35
EMILY FIELDS PUTS IT ALL TO REST
Instead of driving straight home from the hospital, Emily made the turn down Goshen Road. It was a hilly, picturesque lane that featured a series of dairy farms, a crumbling stone wall from the Revolutionary War, and a mansion so huge and sprawling that it had three separate garages and its own helipad.
Eventually, she came to the wrought-iron gate of St. Basil’s cemetery. Dusk was setting in fast, but the gate was still open, and there were a couple of cars parked in the lot. Emily pulled in next to a Jeep Liberty and turned off the engine. She sat for a moment, taking heaping breaths. Then she reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a plastic bag she’d stashed there.
Her Vans sank in the wet, soft grass as she walked past the graves, many of them bearing fresh flowers and American flags. Emily reached the headstone she was looking for in no time, wedged prettily between two pine trees. Alison Lauren DiLaurentis, the grave said. It was surprising that it was still here, being that Ali’s family had left Rosewood forever.
And that it wasn’t actually Ali who was buried here, but Courtney.
Emily traced the A on the headstone with her thumb. She had prided herself on knowing Ali so intimately, better than any of the others. And yet she hadn’t known that the girl she was kissing wasn’t the Ali she’d known all those years before. She’d been too blinded by love. Even today, a big part of her still couldn’t believe it had happened. She couldn’t grasp that the girl who’d come back to them wasn’t the Ali she’d known—and that the Ali she’d known wasn’t the real Ali at all.
Emily knelt down next to Ali’s grave and plunged her hand into the plastic bag. The patent leather change purse squeaked against her fingers. She’d stuffed it with as many photos and notes from Ali as she could, the sides bulging and the zipper barely closing. Sighing, she traced a finger over the E. Ali had presented it to Emily after French class in sixth grade. “Pour vous, from moi,” she’d said.
“What’s the occasion?” Emily asked.
“There isn’t one.” Ali bumped Emily’s hip. “Just that I hope Emily Fields is my very bestest friend forever.”
Emily could practically hear Ali’s voice now, whistling in the wind. She started to dig into the earth next to the grave. Dirt got underneath her fingernails and all over her palms, but she burrowed down at least a foot before she stopped. Taking a deep breath, she dropped the change purse in. Hopefully, the purse would stay buried this time. This was where the purse should be—the notes and pictures, too. It was Emily’s own little Time Capsule, something that would symbolize her friendship with her Ali forever. Emily’s bulletin board looked so bare without all the photos, but she’d have to fill it with new memories. Hopefully, ones that included Aria, Spencer, and Hanna.
“Bye, Ali,” Emily said softly. Leaves rustled. A car swished on the street below, its headlights bouncing off the tree trunks. As she was about to leave, she heard another noise. She stopped. It sounded like a snicker.
Emily scanned the trees, but there was no one there. She glanced at the other graves, but nobody moved among the headstones. She even looked up into the sky, as if searching for a blond head among the darkening clouds. She thought about the Web site she’d stumbled upon the other day, a collection of anonymous Twitters from people who’d sworn they’d seen Alison DiLaurentis. I just saw her walking into J. Crew in Phoenix, AZ, one of the posts said. I definitely saw Ali at Starbucks in Boulder, tweeted another. There were at least fifty of them, new ones being added every day.
“Who’s there?” Emily whispered.
Five long seconds passed, but no one answered.
Emily let out a shaky breath. Gathering her strength, she started down the hill to the car. Served her right for hanging around the cemetery at night—all kinds of innocuous sounds and shadows seemed scary in the dark. It was probably just the wind.
Or…was it?
THOSE WHO FORGET THE PAST
Imagine it’s your senior year and you’re sitting in class, less than thrilled to start another day at school. Your spray tan is looking glowing and healthy, and you’re wearing your new Juicy hoodie (oh yes, Juicy’s on its way back again), and your mind’s on your crush, the boy who caddies for your dad at the country club. You’re painting your fingernails Chanel Jade, waiting for the teacher to start droning away, when suddenly this new girl walks into the room. She’s cute—way cuter than you are—and there’s something about her that makes you want to stare and stare. You think, hmm, maybe she likes green Chanel nail polish, too. You bet she’d like Golf Caddy boy as well. And you bet if Golf Caddy boy had a choice, he’d choose her over you.
As she looks up and down the aisles, her eyes land on you and stay there. It’s like she can see inside you, deep down to your wants and desires, the secrets no one knows. You shudder, feeling invaded, but for reasons you can’t explain, you also want to tell her your secrets. You want to win her over. You want her to like you best.
“Class,” the teacher says, touching the new girl’s arm. “This is Laura St. DeLions.”
Or Sara Dillon Tunisi.
Or Lanie Lisia Dunstor.
Or Daniella Struision.
Your brain stalls for a moment. There’s something familiar about those names, isn’t there? Sort of like a scrambled version of your favorite song, or an anagram of a common phrase. The girl looks familiar, too—you’ve seen that sparkly, I-know-something-you-don’t smirk before. You think of a picture on a milk carton you saw long ago. You think of that girl on the news. Could it be…?
Nah, you decide. That’s crazy. You wave at her and she waves back. Suddenly, you have a feeling she’s going to pick you as her brand-new very best friend. You have a feeling your whole life is going to change.
And just like that, it does.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s with a heavy heart that I write the acknowledgments for the last book in the Pretty Little Liars series. Writing these books has been a thrilling adventure from beginning to end, and I’m still pinching myself that this has been my life for the past four years.
There are many of you who help to make these books what they are, and I can’t thank any of you enough. First, Lanie Davis, my day-to-day editor, is always bursting with smart, insightful ideas. Lanie sharpens each book—each chapter and sometimes each sentence!—until it’s lean and mean. Sara Shandler, Les Morgenstein, and Josh Bank are all so fully invested in the characters, their stories, and the series as a whole. Kristin Marang creates superb series buzz online—always such a tricky thing! Farrin Jacobs and Kari Sutherland give continued support and fantastic editorial suggestions. And Andy McNicol and Anais Borja at William Morris cheer on the series from start to finish…and send me extra books when I accidentally leave my copy at a bookstore or give it to a rabid reader.
Much love to my parents, Shep and Mindy, who are, at present, obsessed with Wii Fit. Go archery! Hugs to my sister, Alison, who is nothing like the Alison (or Courtney) in these books. Glad we didn’t die in the ocean that day! Kisses to my husband, Joel, who was on the phone with me the day I found out that Pretty Little Liars would be a series four years ago. Welcome to Josephine, who has a pinecone tail, and good-bye to Zelda, who sounded like a barge when she paddled in the bay. We will miss you so, so much.
I also want to thank each and every fan of the series. Those of you who pass the books around at school, those of you who make YouTube videos of your ideal PLL cast, those of you who reach out on Facebook and Twitter or share your thoughts on Goodreads, wherever you are, whoever you are, you all have a special place in my heart. And finally, a shout-out to my English teachers at Downingtown Senior High School: the late Mary French, Alice Campbell, and Karen Bald Mapes. You taught me to fear the run-on sentence, you opened my eyes to absurdist drama, bildungsroman novels, and bad Hemingway parodies, and, last but not least, you encouraged me—vehemently, sometimes—to write. You made a huge difference, and I thank you so much.
About the Author
SARA SHEPARD graduated from NYU and has an MFA from Brooklyn College. Sara’s PRETTY LITTLE LIARS novels were inspired by her upbringing in Philadelphia’s Main Line, where she lives today.
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Credits
Hand lettering by Peter Horridge
Photography by Ali Smith
Doll design by Tina Amantula
Copyright
WANTED. Copyright © 2010 by Alloy Entertainment and Sara Shepard. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition © April 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-200313-3
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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Sara Shepard Page 19
