Pretty Little Liars #14

by Sara Shepard

  As Hanna joined the metal-detector line, a hand slipped into hers. Mike’s ice-blue eyes were full of tears. “I know you were trying to find her,” he whispered. “You should have let me help.”

  Hanna shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

  “Did you have any luck?”

  Hanna almost wanted to laugh. “What do you think?”

  Mike answered by squeezing her hand harder than ever before.

  After the scanners, the legal team joined the girls, and they walked to the courtroom as a group. As soon as Mr. Goddard opened the double doors, a hundred heads turned around. Hanna recognized every face: There was Naomi Zeigler and Riley Wolfe. Boys from Mike’s lacrosse team and girls from Hanna’s old cheerleading squad. A girl named Dinah she’d met while doing a boot-camp program last Christmas. Sean Ackard, Sean’s father, Kelly from the burn clinic. Phi Templeton, Chassey Bledsoe, and then—horrifyingly—Mona Vanderwaal’s parents, both of them looking older and much more haggard since Mona’s death a year and a half before.

  Everyone stared at Hanna as though she’d already been convicted. Hanna hadn’t felt this vulnerable since Mona-as-A had broadcast that video of Hanna’s court dress ripping at the seams at Mona’s Sweet Seventeen. Hanna leaned into Mike. “You don’t have to stand by me, you know. Save yourself. Go sit with your friends.”

  Mike pinched her palm. “Shut up, Hanna.”

  Mike held fast to her hand as they walked down the aisle to the front bench. Hanna sat next to her lawyer, the wood cold through her thin dress. Mike retreated to the bench behind her. Emily, Spencer, and Aria slid into the front bench as well. They all exchanged a glance, but no one bothered to say anything. The defeat was clear on their faces. They’d tried every avenue to find Ali, and they’d failed again and again.

  The heavy doors slammed shut, and a bailiff ordered everyone to rise. A rotund, balding judge in flowing black robes entered and settled down on the bench, gazing wearily at the girls. After a few beginning remarks, the district attorney rose. “There is reasonable evidence to prove that Miss Hastings, Miss Marin, Miss Montgomery, and Miss Fields murdered Miss Tabitha Clark at a resort in Jamaica last April.”

  The judge nodded. “Their trial will take place there, as will their sentence. Extradition to Jamaica will happen immediately.”

  The lawyers and the judge said more than that, but that was all Hanna heard before the sound of her heartbeat drowned out their voices. She shut her eyes, seeing only darkness. When she opened them again, Mr. Goddard was standing. “I motion to allow my clients one more night in Rosewood with their families.”

  “Motion granted,” the judge decided. “All of the girls must leave the country tomorrow. Flights will be arranged, paid for by their families. US marshals will accompany each prisoner.”

  And then the gavel banged, and everyone was standing again, and then Mr. Goddard was rushing them out of the courtroom and into a conference room where they could talk. The same reporters had made their way into the halls; they clawed at Hanna fiercely as she passed. Hanna glanced over her shoulder for Mike, wanting to spend every remaining second with him before she had to leave the country, but all she saw were angry faces.

  Emily appeared by her side. Spencer caught up next, then Aria. Mr. Goddard made a circle around them with his arms, barricading the reporters, and as the girls looked at one another, they all burst into tears. Spencer grabbed Hanna tightly and hugged her. Aria and Emily wrapped their arms around them, too. They sobbed as one, their breaths sharp and uneven. Flashbulbs popped. The reporters didn’t pause for a second from questioning. But for a few moments, Hanna didn’t care what the photos would be. Who wouldn’t show emotion when she was extradited to a foreign prison for a crime she didn’t commit?

  “I can’t believe it’s come to this,” she murmured into her friends’ ears.

  “We have to be strong,” Spencer said, her voice cracking.

  Hanna gazed back at the courtroom doors, surprised at how many people were streaming out. Mona’s parents hurried down the steps, probably worried they’d be stalked by the reporters themselves. Naomi and Riley flirted with a few lacrosse players, treating this as a social event. Kate looked a little lost as she walked to the window. Hanna wanted to call her over and give her a big hug.

  Mr. Goddard directed them into the conference room and shut the doors. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “We’re filing an appeal immediately. And we’re working on getting you the best lawyers in Jamaica.” Then he shut the door behind them, leaving the girls alone.

  For a few moments, Hanna sat numbly at the table, scratching her nails against the wood.

  Suddenly, something out the window caught her attention. The view was of the empty parking lot, but voices rang out from somewhere below. “No more,” someone said through a bullhorn.

  “No more,” more voices echoed.

  “No more murders in Rosewood!” the first voice said.

  She cocked her ear. If you weren’t paying attention, if you didn’t know what you were listening for, that first part kind of sounded like Mo, Mo.

  “No more!” the first voice said through the bullhorn.

  “No more murders in Rosewood!” echoed the protesters again, waving their picket signs.

  Hanna clapped a hand over her mouth. “Guys.” She wheeled around and motioned for Spencer, Emily, and Aria to come to the window. They moved toward her, their brows furrowed.

  “The protesters,” Hanna said. She peered all the way to the left, and there they were, making a big circle on the front lawn. No more murders in Rosewood, they chanted. “That’s the announcement from Ali’s voicemail,” Hanna said.

  Emily blinked hard. “Really?”

  Hanna nodded, suddenly never more sure of anything in her life. “It’s the same voice. The same protest message. We only had a piece of it before Ali hung up. But this is it.”

  Spencer made a face. “Ali was in the middle of a protest march . . . about the murders she committed?”

  “Maybe she was near a march,” Hanna said.

  Spencer paced around the room. “There have been marches all over Rosewood for the past week. When did you receive that message, Emily?”

  “Last Friday.”

  Aria looked at Spencer. “Is there any way we could figure out where the protesters were that day?”

  Hanna suddenly realized something. “I know where they were.” The last time she’d gone to his office, he’d been more concerned with whether the protesters had seen her come in than with the fact that she needed his help.

  When she explained this to her friends, Spencer gasped. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” Hanna’s heart beat faster and faster. “She was calling from near my dad’s campaign office.”

  Hanna gazed at her friends, a tiny candle of hope burning inside her. They had one more day until they were going to Jamaica. One more night to stake this out. It would be next to impossible to get out of the house, but they had to, somehow. When she saw the determined expressions on her friends’ faces, she knew they were thinking the exact same thing.

  Spencer’s gaze flicked toward the trees. “One AM?”

  Hanna nodded. It was on.

  31

  FINDING HER

  At 12:20 AM, Spencer’s phone alarm buzzed on her nightstand. Her eyes popped open, and her body was suddenly alert. Though her bedroom was dark and she was tucked under the covers, she was fully dressed in a black hoodie, black tights, and even black New Balance running sneakers she’d found in the closet in Melissa’s old bedroom. She was ready.

  She slid the covers back and tiptoed to the door. The house was silent. Her mom and Mr. Pennythistle were presumably sleeping, probably zonked out on Xanax. Spencer padded over to the window that faced the front of the house. There was no police car at the curb.

  Spencer made a lump of pillows in her bed to look like she was still sleeping. Then she snuck downstairs, opened the alarm unit on the main floor, and disarmed one of
the exits, silencing it before any sort of announcement could be made to the rest of the house. Finally, she crept to the only unfinished room in the basement, which held cases of wine and an extra fridge the Hastings used for big parties. Normally, Spencer didn’t like going into the room—it smelled musty, was full of spiders, and was where Melissa used to “banish” her when they played Evil Queen and Prisoner when they were little. But tucked into the corner was a small set of stairs that led to a flat door flush with the backyard. No one would be watching it. The cops probably had no idea it was there.

  Her heart pounded as she climbed the dark cellar stairs toward the door. She didn’t dare breathe as she pushed it up and open. A sprinkler hissed pleasantly. The hot tub bubbled to the left. Spencer squeezed out, keeping low to the ground and out of the floodlights as she dashed to the woods. From there, she was free.

  It was at least three miles to Hanna’s dad’s campaign office, which was in a building on Lancaster Avenue near the train station. Spencer had considered taking her bike, but she hadn’t had time to plant it in the woods behind her house, so she had to go on foot. She shot into the next development, ran on the streets for a while, but ducked into a yard whenever a car turned onto the road. Every footfall was like a chant: Must Get Ali. Must Get Ali.

  Running along Lancaster was much more difficult—even though it was late, there was still some traffic, and Spencer had to keep on the inside of the guardrail at all times. Whenever she saw headlights, she ducked behind a tree or a strip-mall sign. Once, when she saw a cop car at the intersection, she hid in a ditch. Still, she arrived at the office shortly before 1:00 AM. A thin sheen of sweat covered her body. Dirt caked her tights and shoes. She was pretty sure she’d twisted an ankle diving into a ditch. But it didn’t matter. She was here.

  She stared at her reflection in the building’s flat panes of glass. Exit lights above the doors glowed, but otherwise the atrium was dark. She peered at the underground parking lot, then at the woods in the back, and then at the neon sign of Jessica’s Consignment Shop next door, where the Rosewood Day Drama Department sometimes got costumes for school plays. Was it really possible Ali was around here? How could she have hidden somewhere so public for so long?

  “I bet you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

  Hanna stood behind her, similarly dressed in black and breathing heavily as if she’d run here, too. “Ali isn’t here, right? She wouldn’t hide near an office building right in the middle of Rosewood.”

  Spencer shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t seem very likely.”

  Hanna sat down on the planter next to the front door. “This is where the protests were on Friday. This is where she called Emily from.”

  Within minutes, Aria and Emily arrived on bikes. Spencer filled them in on what they were talking about. “I’ve thought about this being a mistake, too,” Aria admitted, carefully stashing her bike in a shrub. “I mean, if we’re wrong, what are the cops going to do when they find us?”

  “It’s not like they can punish us any more,” Spencer said emptily.

  Emily looked at Hanna. “What if Ali was only here for a little while? Maybe she knew you’d figure it out, Hanna, and she called from here just to send us on a wild-goose chase?”

  “But what if she didn’t?” Hanna said. “It’s worth the risk.”

  Spencer pulled at the bar on the front door, but it was locked tight. “So where do we go from here? It’s not like we can get inside and check if Ali’s in any of the offices.”

  “She wouldn’t be,” Hanna said thoughtfully. “I’ve been here so often that I know everyone in all of the offices throughout this building—no one is hiding Ali in a back room, I’m sure of it.”

  “What about the basement?” Emily suggested.

  Hanna shook her head. “There are maintenance guys patrolling this place during the day—I doubt she’s set up camp there.”

  Spencer put her hands on her hips and did a full circle, once again taking in the building, the parking lot, and the road.

  Hanna’s gaze fixed on the lot next door. “What about that building?”

  Everyone turned and looked. “Jessica’s Consignment Shop?” Emily asked.

  “No, the thing before Jessica’s.” Hanna pointed at a cluster of trees that made a barrier between the office building and the consignment store’s parking lot. And suddenly, Spencer saw it: Set back from the road, peeking out above the brambles, was what looked like a rooftop.

  “Oh my God,” Aria breathed.

  “I noticed it when I was here the other day, talking to my dad,” Hanna whispered. “I don’t know what it is, though.”

  They walked closer, down a path hidden in the tall grass. A hundred yards back, mostly concealed by overgrown trees, loomed a building—a fallen-down barn, perhaps, or an old stone house left to disintegrate. Spencer opened the flashlight app on her iPhone and shone it against the weathered clapboard frame, a broken window, a drooping gutter. The ground was overrun with weeds, as if no one had touched it in years.

  Hanna squinted. “Gross.”

  A hush fell over the group. They peered at the looming house. A shiver slunk up Spencer’s spine. Suddenly, this felt like it. “Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”

  32

  THE BOY

  One by one, Hanna and the others climbed through the hedges. Up close, it was even more disgusting than it had looked from the parking lot. The windows were boarded up with rotted pieces of wood, and a front porch was covered in spiderwebs and trash. A rusted, rooster-shaped weathervane on the roof spun slowly and creakily with the wind. Vines and weeds grew up and into the walls as if they were trying to swallow the house completely. The foul stench of a rotting animal carcass wafted out from somewhere inside.

  Hanna covered her nose with her sleeve. “How could she live in a place like this?”

  “The same way she could kill five people,” Aria reminded her. “She’s crazy.”

  Spencer climbed up a crumbling ridge to the front door. The hinges were so old that it gave way easily, letting out a loud screech as it opened. Hanna bristled and covered her head as though a bomb were about to go off. After a few seconds, she dared to open her eyes. The door was ajar. No one was there. Spencer was stock-still in the doorway, her face a mask of fear.

  Emily scurried up the ridge next to Spencer. Hanna followed, and they all peered inside. It was very dark. The dead-animal smell was stronger, though, almost dizzying.

  “Ugh,” Hanna said, turning away.

  “It’s really bad.” Spencer gagged. Emily pulled the collar of her shirt over her nose.

  Aria pulled out her phone and shone the light around the room. The floors were covered in dust, plaster, pieces of wood, and dirt. When she shone the light into a corner, something skittered out of the way, squeaking as it went. The girls screamed and jumped back again.

  “It’s just a mouse,” Spencer hissed.

  Trying not to breathe, Hanna took a tentative step into the room. The floor seemed to hold her weight, so she ventured a few more steps through an archway. The next room contained an old metal sink and a black, three-legged stove like something out of “Hansel and Gretel.” An old newspaper lay near a huge hole in the wall that might have once been a back door. She picked it up and squinted at the headlines, but the page was so faded, she couldn’t tell what it said.

  She poked her head into a bathroom. A rusted bathtub sat in the corner, a toilet without a seat against the wall. There were holes where a sink might have been, and much of the tile was chipped away. A window was propped open, the stiff breeze blowing in. Hanna stepped back. The air smelled dirty and contaminated.

  The other girls wandered the rooms, peeking into closets. They would have climbed the stairs to the second floor, but half the risers were missing. “There’s no one here,” Spencer whispered. “It’s totally empty.”

  “Is there a basement?” Emily suggested.

  Spencer shrugged. “I haven’t seen any stairs lea
ding down.”

  Aria whirled, her eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” Hanna asked shakily, standing very still.

  No one said a word. Hanna listened very hard. She didn’t hear a thing. She stared around at the dark, empty, creepy space. “Maybe this isn’t it,” she said. “I don’t see any evidence of anything. I don’t think Ali’s here.”

  Spencer breathed out, too. “Maybe we were wrong.”

  There was a creaking sound above them. It sounded like branches scraping across the roof. “Maybe we should go,” Emily said, tiptoeing toward the door. “This place is freaking me out.”

  Everyone nodded and moved toward the exit. But then footsteps sounded behind them, this time for real. Hanna spun back around, her muscles stiffening. Suddenly, someone was standing in the shadows near the back of the room.

  The others turned, too. Spencer gasped. Aria made a small eep. Emily cowered against the wall. “H-hello?” Hanna called out shakily, trying to make out who the figure might be.

  A flashlight snapped on. Diffused, yellow light scattered throughout the room. The mouse squeaked and scampered. The house creaked and groaned with the wind. Finally, the figure holding the flashlight flipped it upward, shining it on himself. “Hello, girls,” a guy’s voice said.

  Hanna blinked at his face in the light. He had brown eyes, a sloped nose, and a pointy, clean-shaven jaw. There was a gun in his right hand, aimed at them.

  As he drew up to his full height, Hanna realized with a jolt that she knew him. Madison had just shown her his picture.

  “Jackson?” she exclaimed. The bartender. The one who’d overserved Madison and laughed when Hanna suggested they call her a cab.

  Only . . . what was he doing here?

  “Derrick?” Emily said slowly, next to her.

  Hanna frowned and studied the look of shock on Emily’s face. Who was Derrick?