by Sara Shepard
On this particular night, the space had been rented out for Mr. Marin’s town hall talk. There were long rows of chairs facing a stage. A lone microphone stood in the center, and there were banners proclaiming messages like TOM MARIN FOR CHANGE and PENNSYLVANIA NEEDS MARIN. It was weird to see Hanna’s dad’s face on campaign posters. Emily still thought of him as the guy who’d once reprimanded Ali for throwing her Bubble Yum out his car window. Later, Ali had made them all go around in a circle, calling Hanna’s dad Mr. Moron—even Hanna, who had done it with tears in her eyes.
Emily scanned the crowd. There were people here she hadn’t seen in years—Mrs. Lowe, her old piano teacher, whose angular face always reminded Emily of a greyhound’s, was sipping from a Starbucks thermal mug in the corner. Mr. Polley, who used to emcee Emily’s swim team banquets, was looking at his BlackBerry near one of the windows. Mr. and Mrs. Roland, who had moved into the Cavanaughs’ old house, sat on folding chairs that had been set up near the stage, their daughter, Chloe, perched next to them. Emily ducked. Mr. Roland had gotten her the scholarship to UNC, but his lascivious behavior had cost Emily her friendship with Chloe.
The only people Emily didn’t see were her friends. As she turned mid-stride to look for them in a different room, she smacked into a caterer who was carrying a silver tray loaded with appetizers. The caterer shot forward, but he miraculously caught the tray before it fell to the floor. “I’m so sorry!” Emily cried.
“No worries,” he answered breezily. “Luckily, I have lightning-quick reflexes.” Then he turned around and did a double take. “Emily?”
Emily blinked. Staring back at her, dressed in a caterer’s tuxedo, was Isaac Colbert, her ex-boyfriend—and the father of her child. She hadn’t seen him since they’d broken up over a year ago.
“H-hey.” Emily’s heart pounded. Isaac looked taller than she remembered—broader, too. His brown hair was down to his chin, and a tattoo peeked out from under his collar. She stared at the black spiral pattern on his skin. What did his overprotective mother have to say about that? Given that Mrs. Colbert had cut Emily’s head out of all the photos of her and Isaac together and called her a whore, Emily couldn’t imagine she was thrilled her son had gotten inked.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted.
Isaac gestured to the logo on his breast pocket. COLBERT CATERING. “My dad’s company is providing refreshments. He’s a Tom Marin fan.” Then he stood back and looked Emily up and down. “You look . . . different. Have you lost weight?”
“I doubt that. I still feel like I’m hanging onto some weight from being—” She caught herself before she could say being pregnant and almost swallowed her tongue. What was wrong with her?
She’d almost called Isaac to confess a few times while she was pregnant—Isaac had been wonderful to her before that stuff happened with his mom. They used to talk for hours, and he’d been so accepting when she told him that she’d dated girls in the past. Then one wintery afternoon, they’d undressed slowly in his bedroom. He had been so sweet about wanting to make their first time meaningful.
But every time she picked up the phone to call him, she couldn’t figure out how to break the news. “Hey! I’ve got a story for you!” Or, “Hey, remember that one and only time we slept together?” And what would Isaac have said? Would he have wanted to give the baby up for adoption, too, or would he have demanded that they raise it together? Emily couldn’t imagine doing something like that—she loved kids, but she wasn’t ready for her own. Then again, Isaac might not even have believed her. Or he might have gotten really, really angry that she hadn’t told him earlier. It was something, she’d decided, she had to handle on her own. And so she’d flipped through the online profiles of hopeful adoptive couples by herself. When she came to an account for two happy, smiling people that read Loving couple married for eight years so excited to be a mommy and daddy, she stopped. Charles and Lizzie Baker said they were soul mates, went on kayaking trips on the weekends, read the same book at the same time so they could discuss it over dessert, and were fixing up their old house in Wessex. We will always let your child know that he or she was placed for adoption out of love, their profile had said. Something about it had touched Emily at her core.
Now, Isaac set the tray down on a nearby table and laid his hand on her arm. “I wanted to call so many times. I heard about the horrible thing you went through.”
“What?” Emily felt the color drain from her face.
“Alison DiLaurentis coming back,” Isaac said. “I remember you talking about Ali, how much she meant to you. Are you okay?”
Emily’s heart slowly returned to its normal rhythm. Of course—Alison. “I guess,” she answered shakily. “And, um, how are you? Is the band still together? And what’s that?” She pointed to his tattoo. Anything to get him off the topic of her.
Isaac opened his mouth to speak, but a tall, older guy in a caterer’s uniform tapped his shoulder and told him he was needed on prep duty. “I should go,” he said to Emily, starting toward the door. Then he stopped and faced her again. “You wouldn’t want to get together after the meeting tonight and catch up, would you?”
For a moment, Emily considered taking him up on it. But then she thought about how tense she’d be the whole time, the secret bulging inside her like an overfilled water balloon. “Um, I already have plans,” she lied. “Sorry.”
Isaac’s face fell. “Oh. Well, maybe another time, then.”
He followed the other caterer into the crowd. Emily spun around and darted in the opposite direction, feeling like she’d just narrowly escaped something awful, but also sad and regretful that she’d blown Isaac off.
“Emily?”
Emily turned to her left. Hanna stood next to her, dressed in a fitted pinstriped sheath and chunky heels. Mr. Marin was at her side, looking senatorial in his red power-tie. “Hey,” she said, hugging both of them.
“Thanks for coming.” Hanna sounded grateful.
“We’re happy to have you, Emily,” Mr. Marin said.
“I’m happy to be here,” Emily answered, though after her run-in with Isaac, all she wanted to do was go home.
Then Mr. Marin turned to a woman who’d just joined the group. She had ash-blond hair, perfect posture, and wore an impeccable suit that looked like it cost a small fortune. Emily started, her body suddenly on fire. No. It couldn’t be. Emily had to be seeing things.
The woman noticed her, too, and stopped talking mid-sentence. “Oh!” she blurted, her face going white.
Bile rose in Emily’s throat. It was Gayle.
Mr. Marin noticed the strange look pass between both of them and cleared his throat. “Uh, Emily, this is Ms. Riggs, one of my biggest donors. She and her husband recently moved to the area from New Jersey. Ms. Riggs, this is my daughter’s friend Emily.”
Gayle pushed a strand of blond hair from her eyes. “I thought your name was Heather,” she said in a measured, ice-cold voice.
All eyes were on her. Hanna shot around and stared at Emily. It felt like ten years passed before Emily spoke again. “Uh, you must have me confused with someone else,” she blurted. And then, unable to stand there a moment longer, she whipped around and ran as fast as she could for the nearest door, which led to a back storage room. She shut herself inside and leaned against the wall, her heart thudding in her ears.
As if on cue, her phone chimed. Emily grabbed for it, her stomach jumping all over the place. One new text, the screen said.
Hey, baby mama. Guess the jig is up! —A
9
HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A RICH LADY SCORNED
As Mr. Marin took the stage at the town hall meeting, beaming at his adoring crowd, Spencer banged through the back doors of the banquet room into a small parking lot. Only a few spaces were occupied, taken by beat-up pickup trucks and compact cars. At the back of the lot, next to a green Dumpster stuffed with empty cardboard boxes, Emily hopped from foot to foot as if her sweater dress was on fire.
The door opened again, and Aria and Hanna stepped outside. They were both holding their phones and looking confused. Just moments ago, Emily had sent all of them a cryptic text saying they needed to talk and to meet her here. Spencer had texted back asking if they could talk inside—it was cold out—but Emily had written back NO!
“Em?” Aria called out, walking down the rickety metal steps. “Are you okay?”
“My dad’s going to wonder where I am.” Hanna held the railing tight, cautious in her high heels. “What’s going on?”
Emily thrust her phone toward them when they were close. “I just got this.”
The girls read the note on the screen. Spencer’s stomach flipped as she took in the words. “Wait. A knows about the baby?”
Emily nodded, looking terrified.
“But how is that possible? And why didn’t A mention it before?” Spencer asked. She still couldn’t believe Emily had had a baby. Before school was dismissed last year, Emily had looked—and seemed—so normal, like nothing was bothering her at all. But halfway through July, shortly after Spencer’s run-in with the police for possession of Easy A, Emily had called Spencer in a panic, saying she was pregnant. At first, Spencer had thought it was a joke. Not a very funny one, either.
“I don’t know,” Emily answered, tears in her eyes. “Maybe because A knows everything. Has anyone else gotten a note?”
Spencer shakily raised her hand. “Actually, I did. Last night. I was going to tell you tonight.”
She pulled up the text on her phone, and the others gathered around.
Think your college friends would let you into their Eating Club if they knew about your appetite for murder?
Just reading it again made Spencer’s heart gallop. She’d barely slept a wink last night, running over the possibilities of who A might be.
“How could A know about Tabitha and the baby?” Emily whispered.
Hanna exhaled sharply, her breath visible in the frigid air. “The same way A knows everything.”
“Plenty of people saw you.” Spencer shivered in the thin blazer she’d chosen to wear. “You were in Philly all summer. A could have been, too. Maybe that’s how A knew about me and Kelsey.”
Emily paced up and down a faded yellow line demarcating a parking space. “You know how big I got. I didn’t look like the girl on that People cover. But I suppose someone could have figured it out.” She arched her back and stared at the spindly tree branches above their heads.
“This isn’t just any random someone,” Aria pointed out. “It’s a person who’s out to get us. Someone we wronged. Someone who wants revenge.”
“But who?” Hanna cried.
Emily stopped pacing. “You all know who I think A is.”
Spencer groaned. “Don’t say Ali, Em.”
“Why not?” Emily’s voice cracked. “She and Tabitha were at the Preserve together. Ali could’ve found out we killed Tabitha. Maybe she wants revenge for that, on top of everything else we did to her.”
Spencer sighed. She couldn’t believe Emily was still on this Ali-is-alive mission. “So Ali and Tabitha were at the Preserve at the same time. That doesn’t prove anything. And for the last time, Ali’s bones weren’t found in the rubble, but we all saw her in the house just before it blew up.”
A shadow passed over Emily’s face. “It’s just, who other than Ali would know to follow us around everywhere, track our every move?” she said, staring at her feet. “And you guys aren’t going to believe who’s here—Gayle. What if A is planning to tell her what I did with the baby? And what if Gayle tells everyone about me?”
“Wait a minute.” Hanna furrowed her brow. “Gayle, the woman who wanted the baby, is inside?”
Emily nodded. “It was the woman your dad introduced me to. Ms. Riggs.”
“So that’s why she called you Heather.” Hanna shut her eyes. “Gayle is promising my dad a lot of money for his campaign.”
“Well, isn’t that a lovely coincidence,” Spencer said sarcastically.
Aria cleared her throat. “Maybe it’s not a coincidence at all.”
Everyone looked at her. Aria turned to Emily. “Let me get this straight, Em. You just saw the woman you promised a baby to, the woman you screwed over in the end. Right?”
“I had to screw her over,” Emily interrupted, a tormented look on her face. “I had to do what was right for the baby!”
“I know, I know.” Aria waved her hands impatiently. “Just go with me, okay? You were worried sick about Gayle tracking you down, though. And you said Gayle was crazy. Isn’t that why you didn’t want to give the baby to her?”
Emily wrinkled her nose. “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Aria exclaimed. “You saw Gayle inside. And then, seconds later, you got a note from A about the baby. Gayle is A! Maybe she figured out what you did—what we all did! And now she wants to get revenge on all of us for helping you take her baby away!”
Emily squinted. “That makes no sense. How could Gayle know about Spencer’s drug problem? How could she know about what happened in Jamaica?”
“Maybe she has a connection to Penn and Jamaica,” Aria said. “She’s really rich. Maybe she hired a PI. You never know.”
“But what does she want from us?” Hanna asked.
Everyone thought for a moment. “Maybe she wants to know where the baby is,” Aria suggested.
“Or maybe Gayle just wants to hurt you like you hurt her,” Spencer said with a shiver. “Remember those messages she left on your voicemail, Em? She sounded crazy.” She shut her eyes and recalled the woman’s grating voice coming through the tiny cell phone speaker. I’m going to find you, the last voicemail had said. I’m going to hunt you and that baby down, and then you’ll be sorry.
Inside, Tom Marin’s voice boomed through the microphone. Hanna cast a glance at the door. “What did you mean when you said Gayle being my dad’s biggest donor might not be a coincidence, Aria?”
“Think about it.” Aria fiddled with one of her feather earrings. “If Gayle is A, maybe she got involved with your dad’s campaign to get closer to you. Maybe it’s part of her master plan.”
Hanna squeezed her eyes shut. “My dad said that her funds are crucial to the campaign, though. If she withheld them for any reason, he might not have the money to air his commercials throughout the state.”
“Maybe that’s part of A’s master plan, too,” Spencer said somberly.
“Guys, do you hear yourselves?” Emily looked annoyed. “There’s no way Gayle is A. Yeah, it’s awful that I ran into her. And yeah, I don’t know what I’m going to do now that she’s seen me. But we have to think about A getting to Gayle, not A being Gayle.”
“I think we need more facts,” Spencer said. “Maybe there’s a way we could prove if Gayle is or isn’t A. If she’s your dad’s biggest donor, Hanna, maybe you could snoop around a little?”
“Me?” Hanna pressed her hand to her chest. “Why do I have to do it?”
They were suddenly interrupted by a loud creak. The back door opened, and Kate stuck her head out. “There you are,” she said, sounding more relieved than annoyed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Dad wants us on the stage with him.”
“Got it.” Hanna moved toward the door. She glanced over her shoulder at the others, indicating that they should follow. Aria and Spencer fell in line, but Emily stayed where she was. I’m not going back inside, her stubborn expression said. Not with Gayle there.
Spencer gave Emily an apologetic wave before ducking back into the banquet hall. The room was even more crowded than before—every seat was filled. Mr. Marin stood on the stage, answering questions and flashing his politician’s smile. Spencer caught Hanna’s arm before she joined her father. “Which one is Gayle, anyway?”
Hanna pointed to a woman in a red skirt suit in the front row. “Her.”
Spencer gazed at the woman, assessing her blond hair, thin face, and the enormous diamonds on her fingers. All of
a sudden, something clicked. The cake tasting. Gayle had been a few tables over, wearing a Chanel suit. Spencer had felt the woman’s gaze on her back, but had shaken off Gayle’s weird, smug expression, telling herself she was just being paranoid.
But maybe she wasn’t. Maybe Gayle had been watching her. Because maybe, just maybe, Gayle was A.
10
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
Wednesday afternoon, Aria and Noel stood at a counter in the basement of the Rosewood Culinary College, where they were taking Introduction to Cooking. Shiny pots and pans surrounded them. Ground-up spices waited in small, clear prep bowls, and a half-chopped leek lay limply on their cutting board. The room smelled of boiling chicken broth, gas from the burners, and the pungent cinnamon Trident that Marge, the lady behind them, chewed nonstop.
All eyes were on Madame Richeau, their instructor. Even though she’d only been a cook on a Carnival cruise ship for all of six months in the eighties, she acted as though she were a celebrity chef on the Food Network, wearing a tall toque and speaking with a dubious French accent.
“The key to good risotto is constant stirring,” Madame Richeau said, inserting a wooden spoon into a pot and rotating it slowly around. She pronounced the like zee. “Never stop stirring until the rice is creamy. It’s a hard technique to master! Now, stir, stir, stir!”
Noel nudged Aria. “You aren’t stirring fast enough.”
Aria snapped to attention and looked down at her pot, which was full of Arborio rice and bubbling broth. “Oops,” she said distractedly, giving the concoction a few good mixes.
“Would you rather chop?” Noel held up the Japanese knife he’d brought from his parents’ kitchen. He was at work cutting a red onion for a side salad. “I don’t want our risotto to be ruined. Madame might give us the guillotine,” he said with a sly smile.
“I’m cool,” Aria said, glancing at his workstation. “Besides, I could never slice that onion as well as you.” Surprisingly, Noel had turned out to be pretty good at the class—especially the chopping part. Aria always got bored halfway through and left her vegetables in big, unwieldy chunks.
