by Sara Shepard
Meredith opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle for Lola. “I have to tell you, though. I felt like crap when your friend called me and chewed me out.”
Aria frowned. “What friend?”
“You know. The friend you were with that day you saw us. Alison.”
A chilly jolt whizzed through Aria’s veins. “Wait. She called you?”
Meredith cocked her head. “She called me a while after you guys caught us in the car—sometime in June. She asked me all these questions about me and your dad—if we were in love, when we started dating, if we’d done it yet. She made me feel awful.” She searched Aria’s face. “You didn’t put her up to it?”
“No . . .” Ali had tormented Aria about Meredith constantly, but she’d never told Aria that she’d called Meredith behind her back. What had Ali expected to accomplish? And why had she waited until June to call her? Aria and Ali had caught Meredith and Byron in April.
Suddenly, a horrible thought popped into her mind. “When in June did Alison call you?”
Meredith drummed her fingers on the table. “The morning of the fifteenth. I remember it because it was my brother’s birthday. I thought it was him calling, but it was her.”
The room began to spin. June fifteenth. That was the day of their end-of-seventh-grade sleepover with Their Ali. According to the events pieced together by letters, testimonies, public documents, and the police investigation, the secret DiLaurentis sister had been picked up from the Preserve the day before. An unhappy family reunion had occurred. Two twins who hated each other were together again.
The day of the sleepover, Aria, Spencer, Hanna, and Emily had gone into Ali’s room and discovered her sitting there, reading what looked like her diary with a big smile on her face. To this day, Aria wondered if it had been Their Ali in her bedroom . . . or her twin.
“Aria? Are you okay?”
Aria jumped. Meredith was staring at her with round blue eyes. Aria nodded faintly, feeling woozy. Ali had called Meredith all those years ago, all right—but it might not have been to make Meredith feel bad. It could have been to dig for dirt. And it wasn’t Her Ali, either.
It was Real Ali.
14
CATCHING UP
Thursday night, Emily walked into Belissima, the Italian bistro at the Devon Crest Mall across town, where she was meeting Isaac for dinner. The restaurant floor was made of bronze-colored terra-cotta tile, and the walls were painted to look as if they were part of an old, crumbling farmhouse. A shiny brass espresso machine sat behind the counter, bottles of wine were lined up on shelves around the big room, and the air smelled pungently of olive oil and mozzarella. Emily hadn’t been to this mall since two Christmases ago, when she’d agreed to be the mall’s Santa. She’d come to this restaurant with Cassie, one of Santa’s elves, and they’d bonded over their friendships with Ali.
Her phone beeped, and when she checked the screen, there was a Google Alert for Tabitha Clark. A lot of Tabitha-related news she didn’t read—it was just too painful—but because she was nervous and wanted something to do with her hands, she stared at the screen.
The alert linked to a message board from the Tabitha Clark Memorial website. The site mostly consisted of pictures of Tabitha and her friends. A prom video showed Tabitha in a purple satin dress, her gold necklace glinting in the strobe light as she danced with her boyfriend, a cute boy with longish brown hair and clear green eyes, to a Christina Aguilera song. There were some mournful posts from friends and rants about how The Cliffs resort should be shut down. But the most recent post was what caught Emily’s eye: Tabitha’s dad should conduct an autopsy. I don’t think she died from too much drinking.
A chill gripped Emily. With all of the drama about her baby and Gayle, she’d lost focus on the other horrible thing A knew. She shut her eyes and saw the picture A had sent to Spencer’s phone of Tabitha’s body, twisted and broken on the sand after they’d shoved her off the roof.
“Emily! Over here!”
Isaac was sitting in a banquette in the corner, a plate of fried calamari in front of him. His hair was pushed back off his face, and he wore a blue T-shirt that brought out his sapphire eyes. “Hey!” he called, gesturing for her to come over.
Emily’s stomach swooped, and she shoved the phone back into her bag. Then she stared down at the green wool skirt she’d picked out from the back of her closet. Was she honestly going to tell Isaac the truth? All afternoon, instead of paying attention in English, Calculus, and Bio II, she’d rehearsed how she’d broach the subject. So, you know how we had sex that one time last year? Well, it had a, um, lasting effect.
Even worse, Isaac looked so happy right now, like he was overjoyed she’d shown up. This was going to kill him. But she had to say something. She owed it to him. She certainly didn’t want A telling him first.
Her hands shook as she wound around the busy tables and dodged a waitress with a tray of tiramisu. Isaac half-stood as Emily approached. “I ordered calamari. I hope that’s okay. You used to like it back when we . . . you know.” His words rushed out in a nervous jumble.
“I still love calamari.” Emily slid into the cushy leather seat.
Isaac touched her arm, then pulled away, perhaps worried it was too forward. “Are you still swimming?”
Emily nodded. “I got a scholarship to UNC for next year.”
“UNC?” Isaac beamed. “That’s awesome. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Emily said. “Have you figured out where you’re going to go yet?” She reached over and speared a piece of calamari from the plate. The batter was perfect, and the dipping sauce was thick and tangy.
Isaac shrugged. “I’d love to go to Juilliard, but I’ll probably end up at Hollis.”
“You never know. You’re talented enough for Juilliard.” Emily thought of Isaac’s band performances. His voice was rich and full, and he sounded a lot like the lead singer of Coldplay. Plenty of girls had swooned over him at his show; Emily had been astounded when he’d singled her out.
Isaac took a long sip of sparkling water. “Nah. I didn’t even apply. I was terrified to audition. I’d probably freak out on stage.”
“Since when do you freak out on stage?” Emily asked, surprised. “Have you changed that much since I’ve last seen you?”
“Tons.” Isaac cupped his chin in his hands and smiled at her.
“Well, maybe you have changed.” Emily pointed at the tattoo on his neck. “I don’t remember you being a tattoo kind of guy.”
Isaac glanced at it. “I got it when I turned eighteen. Everyone in the band was getting one, but they all chickened out at the last minute. I was the only one who went through with it.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yeah. But I powered through.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.” Isaac pulled down the collar of his shirt even further, revealing a black pattern that looked like a giant abstract moth.
“Whoa!” Emily cried. “It’s huge!”
“Yeah.” Isaac pulled the collar back to cover it. “I wanted something significant.”
Emily wanted to touch the part that was still visible, but she stopped herself. Maybe that would give Isaac the wrong idea. “Does it mean something special?”
“Well, I’ve always been really into moths.” Isaac reached for another calamari. “Did you know they can see ultraviolet light? And they can smell their mates from up to seven miles away?”
“Seriously?” Emily made a face.
Isaac nodded. “I’ve always thought moths were really beautiful, but no one pays attention to them the way they do with butterflies. They’re sort of . . . forgotten.”
It was such an Isaac thing to say, sensitive and moony and a little goofy all at the same time. Emily had forgotten that about him. She’d forgotten how cute he was, too. An unexpected wave of longing came over her. Then a voice boomed inside her, ripping her back to reality. You had his baby. Tell him. She pressed the tines of her fork lightly into her
palm.
The waitress appeared. “Have you guys had a chance to look at the menu?”
Emily looked down, feeling a little relieved that they’d been interrupted. She ordered the pasta special, and Isaac asked for veal Parmesan. By the time the waitress closed her notepad and strolled away, the brave feeling had passed. So Emily asked Isaac a few more questions about himself—what was happening at school, how many shows his band had played, what his plans for summer vacation were. Then she told him more about UNC, the Eco Cruise she was going on in a few weeks, and how she was thinking about getting a summer job. For the most part, the conversation was smooth and effortless, and before Emily knew it, there were only a few pieces of calamari left on the plate. She’d forgotten how easy it was to talk to Isaac, how he laughed at all the appropriate parts of a story. Her fists unclenched. Maybe this would be okay.
“So how’s your family?” Isaac asked as the waitress served them their food.
“Oh, you know.” Emily shrugged nonchalantly. “The same. My mom’s still really active in the church. She’s BFFs with Father Fleming. She made me go see him the other day.”
“Oh really? Why?”
Emily pushed a bite of pasta into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to speak. Tell him. You owe it to him. Yet again, her mouth couldn’t form the words.
She must have taken too long to answer, because Isaac cleared his throat. “How’s your older sister? What was her name . . . Carolyn?”
A sharp odor of milky Alfredo sauce wafted into Emily’s nostrils, turning her stomach. “She’s . . . fine.”
“Where’d she go to school?”
“Stanford.”
“Does she like it?”
“I think so.”
Not that Emily really knew. After sharing a bedroom for almost eighteen years, Carolyn had barely said a word to Emily since last summer. Emily hadn’t known who to turn to when she found out she was pregnant, but since Carolyn was spending the summer in Philly, she seemed like the best option. Emily thought Carolyn would step up and be her big sister, and while Carolyn did let Emily stay, Carolyn never let her forget how disappointed and disgusted she was. She never asked how Emily was feeling. She never wanted to know how her latest anatomy scan had been. She didn’t even ask who the father was. When Emily had found out she had to have a scheduled C-section because the baby was breech, she called Carolyn and told her right away. All Carolyn had said was, “I heard recovery from a C-section is awful.”
Emily didn’t dare tell Carolyn about the struggle to choose adoptive parents. Nor did she tell her that Gayle had offered her fifty thousand dollars, or about the day she’d gone to Gayle’s enormous house in New Jersey to collect the check. Gayle had looked at her like she was a specimen in a jar. And when Emily pocketed the check Gayle gave her, she felt dirty and awful.
Carolyn wasn’t there for her, but maybe Isaac would have been, if only she’d given him the chance.
She took a breath. “Isaac, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
He nodded. “Yeah, you said that in your text. What’s up?”
Emily pushed her fork around her plate, her heart hammering. Here goes. “Well . . .”
“What are you doing here?”
Emily’s head snapped up. Standing over them, dressed in a powder-blue suit from sometime in the eighties—and not the cool eighties, either—was Isaac’s mom. As Mrs. Colbert’s gaze bounced from Isaac to Emily and back to Isaac again, her expression shifted from annoyance to rage.
“You told me you were going out to dinner with your bandmates,” Mrs. Colbert hissed, her eyebrows drawn together. “Not . . . her.”
“Mom, stop,” Isaac warned. “I knew you’d get crazy and irrational if I told you I was meeting Emily. She’s a good person—I don’t know why you can’t see that. We’re having a really nice dinner, catching up.”
Emily’s cheeks flushed as she felt a mix of pleasure and guilt. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had stood up for her like that.
Mrs. Colbert let out an unflattering snort. “I hardly think she’s a good person, Isaac.”
“What would make you say that?” Isaac asked.
Mrs. Colbert didn’t answer. Instead she stared at Emily with a pointed look on her face. It was almost like she knew what Emily had done. Emily drew in a breath. Had A contacted her?
Finally, Mrs. Colbert wrenched her gaze away and turned to Isaac. “Your father is looking for you. One of the caterers for the event tonight dropped out, and he needs you to fill in.”
“Now?” Isaac asked. He gestured to his plate. “I’m in the middle of dinner.”
“Have them wrap it up.” Mrs. Colbert turned on her heel and stormed toward the bar, clearly expecting Isaac to follow.
Isaac looked at Emily, his eyes big and sad. “I’m so sorry. Can we take a rain check? Do something later in the week?”
“Uh, sure,” Emily said dazedly, staring at Mrs. Colbert as she typed something on her cell phone.
They flagged down the waitress, who brought them the check and a Styrofoam carryout container. Then Isaac pushed cash into the bill envelope and handed it back to the waitress.
“You were saying something before we got interrupted.” He touched Emily’s hand lightly. “Is it important?”
Emily’s mouth went dry. “It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly.
“Are you sure?” Isaac looked worried.
Emily nodded. “Absolutely. I promise.”
Isaac gave Emily a hug. As he squeezed her tight, so many emotions flooded her. She’d forgotten how soft his hair was, the feel of his slightly scratchy face against her neck, and how he smelled like freshly squeezed oranges. Long-repressed feelings awoke inside her, those tingles growing stronger.
He pulled away too soon. “Let me make it up to you. I’m off Saturday—we could go to the ice cream shop in Hollis.” His soft blue eyes beseeched her.
After a moment, Emily nodded, and Isaac left her to join his mother at the counter. Mrs. Colbert shot Emily one last nasty look, then flounced out of the restaurant.
Emily sank back into the booth, relief settling over her. All at once she was glad Mrs. Colbert had interrupted them—and that she hadn’t told Isaac her secret. If Mrs. Colbert ever found out, she’d call Emily’s parents immediately, and probably tell the entire church that Emily was a slut.
And Isaac might not want to go to ice cream with you if he knew what you did, a tiny, selfish voice whispered in her ear. But Emily couldn’t change the past. What was done was done, and what Isaac didn’t know would hurt him.
Right?
15
IVY OR BUST
Late Friday afternoon, Spencer got out of a cab at the Princeton University gates, zipped up her leather jacket, and looked around. Students in stadium-cloth coats and Burberry-plaid scarves bustled to and fro. Professors wearing wire-rimmed glasses and blazers with corduroy patches on the elbows strolled together, no doubt having Nobel prize–quality conversations. The bells in the clock tower struck six, the sound bouncing off the cobblestones.
A thrill went through Spencer. She’d been to Princeton plenty of times for debate competitions, field trips, summer camps, and college tours, but the campus felt very, very different today. She was going to be a student here next year. It was going to be such a dream to get the hell out of Rosewood and have a whole new start. Even this weekend felt like a fresh start. As soon as the train had pulled out of Rosewood, her shoulders had fallen from her ears. A wasn’t here. Spencer was safe . . . at least for a little while.
She looked at the directions Harper had sent her to the Ivy Eating Club. It was on Prospect Avenue, which everyone at Princeton simply called “The Street.” As she turned left and walked up the tree-lined boulevard, her phone chimed. Have you done any research on you-know-who? Hanna wrote.
That was code for Gayle. Nothing that’s led anywhere, Spencer wrote back. She’d scoured the Internet for details on Gayle, seeing if there was any pos
sible way she could be A. The first order of business was to figure out if Gayle could have been in Jamaica last year at the same time the girls were—maybe, like they’d hypothesized about Kelsey, Gayle had seen what they’d done and then, later, after Emily screwed her over, she connected the dots and used it against them.
The Cliffs wasn’t the kind of place a classy, middle-aged woman would have stayed, but Spencer phoned a few resorts near The Cliffs, identifying herself as Gayle’s personal assistant and asking when Gayle had vacationed there. None of the reservations associates had any record of Gayle staying with them—ever. She’d fanned out her search, calling resorts ten, fifteen, even fifty miles away, but as far as Spencer could tell, Gayle had never even been to Jamaica.
So how could Gayle know about what they’d done to Tabitha? How would she have gotten that photo of Emily and Tabitha or of Tabitha lying twisted and broken on the sand? Had Gayle gone to Jamaica under a fake name? Was she working with someone else? Had she hired a PI, like Aria had suggested?
Furthermore, even if Gayle was A, the issue of Tabitha was still puzzling. Why had she acted so Ali-like at The Cliffs? Had she and Ali been friends when they were at The Preserve, and had she been trying to get revenge for Ali’s death? Or was it all an awful coincidence?
Before she knew it, she’d arrived at the address Harper had given her. It was a large, Gothic-style brick house with gorgeous leaded-glass windows, manicured bushes, and an American flag protruding from the front porch. Spencer walked up the stone path and rang the front doorbell, which let out a few impressive bongs to the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. There were footsteps, and then the door flung open. Harper appeared, looking fresh-faced in a purple top with dolman sleeves, skinny jeans, and leather ankle boots. A navy cashmere blanket was draped around her shoulders.
“Welcome!” she cried. “You made it!”
She ushered Spencer inside. The foyer was drafty and smelled like a mixture of leather and jasmine perfume. Blond-wood beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and stained-glass windows decorated the walls. Spencer could just picture past Pulitzer Prize winners standing by the roaring fire or sitting in the wing chairs, having important discussions.
