by Sara Shepard
“That’s so nice,” Gayle trilled. “Who was that girl with the reddish hair I saw you with?”
Hanna stiffened. “Ah, you must mean Emily Fields,” Mr. Marin jumped in before she could stop him. “She’s been Hanna’s friend for a long time.”
“Emily Fields.” Gayle pretended to contemplate this. Mr. Marin turned to take a phone call, and Gayle inched closer. “Funny, she told me she went by Heather,” she added under her breath.
Hanna bit down hard on the inside of her lip, feeling Gayle’s hot, impatient stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbled.
“Oh, I think you do.” Gayle gazed at the passing crowd. “I think you know exactly what I mean. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on. Don’t think I don’t know about everything.”
Hanna tried to keep her expression neutral, but it felt like ping-pong balls were bouncing in her stomach. Was Gayle admitting she was A?
She thought back to the end of the summer. Right before Emily had her C-section, she’d gathered Hanna and the other girls at the hospital and explained that she needed them to help her sneak the baby out before Gayle could come and take her away.
She’d pressed a weighty envelope into Hanna’s hands. “I need you to drive this to New Jersey and put it in Gayle’s mailbox,” she explained. “It’s the cash from the check she gave me, along with a letter of apology. Just put it in the mailbox and drive away. Don’t let her see you. If she realizes I’ve given her money back, she’ll come to the hospital early, and our plan will be ruined.”
Hanna couldn’t say no. That afternoon, after the baby was born, she drove the fifteen minutes over the Ben Franklin Bridge to Gayle’s enormous house. She’d rolled up to the curb, feeling shaky and sick. She didn’t want to come face-to-face with a crazy woman. Not after what happened with Real Ali.
She winced as she rolled down her window and pulled the handle to open the mailbox. Her hands trembled as she dropped the envelope inside. A swishing sound rushed through her ears. Something moved in the trees beside the house. Hanna hit the gas fast, not slowing to buckle her seat belt until she was safely out of the neighborhood. Had she just blown Emily’s cover? Had someone seen her? Did the property have security cameras?
A bunch of people next to Hanna cheered loudly, snapping her back to the present. Her dad was still chatting on his cell phone, and Gayle was standing so close to Hanna that their hips touched. She laid an icy hand on Hanna’s arm. “Listen up, and listen good,” she whispered with clenched teeth. “All I want is what I’m owed. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. And if I’m not given it, I can—and will—go to great lengths to make sure I get it. I can play dirty—very dirty. Pass that message to your friend. Got it?”
Her lips curled into a cruel smile, and her fingernails dug into Hanna’s skin. Hanna’s jaw trembled.
“Gayle?” Mr. Marin hung up and appeared beside them.
Gayle immediately released Hanna’s arm. She swiveled around and smiled brightly at Hanna’s father. “My campaign manager is here,” Mr. Marin said. “I’d love for you to meet him.”
“Wonderful!” Gayle gushed. And just like that, she was gone.
Hanna shot to a nearby bench, sank down, and covered her face with her hands. Her pulse was vibrating so vigorously she could feel it in her palms. Gayle’s words crackled in her ears. All I want is what I’m owed. I can play dirty—very dirty. There was so much Gayle could do. Expose all of them. Ruin them. Send them to jail. Destroy their lives. Ruin her dad’s life, too.
She reached into her pocket for her phone and pressed the speed dial button for Emily. “Pick up, pick up,” she whispered, but the phone rang and rang. She hung up without waiting for the beep, instead tapping out a text for Emily to call her as soon as possible. It was then that she noticed a little mailbox icon in the top corner of the screen. Another text had come in while she was typing.
Hanna looked around uneasily. Her father, Gayle, and Mr. Marin’s campaign manager were standing near the coffee shop, talking. Gayle was pretending to pay attention, but her eyes were on her phone. For a split second, she glanced at Hanna, an eerie smirk on her face.
Shuddering, Hanna pressed READ.
Better do as you’re told! You wouldn’t want Daddy’s campaign to go up in smoke. —A
17
SMILE! YOU’RE ON CAMERA!
Saturday afternoon, Aria stood in the Kahns’ game room, a large, sectioned-off part of the basement, complete with a pool table, several pinball machines, and a large felt-covered poker table. Noel, Noel’s parents, and his older brother, Eric, stood around the pool table with her, eyeing the balls in play. Mrs. Kahn chalked up her cue and sank the six into the corner pocket.
“Yes,” Mrs. Kahn said primly, standing back up and blowing off the tip of the cue as though it were smoking.
“Nice one, dear.” Mr. Kahn nudged Noel and Eric. “I think the ladies have us beat.”
Noel pouted. “That’s because it’s five against three.”
Aria considered protesting, shooting a look at Klaudia, Naomi Zeigler, and Riley Wolfe, the third, fourth, and fifth members of the all-girl pool team. They hadn’t taken one shot. Aria knew they were only here to make her feel uncomfortable.
“Klaudia?” Mrs. Kahn said sweetly. “Do you want to play?”
“That okay.” Klaudia glanced at Aria. “I waiting for a call from my new boyfriend. He writer who live in New York.”
“I think you know him, Aria,” Naomi said, and Riley burst into giggles.
Aria gripped the pool cue hard, resisting the urge to javelin-throw it toward them.
Noel sauntered over to Aria, wrapped his arm around her, and gave her a long, passionate kiss. She sensed the girls shifting uncomfortably behind her, and when she opened her eyes, Klaudia was pointedly looking away. Aria slipped her hand into Noel’s, grateful. “What did I do to deserve you?” she whispered.
“I’m sorry they’re freezing you out.” Noel rolled his eyes in their direction.
Aria shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
It was Mr. Kahn’s turn to shoot, and he rolled up the sleeves of his blue Brooks Brothers shirt, leaned over the table, and hit the cue ball with laserlike precision. It banked off the far rail and clonked against the number six, sending two more balls plopping into the pockets.
Mrs. Kahn golf-clapped. “Brilliant shot, dear! You’ve still got the magic touch.”
Mr. Kahn looked at his kids. “Did Mom ever tell you I hustled pool one weekend in Monte Carlo?”
“You were so sexy,” Mrs. Kahn purred, kissing Mr. Kahn’s cheek.
“Guys, gross.” Noel covered his eyes.
Mr. Kahn took his wife’s hands and started waltzing her around the room. “We need to practice for the Art Museum Costume Gala next month.”
“I can’t wait,” Mrs. Kahn lilted. “It’s so lovely to dress up, isn’t it, dear?” She glanced at the others. “We’re going as Marie Antoinette and Louis the Sixteenth.”
“We’ll make a lovely pair.” Mr. Kahn dipped his wife so low that the top of her head practically kissed the carpet. “I do love a good costume.”
Aria was so startled she nearly swallowed her gum. But as she watched the Kahns swirl around the game room, she felt herself relaxing. No matter what Mr. Kahn did in his free time, this was a couple that loved each other. There was probably a logical explanation for why Mr. Kahn had dressed up as a woman at Fresh Fields. Maybe he was getting in character for his Art Museum Gala costume—people spent thousands of dollars on flamboyant disguises for that event. Or maybe he’d lost a bet with a business partner.
Aria grabbed Noel’s hand and squeezed it tight, feeling victorious. She hadn’t gotten a single text about this, which meant she’d beaten A at A’s game. For once, she was in control of the information, not the other way around.
Mr. and Mrs. Kahn kept dancing, and the pool game continued. The boys sank the rest of the balls, edging them to victory. Afterward, Noel sc
ooped Aria up in his arms. “Want to get out of here? Escape to a movie at the Ritz, maybe?” His eyebrows rose up and down suggestively. Going to the Ritz was code for sitting in the back row and making out.
Just then, Mr. Kahn clapped his hands. “What does everyone say to gelato? There’s that new place in Yarmouth I’ve been dying to try.”
“Ooh, I heard that place was divine.” Mrs. Kahn slid the pool cues back into the rack. “I’m in.”
“I could go for that,” Eric said.
Naomi made a face. “Gelato is, like, pure fat.”
“I no like things that are cold—only hot,” Klaudia said, making sexy eyes at Eric, who ignored her. Apparently he’d gotten the message that Klaudia was loony, too.
Noel glanced at Aria apologetically, probably thinking she wanted to get out of there, but Aria just shrugged. She didn’t have time to go to the movies with Noel, anyway—she was meeting Emily at the Bakers’ open house in about an hour and a half.
“I think gelato would be great,” she said to Mr. Kahn.
“Fantastic.” Mr. Kahn was already halfway up the stairs. “I’ll go pick it up.”
“The weather is so dreary, though.” Mrs. Kahn peered through the door of the walk-out basement at the rain pounding on the brick patio. “I’d hate for you to drive all the way to Yarmouth.”
“I don’t mind,” Mr. Kahn called over his shoulder. “Why doesn’t everyone give me their orders?”
Noel, Aria, Eric, and Mrs. Kahn climbed the stairs behind Mr. Kahn and waited as he dug the menu out of a leather file in the cabinet drawer. They selected their flavors, and Mr. Kahn made the call. As he was slipping on his rain jacket, Mrs. Kahn touched his arm. “Want me to go with you?”
Mr. Kahn kissed her lightly on the lips. “There’s no use for us both to get soaked. I won’t be long.”
He shut the front door, and his car engine roared. Mrs. Kahn and Eric disappeared into the den, and Noel excused himself to the bathroom, leaving Aria all alone in the cavernous kitchen. The huge house was suddenly very still and overwhelming, the only sound the pounding rain against the roof. Suddenly thunder crackled, and the room went dark. Aria screamed. “Noel?” she called out, feeling along the walls.
Somewhere in the distance, someone—Naomi, maybe—giggled. Another clap of thunder sounded, shaking the pots and pans hanging over the island. Lightning lit up the room. For a split second, Aria was sure she saw a pair of eyes staring at her from outside the back window. She screamed again.
Then the lights snapped back on with a spark. The refrigerator hummed calmly, the recessed lights cast a peaceful yellow glow over the room, and the eyes at the window were gone. When Aria looked down, she saw that her cell phone, which was nestled in her pocket, was blinking. She grabbed it and swallowed hard. One new text message from Anonymous.
She pressed READ, dreading what she might see.
It was a picture of a blond-haired woman applying cherry-red lipstick in the front seat of a car. The woman wore a blue oxford shirt and an expensive gold watch—the same ones Mr. Kahn had worn during the pool game. Add in his telltale bushy eyebrows and straight mouth, and anyone would know it was him. The clock on the dashboard of his car said 1:35—three minutes ago. The tall, iron eagle on the post in the corner of the picture was the eagle at the Kahns’ front gate. He’d put on the wig before he’d even left the property.
Aria ran to the window, certain she’d see someone lurking at the end of the driveway, but there was no one there. Sweat beaded on her forehead. No.
“Aria?” Noel called from the hall. “Are you okay?”
Aria dropped the curtain and whipped around. Noel was walking toward her. She fumbled for the ERASE button on her phone, not wanting Noel to see the picture, but her finger bumped the right arrow instead, bringing up a note that went with the picture. As Aria read it, her heart stopped dead.
Secrets are such a drag. Break up with your loving boyfriend, or this pic goes public. —A
18
THE HOME OF HER DREAMS
“Welcome to the open house!” a cheery realtor with a stiff black hair-helmet said as she ushered Emily and Aria through the open door of 204 Ship Lane. She thrust a square business card into each of their hands. “My name is Sandra. Have a look around!”
Emily turned the card over. Let me find you the home of your dreams, Sandra’s slogan read. “Actually, I was wondering—” she started, but Sandra was already attending to a new couple who had come in after them.
Shaking out her umbrella and pushing back the hood of her raincoat, Emily stepped into the foyer of the house she’d obsessed over for the past seven months. It was empty, and only a few hints of the Bakers remained. The air smelled like a peppermint candle and Windex. The walls were painted a cheerful blue, and in the open closet was a blue plastic wrapper for the Philadelphia Sentinel. There were tiny scratches in the golden wooden floor from dog toenails, and someone had left a God’s-eye string ornament hanging over the door.
Emily stared at the brass strip that separated the tiled foyer from the wooden living room floor, afraid to step any further into the house. Was she really ready to see this place?
Aria turned to Emily, as if sensing her apprehension. “Are you okay?”
“Uh huh,” Emily said woozily. “Thanks for meeting me here.”
“No problem.” An uneasy look swept over Aria’s face, but when she noticed Emily looking at her, she quickly smiled again.
“Are you okay?” Emily asked.
Aria’s jaw trembled. “I don’t want to bother you with it. You’ve got enough going on.”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Come on. What?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Aria leaned in closer, her feather earrings brushing against Emily’s cheek. “Well, okay. I got a note from A about an hour ago.”
Emily’s mouth dropped open. “What did it say?”
Aria pressed her glossy lips together. “It doesn’t matter. Just some stupid stuff. But I was at Noel’s house, and A took a picture of something at the end of Noel’s driveway. A was so close, and I missed seeing who it was.”
A shiver snaked up Emily’s spine. “Remember the note I got on my car at the covered bridge? The one with the picture of me and Tabitha? A was close then, too.”
Aria skirted out of the way of two more people who had come through the front door. “How is it that we keep missing A? And how does A always know where we are?”
“Ali would always know where we were,” Emily said quietly.
Aria’s shoulders lowered. “Em, A isn’t Ali. There’s no way.”
Emily shut her eyes. She was so sick of having the same argument over and over. But she couldn’t explain why she was convinced Ali wasn’t dead—she’d have to confess that she’d left open the door in the burning house in the Poconos.
Aria stepped into the living room. The blue carpet had deep indentations from where the furniture had stood. “A is definitely Gayle, Em. Remember how weird she was that day at the café? She’s totally capable of stalking us.”
“But it makes no sense.” Emily glanced over her shoulder to make sure an elderly couple in matching argyle sweaters wasn’t listening. “Gayle has no connection to Jamaica. How could she know what we did?”
“Are you sure you didn’t say anything to anyone?” Aria asked. “What about that friend of yours, Derrick? He worked for Gayle, right? Are you sure you didn’t slip and tell him anything about Tabitha?”
Emily whirled around and glared at Aria. “Of course not! How could you even think that?”
Aria held up her hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to cover all the bases.”
Sandra’s voice rang out in the other room, telling a potential buyer about the square footage and the kitchen upgrades. Emily tried to swallow her annoyance, knowing Aria wasn’t trying to accuse her of anything. She wandered out of the living room and up the stairs to the second floor. The master bedroom was the first room on the right.
&n
bsp; The room was painted a dusty gray and had wooden blinds on the windows. Emily could picture a bed on one wall, a dresser on another. But she couldn’t picture the Bakers living within these walls. Were they late sleepers or early risers? Did they snack on cookies and potato chips in bed, leaving crumbs in the sheets? How many tears had they shed over not being able to have a child?
It was one of the first things the Bakers had told Emily when she’d met them—they’d been trying for over four years to no avail. “We both work with kids all day, and we’d love to have some of our own,” Mrs. Baker had said earnestly. “We’ve always wanted to be parents.” Mr. Baker’s fingers gripped his wife’s hand hard.
Now, Emily walked the perimeter of the room, touching the light switch, tracing a tiny crack in the wall, and poking her head into an empty closet. She could only imagine how overjoyed the Bakers had been when they’d found out she had chosen them as her baby’s adoptive parents. They’d probably lain in bed at night, dreaming of their child, fantasizing about swimming lessons, vacations, and the first day of school. Then she imagined the Bakers’ shock when they found out Emily had changed her mind. She’d asked Rebecca, the adoption coordinator, to pass on the message—she’d been too chicken to tell the Bakers herself.
Rebecca had been confused. “So . . . you’re keeping the baby?” she’d sounded out.
“Uh, I’ve just come up with another option,” Emily said evasively, not wanting to admit that she’d found another adoptive parent—or that Gayle had offered her a lot of money.
The coordinator called back a little later and told Emily that the Bakers had been very gracious with her decision. “They want your baby to have the best home possible, and if you think that’s somewhere else, they understand,” Rebecca said. In some ways, it disappointed Emily: She would have rather they’d been furious at her. It was what she deserved.
Emily had thought about the Bakers a lot after she made the decision to give the baby to Gayle, especially after Gayle started calling Emily nonstop. Every time Emily’s phone rang, it was Gayle, checking in. At first, Emily indulged her, rationalizing Gayle’s rapid speech, her shaky laugh, her nervous questions. She was just excited, right? She tried to justify why she hadn’t met Gayle’s husband, the potential father, yet—Gayle said he was really busy, but he was one hundred percent on board. When her phone started ringing every hour, Emily let the calls go to voicemail, the uneasiness growing sharper and more acrid inside her. Something wasn’t right. She began looking for ways to get out of the deal. She dreaded the day she’d have to give the baby up.
