring at the altar.
“Poor Ali,” Spencer murmured.
The girls sat quietly for a few minutes. Emily wracked her brain for something to say. Her ears filled with the waaaah sound again.
She twisted around to scan the crowd for Maya, and her eyes landed square on Ben’s. He was sitting in the second-to-last row with the rest of the swimmers. Emily lifted her hand in a tiny wave. Next to this, the party stuff seemed petty.
But instead of waving back, Ben glared at her, his thin mouth in a stubborn, straight line. Then he looked away.
Okay.
Emily swung back around. Rage filled her body. My old best friend was just found murdered, she wanted to scream. And we’re in a church, for God’s sake! What about forgiveness?
Then it hit her. She didn’t want him to take her back. Not one bit.
Aria tapped her on the leg. “You okay after Saturday morning? I mean, you didn’t even know yet, right?”
“No, it was something else, but I’m okay,” Emily answered, even though that wasn’t true.
“Spencer.” Hanna’s head popped up. “I, um, I saw you at the mall recently.”
Spencer looked at Hanna. “Huh?”
“You were…you were going into Kate Spade.” Hanna looked down. “I don’t know. I was going to say hi. But, um, I’m glad you don’t have to order those purses from New York anymore.” She put her head down and blushed, as if she’d said too much.
Emily was startled—she hadn’t seen Hanna make that expression in years.
Spencer’s brow crinkled. Then, a sad, tender look came over her face. She swallowed hard and looked down. “Thanks,” she murmured. Her shoulders started to shake and she squeezed her eyes shut. Emily felt her own throat choking up. She’d never actually seen Spencer cry.
Aria put her hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said.
“Sorry,” Spencer said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I just…” She glanced around at all of them and then started crying even harder.
Emily hugged her. It felt a little awkward, but by the way Spencer squeezed her hand, Emily could tell she appreciated it.
When they sat back, Hanna pulled a tiny silver flask out of her bag and reached over Emily to pass it to Spencer. “Here,” she whispered.
Without even smelling it or asking what it was, Spencer took a huge swallow. She winced but said, “Thanks.”
She passed the flask back to Hanna, who drank and handed it to Emily. Emily took a sip, which burned in her chest, then passed it to Aria. Before drinking, Aria pulled on Spencer’s sleeve.
“This’ll make you feel better too.” Aria tugged down the shoulder of her dress to reveal a white knitted bra strap. Emily immediately recognized it—Aria had knitted heavy woolen bras for all the girls in seventh grade. “I wore it for old time’s sake,” Aria whispered. “It’s itching like hell.”
Spencer sputtered out a laugh. “Oh my God.”
“You’re such a spaz,” Hanna added, grinning.
“I could never wear mine, remember?” Emily chimed in. “My mom thought it was too sexy for school!”
“Yeah.” Spencer giggled. “If you can call scratching your boobs all day sexy.”
The girls snickered. Suddenly, Aria’s cell phone buzzed. She reached into her bag and looked at the phone’s screen.
“What?” Aria looked up, realizing they were all staring at her.
Hanna fiddled with her charm bracelet. “Did you, um, just get a text message?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Who was it?”
“It was my mom,” Aria answered slowly. “Why?”
Low pipe organ music began to lilt through the church. Behind them, more kids shuffled in quietly. Spencer glanced nervously at Emily. Emily’s heart started to pound.
“Never mind,” Hanna said. “That was nosy.”
Aria licked her lips. “Wait. Seriously. Why?”
Hanna’s adam’s apple rose with a nervous swallow. “I…I just thought maybe strange things had been happening to you, too.”
Aria’s mouth fell open. “Strange is an understatement.”
Emily clutched her arms around herself.
“Wait. You guys, too?” Spencer whispered.
Hanna nodded. “Texts?”
“E-mails,” Spencer said.
“About…stuff from seventh?” Aria whispered.
“Are you guys serious?” Emily squeaked.
The friends stared at each other. But before anyone could say anything else, the somber-sounding pipe organ filled the room.
Emily turned around. A bunch of people were walking slowly up the center aisle. It was Ali’s mom and dad, her brother, her grandparents, and some others who must’ve been relatives. Two redheaded
boys were the last to come down the aisle; Emily recognized them as Sam and Russell, Ali’s cousins. They used to visit Ali’s family every summer. Emily hadn’t seen them in years, and wondered if they were still as gullible as they used to be.
The family members slid into the front row and waited for the music to stop.
As Emily stared at them, she noticed movement. One of the pimply, redheaded cousins was staring at them. Emily was pretty sure it was the one named Sam—he’d been the geekier of the two. He stared at all the girls and then slowly and flirtatiously raised an eyebrow. Emily quickly looked away.
She felt Hanna jab her in the ribs. “Not it,” Hanna whispered to the girls.
Emily looked at her, puzzled, but then Hanna motioned with her eyes to the two gangly cousins.
All the girls caught on at the same time. “Not it,” Emily, Spencer, and Aria said at once.
They all giggled. But then Emily paused, considering what “not it” really meant. She’d never thought about it before, but it was kind of mean. When she looked around, she noticed her friends had stopped laughing too. They all exchanged a look.
“I guess it was funnier back then,” Hanna said quietly.
Emily sat back. Maybe Ali didn’t know everything. Yes, this might have been the worst day of her life, and she was horribly devastated about Ali, and completely freaked about A. But for a moment, she felt okay. Sitting here with her old friends seemed like the tiny beginning of something.
35
JUST YOU WAIT
The organ started up again with its dreary music, and Ali’s brother and the others filed out of the church. Spencer, tipsy from a few slugs of whiskey, noticed that her three old friends had stood up and were filing out of the pew, and she figured she should go, too.
Everyone from Rosewood Day hung out at the back of the church, from the lacrosse boys to the video game–obsessed geeks who Ali no doubt would have teased back in seventh. Old Mr. Yew—the one in charge of the Rosewood Day charity drive—stood in the corner, talking quietly to Mr. Kaplan, who taught art. Even Ali’s older JV field hockey friends had returned from their respective colleges; they stood in a teary huddle near the door. Spencer scanned the familiar faces, remembering all the people she used to know and didn’t anymore. And then, she saw a dog—a seeing-eye dog.
