by Sara Shepard
“A what?” Hanna slammed her mug down. Hot coffee sloshed over the side, burning the side of her index finger.
Mr. Marin reached into his pocket and pulled out a pamphlet. Two blond girls were strolling down a grassy lane, the sun setting in the background. They both had bad dye jobs and fat legs. The Preserve at Addison-Stevens said swirly writing at the bottom. “It’s the best in the country,” her father said. “It treats all kinds of things—learning disabilities, eating disorders, OCD, depression. And it’s not too far from here, just over the border in Delaware. There’s an entire ward dedicated to young patients, like you.”
Hanna stared blankly at a wreath of dried flowers Isabel had hung up when she took ownership of the house, replacing Hanna’s mother’s far more preferable stainless-steel wall clock. “I don’t have problems,” she squeaked. “I don’t need to go to a mental institution.”
“It’s not a mental institution,” Isabel chirped. “Think of it as more like . . . a spa. People call it the Canyon Ranch of Delaware.”
Hanna wanted to wring Isabel’s scrawny, faux-orange neck. Hadn’t she ever heard of euphemisms? People also called the Berlitz Apartment Town, a dumpy, dilapidated housing complex on the outskirts of Rosewood, the Berlitz-Carlton, but no one took that literally.
“Maybe it’s a good time to escape from Rosewood,” Kate simpered, in an equally I know what’s best voice. “Especially the reporters.”
Hanna’s dad nodded. “I had to chase one guy off the property yesterday—he was trying to use a telescopic lens to get a picture of you in your bedroom, Hanna.”
“And someone called here last night, wanting to know if you’d give a statement on Nancy Grace,” Isabel added.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Mr. Marin concluded.
“And don’t worry,” Kate said, taking another bite of melon. “Naomi, Riley, and I will still be here when you get back.”
“But . . .” Hanna trailed off. How could her dad believe this bullshit? So she’d lied a few times. It had always been for a good reason—she’d ditched out on their dinner at Le Bec-Fin last fall because A had warned that her then recently ex-boyfriend, Sean Ackard, was at the Foxy benefit with another girl. She’d told everyone Kate had herpes because she was sure Kate was going to tell everyone about Hanna’s eating issues. Who cared? That didn’t mean she had post-traumatic stress whatever.
It was another painful reminder of how far apart Hanna and her dad had grown. When Hanna’s parents were still married, she and her father had been two peas in a pod, but after Isabel and Kate came along, Hanna was suddenly as obsolete as shoulder pads. Why did her dad hate her so much now?
And then, her blood pressure plummeted. Of course. A had finally found her. She stood up from the table, jostling the ceramic pot of mint tea near her plate. “That letter isn’t from Dr. Atkinson. Someone else wrote it to hurt me.”
Isabel folded her hands on the table. “Who would do that?”
Hanna swallowed hard. “A.”
Kate covered her mouth with her hand. Hanna’s father laid his cup on the table. “Hanna,” he said in a kindergarten-slow voice. “Mona was A. And she died, remember?”
“No,” Hanna protested. “There’s a new A.”
Kate, Isabel, and Hanna’s father exchanged nervous looks, as if Hanna was an unpredictable animal that needed a tranquilizer dart in her butt. “Honey . . .” Mr. Marin said. “You’re not really making sense.”
“This is just what A wants,” Hanna cried. “Why don’t you believe me?”
Suddenly, she felt overwhelmingly dizzy. Her legs went numb and a faint buzzing sounded in her ears. The walls closed in, and the minty aroma of tea turned her stomach. In a blink, Hanna was standing in the dark Rosewood Day parking lot. Mona’s SUV was barreling down on her, its headlights two angry homing beacons. Her palms began to sweat. Her throat burned. She saw Mona’s face behind the wheel, her lips pulled back in a diabolical grin. Hanna covered her face, bracing for impact. She heard someone scream. After a few seconds, she realized it was her.
It was over as quickly as it had begun. When Hanna opened her eyes, she was lying on the floor, clutching her chest. Her face felt hot and wet. Kate, Isabel, and Hanna’s father loomed over her, their brows furrowed with concern. Hanna’s miniature Doberman, Dot, was frantically licking Hanna’s bare ankles.
Her father helped her up and back into a chair. “I really think this is for the best,” he said gently. Hanna wanted to protest, but she knew it wasn’t any use.
She rested her head on the table, addled and shaky. All the sounds around her grew sharp and acute in her ears. The fridge hummed softly. A garbage truck rumbled down the hill. And then, underneath that, she heard something else.
The hair on the back of her neck rose. Maybe she was crazy, but she swore she heard . . . a laugh. It sounded like someone snickering gleefully, delighted that things were going precisely according to plan.
Chapter 5 A Spiritual Awakening
Monday morning, Byron offered to drive Aria to school in his ancient Honda Civic since Aria’s Subaru was still on the fritz. She moved a pile of slides, battered textbooks, and papers off the passenger seat to the back. The area below her feet was littered with empty coffee cups, SoyJoy wrappers, and a bunch of receipts from Sunshine, the eco-friendly baby store that Byron and his girlfriend, Meredith, shopped at.
Byron turned the ignition, and the old diesel engine grumbled to life. One of his acid jazz tapes blared through the speakers. Aria stared at the blackened and twisted trees in her backyard. Little curls of smoke rose from the woods, the fire still smoldering in places. An entire roll of yellow DO NOT CROSS tape had been strung up along the tree line, as the woods were now too brittle and dangerous to enter. Aria had heard on the news this morning that cops were combing through the woods in search of an answer as to who might have set the fire, and last night she’d received a call from the Rosewood PD, wanting to know about the person she’d seen in the woods with the can of gasoline. Now that the person definitely wasn’t Wilden, Aria didn’t have much to tell them. It could have been anyone under that enormous hood.
Aria held her breath as they rolled past the large colonial that belonged to Ian Thomas’s family. The lawn was covered with morning frost, the red mailbox flag was up, and a couple of coupon circulars were scattered on the Thomases’ driveway. There was fresh graffiti on the garage door that said Murderer, the paint an exact match to the KILLER graffiti someone had painted on Spencer’s garage door. On instinct, Aria reached into her yak-fur bag and felt for Ian’s class ring in the inside pocket. She’d been tempted just to give it to Wilden yesterday—she didn’t want to be responsible for it—but Spencer had a point. The Rosewood PD had missed the ring entirely during their massive search through the woods; they might assume Aria had planted it there. But why hadn’t they found the ring? Maybe they hadn’t searched the woods at all.
And where was Ian, anyway? Why had he given them the wrong information in his IMs? And how had he not noticed that his ring was gone? Aria doubted that it had just slipped off his finger—the only time that had happened to her was when she washed out brushes after painting, and she always noticed her rings falling off right away. Was it possible that Ian was dead, and that the ring had fallen off him as someone roughly dragged his body away when Aria and the others had run back to find Wilden? But if that was the case, then who was speaking with them on IM?
She sighed loudly, and Byron gave her a surreptitious look. He was extra disheveled today, his dark hair standing up in thinning tufts. Despite the cold, he wasn’t wearing a coat, and there was a big hole in the elbow of his heavy wool sweater. Aria recognized it as one he’d bought when the family had been living in Iceland. She wished her family had never left Reykjavik.
“So how are you doing?” Byron asked gently.
Aria shrugged. At the corner, they passed a bunch of public school kids waiting for the bus. They pointed at Aria, instantly recognizing her from the ne
ws. Aria pulled her faux-fur hood around her head. Then they passed Spencer’s street. A big tree service vehicle was parked at the curb, a police car behind it. Across the street, Jenna Cavanaugh and her German shepherd service dog walked daintily to Mrs. Cavanaugh’s Lexus, avoiding patches of ice. Aria shivered. Jenna knew more about Ali than she’d let on. Aria even wondered if Jenna was keeping a burgeoning secret—on the day of Meredith’s baby shower, Jenna had been standing in the middle of Aria’s yard as if she needed to tell Aria something. But when Aria asked Jenna what was wrong, Jenna turned and fled. She seemed to know Jason DiLaurentis pretty well, too—but why would Jason have barged into her house last week and started arguing with her? And why did A want them to know it, if Jason truly had nothing to do with Ali’s death?
“Officer Wilden said you guys were trying to figure out who really killed Ali,” Byron said, his gravelly voice so loud and booming that Aria jumped. “But, honey, if Ian didn’t kill her, the cops will figure out who did.” He scratched the back of his neck, something he only did when he was stressed. “I’m worried about you. Ella is, too.”
Aria winced at Byron’s reference to her mother. Aria’s parents had separated this fall, and both had moved on to new relationships. Ever since Ella began dating Xavier, a lecherous artist who’d hit on Aria, Aria had been avoiding her. And while her dad certainly had a point, Aria was in too deep to unwind herself from the Ali investigation now.
“Talking about it might help,” Byron tried when Aria still didn’t answer, turning down the jazz CD. “You can even tell me about . . . you know. Seeing Alison.”
They passed a farm that had six stout white alpacas, then a Wawa. Stop saying you saw Ali, Wilden’s voice reverberated in Aria’s mind. Something about it continued to bother her. He sounded so . . . aggressive. “I don’t know what we saw,” she admitted weakly. “I want to believe that we just inhaled a lot of smoke and that’s the end of it. But what are the odds of us all seeing Ali at the exact same time, doing the exact same thing? Isn’t that kind of strange?”
Byron put his blinker on and shifted to the right lane. “It is strange.” He sipped from his Hollis College coffee mug. “Remember how a few months ago you asked me if ghosts could send text messages?”
The conversation was blurry in Aria’s mind, but she remembered talking to Byron after receiving the first message from Old A. Before Ali’s body was found in her old backyard, Aria had wondered if Ali’s ghost had been sending those messages from beyond the grave.
“Some people believe that the dead can’t rest until they impart an important message.” Byron braked at a stoplight behind a Toyota Prius that had a VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS bumper sticker.
“What do you mean?” Aria sat up straighter.
They swept past Clocktower, a million-dollar housing development with its own golf club, and then the little township park. A few brave souls were out in heavy down parkas, walking their dogs. Byron breathed out through his nose. “I just mean . . . Alison’s death was a mystery. They’ve arrested the killer, but no one really knows for sure what happened. And you girls were right where Alison died. Her body had been there for years.”
Aria reached over and took a sip from her dad’s mug. “So you’re saying . . . it could’ve been Ali’s ghost?”
Byron shrugged, making a right. They pulled into the drive at Rosewood Day and slowed to a crawl behind a line of buses. “Maybe.”
“And you think she wants to tell us something?”
Aria asked incredulously. “So you don’t think Ian did it either?”
Byron shook his head vehemently. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that sometimes, certain things can’t be explained rationally.”
A ghost. It sounded like he was channeling hippy-dippy Meredith. But as Aria glanced at her dad’s profile, there were taut lines around his mouth. His eyebrows were knitted together, and he was doing that neck-scratching thing again. He was serious.
She turned to Byron, suddenly filled with questions. Why would Ali’s ghost be here? What was her unfinished business? And what was Aria supposed to do now?
But before she could say a word, there was a sharp knock on the passenger door. Aria hadn’t realized they’d already pulled to the curb of Rosewood Day. Three reporters swarmed around the car, snapping photos and pressing their faces against the window. “Miss Montgomery?” a woman called, her voice loud through the glass.
Aria gaped at them and then looked desperately at her dad. “Ignore them,” Byron urged. “Run.”
Taking a deep breath, Aria pushed the door open and barreled her way through the throng. Cameras flashed. Reporters babbled. Behind them, Aria saw students gaping, perversely fascinated by the commotion. “Did you really see Alison?” the reporters called. “Do you know who set the fire?” “Did someone set that fire in the woods to cover up a vital clue?”
Aria swiveled around at the last question but kept her mouth shut.
“Did you set the fire?” a dark-haired thirtysomething man shouted. The reporters moved in closer.
“Of course not!” Aria shouted, alarmed. Then she elbowed past them, scampering up the walk and bursting through the first available door, which led to the back stage of the auditorium.
The doors banged shut, and Aria let out a held breath and looked around. The big, high-ceilinged theater was empty. Boat sets from South Pacific, the school’s recent musical, were stacked in a corner. Sheet music was strewn haphazardly on the floor. The red velvet auditorium chairs spread out before her, every single seat folded up and unoccupied. It was too quiet in here. Eerily quiet.
When the wood floor squeaked, Aria stiffened. A shadow disappeared behind the curtain. She whipped around, a horrible possibility darting through her mind. It’s the person who set the fire. The person who tried to kill us. They’re here. But when she moved closer, there was no one there.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was Ali’s spirit, lurking close, desperate. If what Byron said was true—if a dead person couldn’t rest until her message had been heard—then maybe Aria needed to figure out how to communicate with her. Maybe it was time to hear what Ali had to say.
Chapter 6 Down the Rabbit Hole
Emily slammed her locker door Monday afternoon and hefted her biology, trig, and history books into her arms. A piece of paper slid out from inside one of her notebooks. HOLY TRINITY YOUTH GROUP BOSTON TRIP said big, curly letters.
She scowled. This paper had been lodged in her notebook since the week before when her then-boyfriend, Isaac, had asked her to come. Emily had even gotten permission from her parents—she’d thought it would be the perfect way to spend time with Isaac alone.
Not anymore.
Her chest tightened. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, Emily had really and truly thought she and Isaac were in love—enough, in fact, to sleep with him, for her very first time. But then everything had gone horribly, dreadfully wrong. When Emily tried to tell Isaac about his mom’s evil glares and hurtful remarks, he’d broken up with her on the spot, more or less telling Emily she was psycho.
A few sophomores passed behind her, giggling and comparing lip glosses. How could Emily have thought he loved her? How could she have slept with him? By the time Isaac had found her at the Radley party on Saturday night and apologized, she wasn’t sure if she wanted him back anymore. Since the fire, he’d texted and called her several times, wanting to know if she was okay, but Emily hadn’t replied to those messages either. Things felt ruined between them. Isaac hadn’t even listened to her side of the story. Now, whenever she thought about what they’d done that day after school in Isaac’s bedroom, she wished she could grab a big bar of soap and scrub the deed off her skin.
Balling up the flyer in her hands, she tossed it in the nearest trash can and continued down the hall. The classical between-classes music lilted through the overhead speakers. Red-and-pink posters for the upcoming Rosewood Day valentine’s Ball wallpapered the halls. There was the usual traffic jam on the
stairs, and someone had farted in the stairwell. It was a status quo Monday at school . . . except for one thing: Everyone was staring at her.
Literally everyone. Two senior boys on the baseball team mouthed freak as she passed. Mrs. Booth, Emily’s creative writing teacher from the year before, poked her head out of her classroom door, widened her eyes at Emily, and then scuttled back inside, like a mouse darting back into a hole. The only person who didn’t stare was Spencer. Instead, Spencer pointedly turned her head in the opposite direction, obviously still annoyed that Emily had told the police they’d seen Ali in her backyard.
Whatever. Her friends might be convinced they’d collectively hallucinated, the DNA report might allegedly say the body in the hole was Ali’s, and all of Rosewood might think Emily was delusional, but she knew what she saw. Last night while she slept, she’d endured dream after dream about Ali, like Ali was begging Emily’s subconscious to come find her. In the first one, Emily had walked into her church and found Ali and Isaac sitting together in the back pew, giggling and whispering. In the dream after that, Emily and Isaac had been naked under the covers in Isaac’s bed, just like they’d been the week before. They heard footsteps on the stairs. Emily thought it was Isaac’s mother, but Ali had walked into the room instead. Her face was covered with soot, and her eyes were huge and frightened. “Someone’s trying to kill me,” she said. And then she disintegrated into a pile of ash.
Ali was out there. But . . . whose body was in the hole then? And why was Wilden insisting it was Ali’s DNA if it really wasn’t? Someone had obviously set that fire to cover something up. Sure, Wilden had an alibi for when the fire started, but who was to say that receipt from CVS was even his? And wasn’t it a little convenient that he had the receipt at the ready? Emily thought of the lone police car she’d seen sneaking away from the Hastingses’ house the night of the fire, almost like whoever was driving didn’t want to be noticed. Wilden wasn’t on the scene that night . . . or was he?
