Pretty Little Liars #13: Crushed

by Shepard, Sara

  “I say we go rogue,” Spencer declared. “We get rid of our current phones and phone numbers. If we need cell phones for absolute emergencies, we can get a burner cell, but we can’t tell one another anything critical on calls or voicemails. We should use a code phrase.”

  “What about not it?” Emily piped up.

  “That’s perfect,” Spencer said. “And we can’t give the number out to anyone else except for our parents.”

  Aria shifted her weight. “What about boyfriends?”

  Spencer shook her head. “It’s too risky.”

  Aria frowned. “Noel won’t tell anyone.”

  “He might leave his phone out somewhere that A might see, though. And you’ll have to explain to him why you got a burner phone.”

  “How am I going to explain why I’m not using a phone at all?” Aria asked, hands on her hips.

  Spencer stared at her, exasperated. “I don’t know! Say you’re doing it for a school project about living for a week without technology.”

  “What about e-mail?” Hanna asked.

  “We can still use school e-mail for schoolwork—maybe we could carry our old phones around but only use WiFi. I’m pretty sure WiFi usage on phones can’t be tracked in the same way as usage on a data plan. And we shouldn’t use the Internet on our home computers—for all we know A has hacked into our systems. We need to use computers that won’t be linked to us and definitely don’t have any spyware installed.”

  Emily glanced at the spot where the barn had stood. “All that sounds well and good for A not knowing where we are now. But A could still frame us.”

  “That’s the second part of my plan,” Spencer shouted over the leaf blower. “As soon as possible, we need to go somewhere really secret and safe and sit down and figure out who A could be. There are probably all kinds of clues that we aren’t even thinking about. And now that we know what happened the night of the fire, A could be Real Ali.”

  The leaf blower sputtered. The trees at the back of the property swayed, and for a moment, Spencer swore she saw a figure in the woods.

  “That sounds like a good idea to me,” Hanna said. “Where should we go?”

  Everyone paused to think. Then Spencer’s gaze drifted to a light on inside Mr. Pennythistle’s office in the house. “The other day, Mr. Pennythistle told me that his model home at Crestview Estates has a panic room. Aren’t those places, like, soundproof?”

  “I think so,” Hanna said. “And sometimes they have video surveillance, so you can see if someone is on your property.”

  “Perfect,” Emily said. “A will never hear us in somewhere like that.”

  Aria squinted. “Crestview Estates isn’t far from here, right? In Hopewell?”

  “Yeah,” Spencer said. Hopewell was a town about fifteen minutes from Rosewood. “And I bet I could steal the key to the house.” Mr. Pennythistle kept copies of all of his properties’ keys in his home office. It would just be a matter of finding the right one.

  Emily’s eyes gleamed. “Should we drive together?”

  Spencer shook her head vehemently. “We need to all go separately to confuse A. It would be even better if we could go by different modes of transport—like bus or SEPTA or car.”

  Aria ground her toe into the grass. “Well, the public transport goes to Hopewell.”

  “And if some of us drive, we can take different routes,” Emily said. “A won’t know which one of us to follow. And if it seems like someone is following us, we could speed up or pull off or do a quick turnaround, maybe catching A in the act. Then we might see who A is.”

  “Great,” Spencer said. She looked hard at the others. “How about tomorrow night?”

  Everyone nodded. Then Spencer caught sight of a black sedan rolling up the long driveway. Her stomach turned over. Showtime.

  The car cruised to a stop at the front of the house. A tall, thin woman with long, wavy, black hair and sharp features started toward the front door. When she noticed Spencer and the others in the backyard, she stopped and waved.

  “Miss Hastings?” She looked questioningly at the leaf blower. “Doing some yard work?”

  Spencer turned off the leaf blower and dropped it to the ground. She tramped through the wet grass toward the house. “Something like that.”

  The woman extended her hand. “I’m Jasmine Fuji.” She looked at the others with wide gray eyes. “Let me guess. Hanna, Aria, and Emily,” she said, pointing at each girl in turn. Then again, it wasn’t hard—the four of them had been plastered all over People magazine last year after Real Ali allegedly died. Even a made-for-TV movie called Pretty Little Killer had been filmed, documenting Real Ali’s torment and near killing of the girls.

  When no one said anything, she cleared her throat. “How about we go inside and talk?”

  Spencer led the way through the kitchen, nervously trying not to trip over anything. Then they lined up on the living room couch, squeezed together tightly. Aria flicked a tassel on a pillow. Emily crossed and uncrossed her legs. Everyone’s hair was a windswept rat’s nest from the leaf blower.

  Fuji sat across from them on a striped ottoman, pulled out a yellow notepad, and flipped to a clean page. Her nails were impeccably groomed and painted pink. “Well. Okay. Thanks for meeting me, for one thing. This is just a formality, but I appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Of course,” Spencer said in her most mature, professional tone. She wished she had something to do with her hands.

  “Your names were on a list of guests who were staying at The Cliffs resort in Jamaica the same time Tabitha Clark was murdered,” Fuji said, looking at a separate sheet of paper. “March twenty-third to March thirtieth. Can you confirm that?”

  “Yes.” Spencer’s voice cracked, and she started again. “Yes. We were there. We were on vacation for spring break with a lot of our classmates.”

  Fuji gave them a tight smile. “Must be nice.”

  Spencer twitched. That sounded kind of bitter. Must be nice for you spoiled rich girls, maybe. You think you can get away with anything, huh? But then Fuji pointed to a watercolor of a pastoral farm scene above the piano. “My grandmother has one a lot like that, except a little bigger.”

  “Oh, neat. I’ve always loved that painting,” Spencer said quickly. Calm down, she scolded herself.

  “So.” Fuji took out a pair of glasses from her purse and perched them on her nose, then studied her notes again. “Did you meet Miss Clark while you were staying there?”

  Spencer exchanged a look with the others. They’d briefly talked through what they’d say on the phone last night, but her mind suddenly was blank. “Sort of,” she said after a moment. “I had a passing conversation with her, nothing big.”

  Fuji removed her glasses and put one of the stems in her mouth. “Can you tell me what it was about?”

  Spencer’s insides fizzed. “She thought we looked familiar. Like long-lost sisters.”

  Fuji cocked her head. Her teardrop earrings fluttered. “That’s a strange thing to say.”

  Spencer shrugged. “She’d had a lot to drink.”

  Fuji wrote something down and turned to the other girls. “Do you remember Tabitha as well?”

  Emily nodded. “We danced near each other.” She swallowed hard.

  Fuji turned to Hanna and Aria, and both of them said they’d met Tabitha in passing but didn’t have a long conversation. Fuji didn’t ask them to elaborate, so Emily didn’t mention Tabitha’s eerily similar Jenna Thing bracelet, Aria didn’t talk about how Tabitha had hinted that she knew her dad was a cheater, and Hanna didn’t tell her that Tabitha had known Hanna used to be a loser.

  Everyone answered articulately. If Spencer were a bystander to the conversation, the girls would have seemed truthful enough. Distraught and quiet, maybe, but that was okay: A girl they’d met had been murdered a few feet from where they’d been sleeping.

  Fuji capped her pen. “It seems like a lot of people are telling me the same thing—Tabitha must have gotten arou
nd that night, chatted everyone up. Everyone remembers her, but no one can connect her to anyone in particular.” She put down her notebook and met their gazes. “I heard you girls were on the cruise ship that exploded, too.”

  “That’s right,” Spencer croaked.

  “And I heard you were on Gayle Riggs’s property when she was murdered.” She stared unblinkingly at the four girls.

  Hanna nodded faintly. Emily coughed. “We’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Spencer said.

  “Sounds like you guys have had a rough couple of years.” A sad smile spread across Fuji’s face. “Conspiracy-theory crackpots would probably have a field day with you girls, huh? They might say you’re cursed.”

  Each girl laughed, though their chuckles were mirthless and forced. When Fuji gave them a strange, knowing glance, the moment felt spiky and electric. What if A had already told Fuji everything? What if she was just toying with them, waiting for them to slip up?

  But then Fuji pressed her palms flat on the top of her notebook and stood. “Thanks for your time, girls. If you think of anything else, please let me know.”

  Spencer jumped up, too. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Fuji bid her another good-bye at the door, walked down the path, and climbed into her car. When she backed out of the drive and turned off the cul-de-sac, Spencer whirled around to face her friends, who were sitting stock-still on the couch.

  Hanna broke the silence. “I thought she was going to nail us.”

  “I know.” Aria collapsed into the back cushions. “I was convinced she knew more than she was saying.”

  Beep.

  It was Spencer’s phone. All of the girls’ spines went ramrod straight. A bleep soon followed from Emily’s phone. Then Hanna’s buzzed. Aria’s phone made a slide-whistle sound. Their screens all flashed with an alert that a new text message had come in.

  Taking a huge breath, Spencer looked at the screen.

  I do love some freshly planted lies on a lovely spring afternoon. I wonder if Agent Fuji feels the same . . . —A

  Spencer squeezed her eyes shut. Letting out a wail, she hurled the phone across the room, where it crashed against a small side table. The battery flew out and skidded across the floor. Then she eyed the others. “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” Aria growled. Emily and Hanna nodded, too.

  It was their only hope. They were going to solve this, once and for all.

  6

  The Situation Room

  On Thursday, after the last bell rang, Hanna scuttled toward the parking lot, her leather tote bumping against her back. When she heard someone call her name, she turned. Chassey Bledsoe stood at the curb, smiling eagerly, every inch of her formerly pockmarked skin eerily blemish-free.

  “We’re shooting campaign videos,” Chassey chirped. “Aren’t you coming?”

  Hanna glanced toward the lot, then back at Chassey. “Um, I can’t.”

  Chassey looked disappointed. “Do you want me to tell them to reschedule?”

  Hanna chewed on her lip. All she wanted was to make a video that was a zillion times better than anything Chassey could do. But then she thought of A’s note about campaigning. It was painful to see all the VOTE CHASSEY posters on the wall when she couldn’t put up a single HANNA FOR MAY DAY QUEEN one. What if Chassey won by a landslide? Hanna would be humiliated.

  “That’s okay. I have an appointment I can’t miss,” she said. “It’s sort of hard to explain. Good luck, though!”

  “But . . . ,” Chassey started, but Hanna just waved, turned, and jogged up the hill to her car. Before she got in, she pulled a black knit cap over her head and shrugged into a black peacoat she’d stashed in the back of the Prius. Time to get into secret-mission mode.

  She climbed into the car, gunned out of the lot—well, as fast as a Prius could gun—and pulled onto the highway. She threw the new burner cell she’d picked up at Radio Shack in the console, then glanced at the car’s GPS. The next turn wasn’t for a few miles yet, but what was with that black SUV on her tail? She squinted in the rearview mirror, trying to get a glimpse of the driver. The windows were tinted. Her heart began to bang. Black SUVs were a dime a dozen here in Rosewood—it could be anyone in there.

  She took the very next exit. Recalculating, the GPS said. The SUV followed. Hanna slowed at a stop sign and took a left. The SUV did the same. “Oh my God,” Hanna whispered. Was it A?

  She spied a Wawa ahead and pulled into the parking lot. The SUV whizzed past. Hanna reached for a pen to scribble down the license plate, but the car was out of view before she could read the last two letters. Shifting into reverse, she peeled out and took the back way to the highway. When she merged into traffic, the black SUV was nowhere in sight. She wished she could call Mike and tell him about how much of a badass she was. But as of now, Mike didn’t even have the number for her burner cell, a hideous flip-phone thing that Hanna couldn’t even buy a bejeweled Tory Burch case for.

  Twenty minutes, three more suspicious vehicles, and several more evasive turns later, Hanna pulled up to a secluded street of huge, cookie-cutter mansions. A man-made lake glittered in the distance—even the plump, brilliantly colored mallard ducks looked like models. A few athletic-looking people were out walking their dogs, even though a steady rain had started to fall. Hanna pulled into the long slate driveway of number 11, noticing a light on inside.

  She got out of the car and tiptoed toward the door. The heavy scent of pine bombarded her nostrils. For a neighborhood in the middle of the bustling Main Line, it was eerily quiet, the only sounds the chirps, crunches, and flutters of nature.

  Before she could ring the bell, a hand grabbed her arm from behind. She started to scream, but a second hand in a black glove clapped over her mouth. “Shh,” Spencer whispered, pulling the hood off her face. “Didn’t I tell you not to go in the front?”

  “I forgot,” Hanna said, suddenly irritated. She’d lost four tails! She couldn’t be expected to remember everything.

  Spencer led her through a side entrance and into a mudroom that smelled like 409 cleaner and cinnamon candle. Then she guided her down a flight of stairs into a finished basement with a game room, wine cellar, and home theater. To the left was a heavy iron door with a spinning bank vault handle. Spencer wrenched it open. “Go,” she whispered, pushing Hanna inside like she was a hostage.

  Hanna squinted in the dim light. The room had thick, solid walls. There was a small denim couch, a few chairs, and a card table in the corner, along with a bookcase that held some magazines and board games. On two walls were video cameras of the house’s massive front and back yards. Hanna watched them for a few minutes. Trees brushed back and forth. A rabbit hopped in front of one of the cameras.

  One of the screens showed a cab pulling up to the driveway. Aria, wearing a black hoodie like Spencer’s, slunk out of the car and crept toward the house. Spencer appeared on the screen and led Aria to the same entrance Hanna had come through.

  Emily arrived a few minutes later. Then Spencer unfurled a large piece of blank paper and taped it over the closed vault door. “Okay. Let’s get started.”

  She pulled a black marker from her purse and wrote A at the top of the piece of paper. “What do we know so far?” she asked.

  Hanna jiggled her leg. “Well, A killed Tabitha. So it’s someone who was in Jamaica.”

  Jamaica, Spencer wrote. “What else?”

  “Do you think A was a friend of Tabitha’s, or an enemy?” Emily asked. “I would say an enemy since A killed her, but maybe that’s what A wants us to think.”

  Aria nodded. “A was poised on the beach, so A knew Tabitha was going up to the roof to talk to us. Do you think A told Tabitha to say all those Ali-like things to us, too? Like how you guys seemed like long-lost sisters, Spence? Or how you used to be chubby, Hanna?”

  “Maybe. And A could have given that string bracelet to Tabitha, too,” Hanna said. “But why would someone want us to think Tabitha was Ali?”

  “T
o pique our curiosity, so we would definitely go on the roof deck with her when she asked?” Aria said. “And then . . . what? Orchestrate things so that we’d push Tabitha off? How would A know that was going to happen? A’s not a mind reader.”

  “It might have just been an accident that Tabitha fell,” Hanna decided. “What if A really asked Tabitha to push me? But then Aria stepped in and pushed her instead. Everything went wrong, until A realized how to make it right. A killed Tabitha when she fell and then blamed it on us.”

  Spencer capped the marker. “That could be how it went down, I suppose. But who would do something like that?”

  Emily looked at the others. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  Hanna swallowed hard. “Real Ali?”

  Emily shifted her weight on the couch. “It makes sense. First of all, she knew our weaknesses—it would have been easy for her to tell Tabitha what to say. She wanted revenge once and for all. And it makes sense how she knew Tabitha—she met her at The Preserve. But how did she get Tabitha to do all that—even potentially murder for her? What did Tabitha have to gain from it? Do you think she paid her?”

  “Tabitha’s family was rich.” Hanna leaned toward the TV screens. “Besides, does Ali have money? Even if she had some sort of trust account, she couldn’t draw from it—I’m sure her accounts are being monitored, if her family hasn’t already taken back all the funds.”

  “Maybe someone else is giving her money.” Spencer tossed the marker from hand to hand.

  There was a silence. It was so quiet inside the panic room that Hanna could hear the ticking of Spencer’s Cartier watch. “It doesn’t explain why Ali would have bludgeoned her to death, though,” she said. “I mean, someone could have seen her. She took a big risk.”

  Aria breathed in. “Someone could have seen Real Ali, period. How was it that no one noticed her in Jamaica? Isn’t that weird?”

  “That brings us back to the money thing,” Spencer said, writing money on the sheet of paper. “Now that I think about it, the DiLaurentis family definitely didn’t have cash. When I found out all that stuff about Ali and Courtney being my half sisters, part of it was about how the DiLaurentises were broke—probably from paying those outrageous hospital bills for all those years. So how could Ali have gotten the cash to travel to Jamaica? And if she’s A, how did she come back to Rosewood and stalk us so expertly?”