by Sara Shepard
Page 4
“Everyone needs to feel comfortable and welcome here, Spence,” Spencer’s mother answered quietly, pushing a lock of ash blond hair behind her ear. The four-carat diamond engagement ring Mr. Pennythistle had given her glinted under the overhead lights. “Besides, I thought Great-great-grandpa’s portrait scared you. ”
“It scared Melissa, not me,” Spencer mumbled. In truth, she liked the kooky family portrait—several sad-eyed spaniels perched on Great-great-grandpa Hastings’s lap. Great-great-grandpa was also the spitting image of Spencer’s father, who’d moved out of the Hastings abode after her parents’ divorce and bought a loft in downtown Philadelphia. It had been Mr. Pennythistle’s idea to swap out the portrait with the grisly Civil War tableau, surely wanting to expunge all evidence of Spencer’s father from his new house. But who wanted to walk through the front door and be greeted by a bunch of rearing, angry steeds and bloodied Confederates? Just looking at the battle scene stressed Spencer out.
“Dinner is served!” a voice trilled from the kitchen.
Melissa, Spencer’s older sister, popped her head into the hall. She’d offered to cook the family dinner tonight, and she wore a black apron that said GREEN GOURMET across the front and silver oven mitts on her hands. A thin black velvet headband held back her chin-length blond hair, a pearl necklace encircled her throat, and understated Chanel ballet flats adorned her feet. She looked like a younger, fresher version of Martha Stewart.
Melissa caught Spencer’s eye. “I made your favorite, Spence. Lemon chicken with olives. ”
“Thanks. ” Spencer smiled gratefully, knowing this was a gesture of solidarity. The sisters had been rivals for a long time, but last year, they’d finally put aside their differences. Melissa knew Spencer wasn’t adjusting well to the new family situation. But there were other things Spencer was having a hard time swallowing, too. Things Spencer didn’t dare talk about with her sister—or with anyone.
Spencer followed her mother and Mr. Pennythistle—she still couldn’t bring herself to call him Nicholas—into the kitchen just as Melissa was setting a baking dish in the center of the table. Their stepsister-to-be, Amelia, who was two years younger than Spencer, perched in the corner seat, napkin primly on her lap. She was wearing a pair of low-heeled booties Spencer had picked out for her on a recent shopping trip in New York, but her hair was still frizzy and her shiny cheeks were desperately in need of foundation.
Amelia scowled when she looked up and saw Spencer, and Spencer turned away, feeling a prickle of annoyance. It was clear Amelia still hadn’t forgiven her for getting her brother, Zach, sent away to military school. Spencer hadn’t meant to out Zach to his father. But when Mr. Pennythistle had walked in on Spencer and Zach in bed together, he’d assumed the worst and flown into a rage. Spencer had only announced that Zach was gay to get Mr. Pennythistle to stop hitting his son.
“Hey, Spencer,” another voice said. Darren Wilden, Melissa’s boyfriend, sat on the other side of Amelia, chewing on a piece of fresh-from-the-oven garlic bread. “What’s new?”
A fist clenched in Spencer’s chest. Though he now worked security at a museum in Philly, until recently Darren Wilden had been Officer Wilden, the chief investigator in the Alison DiLaurentis murder case, and it had been his job to sense when people were hiding something or lying. Could Wilden know about Spencer’s new stalker, who—of course—went by A? Could he suspect what she and her friends had done to Tabitha in Jamaica?
“Uh, nothing,” Spencer said haltingly, tugging on the collar of her blouse. She was being ridiculous. There was no way Wilden could know about A or Tabitha. He couldn’t possibly know that every night, Spencer had bad dreams about the Tabitha incident, replaying the awful day in Jamaica over and over again. Nor could he know that Spencer read and reread articles about the aftershocks of Tabitha’s death as often as she could—about how devastated Tabitha’s parents were. How her friends in New Jersey held vigils in her honor. How several new nonprofits had sprung up to condemn teenage drinking, which was what everyone had assumed had killed her.
But it wasn’t what killed her—and Spencer knew it. So did A.
Who could have seen them that night? Who hated them so much to torture them with the information and threaten to ruin their lives instead of going directly to the cops? Spencer couldn’t believe that she and her friends were yet again faced with the task of figuring out who A might be. Even worse, she couldn’t think of a single suspect. A hadn’t written Spencer or the others another note since that harrowing newscast two weeks ago, but Spencer was sure A wasn’t gone for good.
And what else did A know? A’s last message said, This is just the tip of the iceberg, as if he or she was privy to other secrets. Unfortunately, Spencer had a few more skeletons locked in her closet. Like what had happened with Kelsey Pierce at Penn last summer—Kelsey had been sent to juvie because of what Spencer had done to her. But surely A couldn’t know about that. Then again, A always seemed to know everything. . . .
“Seriously, nothing?” Wilden took another bite of crispy bread, his gray-green eyes on her. “That doesn’t sound like the whirlwind schedule of a soon-to-be Princeton student. ”
Spencer pretended to wipe a spot off her water glass, wishing Wilden would stop staring at her as though she were a paramecium under a microscope. “I’m in the school play,” she mumbled.
“Not just in the school play, you’re the lead—as usual. ” Melissa rolled her eyes good-naturedly. She smiled at Mr. Pennythistle and Amelia. “Spence has starred in every production since preschool. ”
“And you’re playing Lady Macbeth this year. ” Mr. Pennythistle sank ceremoniously into the heavy mahogany chair at the head of the table. “That’s a challenging role. I can’t wait to see the performance. ”
“You don’t have to come,” Spencer blurted, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.
“Of course Nicholas is coming!” Mrs. Hastings squeaked. “It’s marked on our calendars!”
Spencer stared at her reflection in the back of her spoon. The last thing she wanted was a man she barely knew feigning interest in her life. Mr. Pennythistle was only coming to the play because Spencer’s mom was making him.
Amelia speared a chicken breast from the platter that was being passed around. “I’m putting together an orchestra concert for charity,” she announced. “A bunch of girls at St. Agnes are going to be rehearsing here for the next few weeks, and we’re going to hold the concert at the Rosewood Abbey. Everyone can come to see my performance. ”
Spencer rolled her eyes. St. Agnes was the snooty private school Amelia attended, an institution even more obnoxiously exclusive than Rosewood Day. She’d have to figure out a way to get out of attending the performance; her old friend Kelsey attended St. Agnes—or at least she used to. Spencer didn’t want to risk seeing her.
Mrs. Hastings clapped her hands together. “That sounds lovely, Amelia! Tell us the date, and we’ll be there. ”
“I want to be available for all of you girls. ” Mr. Pennythistle glanced from Amelia to Spencer to Melissa, his gray-blue eyes crinkling. “We’re a family now, and I’m really looking forward to us bonding. ”
Spencer sniffed. Where’d he get that line, Dr. Phil? “I already have a family, thank you very much,” she said.
Melissa widened her eyes. Amelia had a smirk on her face like she’d just read a juicy piece of gossip in Us Weekly. Mrs. Hastings jumped to her feet. “You’re being very rude, Spencer. Please leave the table. ”
Spencer let out a half laugh, but Mrs. Hastings nudged her chin toward the hall. “I’m serious. Go to your room. ”
“Mom,” Melissa said gently. “This is Spencer’s favorite meal. And—”
“We’ll fix her a plate later. ” Mrs. Hastings’s voice was strained, almost like she was about to cry. “Spencer, please. Just go. ”
“I’m sorry,” Spencer mumbled as she stood, even though she wasn’t. Fathers weren’t interchangeable. She
couldn’t randomly bond with some guy she didn’t even know. All of a sudden, she couldn’t wait until next fall when she was at Princeton. Away from Rosewood, away from her new family, away from A, away from the secret about Tabitha—and all the other secrets A might know, too. It couldn’t come fast enough.
Shoulders hunched, she stomped into the hall. A pile of mail was stacked neatly in the center of the hall table, a long, slender envelope from Princeton addressed to Spencer J. Hastings right on top. Spencer snatched it up, hoping for a fleeting second that perhaps the school was writing to tell her she could move in early—like now.
Soft, subdued voices sounded from the dining room. Spencer’s family’s two Labradoodles, Rufus and Beatrice, bounded toward the window, probably smelling deer on the lawn. Spencer sliced open the envelope with her fingernail and removed a single sheet of paper. A logo for the Princeton admissions committee paraded across the top.
Dear Miss Hastings,
It appears there has been a misunderstanding. Apparently, two Spencer Hastingses applied to Princeton’s incoming freshman class early decision—you, Spencer J. Hastings, and a male student, Spencer F. Hastings, from Darien, Connecticut. Unfortunately, our admissions board did not realize you were two separate individuals—some read your application, and others read the other Spencer’s application, but we all voted as if you were one applicant. Now that we’ve realized our oversight, our committee needs to reread and review both of your applications thoroughly and decide which of you shall be admitted. Both of you are strong candidates, so it will most likely be a very tough decision. If there is anything you’d like to add to your application that might sway the admissions board, now would be an excellent time.
Sorry for the inconvenience, and good luck!
All the best,
Bettina Bloom
President, Princeton Admissions Board
Spencer read over the letter three times until the school’s crest at the top of the page looked like a Rorschach blob. This couldn’t be right. She had gotten in to Princeton. This was done.
Two minutes ago, her future was secure. Now she was poised to lose it all.
A lilting giggle snaked around the room. On instinct, Spencer shot up and glanced out the side window, which faced the old DiLaurentis house next door. Something shifted beyond the trees. She stared hard, waiting. But the shadow she thought she’d seen didn’t reappear. Whoever had been there was gone.
Chapter 3
PRETTY LITTLE LONER
“Connect with the divine source of all life,” a soothing voice chanted in Aria Montgomery’s ears. “With every exhale, let go of the tension in your body. First your arms, then your legs, then the muscles in your face, then . . . ”
Bang. Aria opened her eyes. It was Thursday morning at school. The door to the Rosewood Day auxiliary gym had flung open, and a bunch of freshman girls dressed in leotards and leg warmers pranced into the room for the first-period modern dance class.
