22
The Trip to Tripp’s
“Turn left at the next intersection,” said the automated voice of the GPS Emily had suction-cupped to the windshield of the Volvo. She dutifully stopped at the light and angled the car into a development full of columned mansions. “Whoa,” she murmured, looking right and left. “Swanky.”
Iris, who had taken her usual spot in the passenger seat, shrugged apathetically. “I’m not surprised Tripp lives here,” she said. “You have to have a lot of cash to afford The Preserve.”
“Are you sure Tripp lives here?” Emily asked as they passed a white stone house with a miniature version of it for a mailbox. When she’d picked Iris up at the King James that afternoon, Iris had announced that she’d discovered where Tripp, her old crush, lived, and that they were going to track him down that very night. Luckily, his house was only on the other side of Philly, in a pretty New Jersey suburb that looked a lot like Rosewood. Still, there was something about this neighborhood that made Emily feel uneasy. The houses reminded her of the Crestview Manor ones, except even more soulless and spooky. In fact, this neighborhood reminded her of the big, impersonal, oddly generic neighborhood Gayle Riggs lived in when Emily had met her.
“I researched it,” Iris said snootily, gazing at a notepad on her lap. “His family is listed on four-one-one.” Then she pointed to a country club parking lot. “Let’s park here and walk the rest of the way. I don’t want Tripp to see a car at the curb and run.”
Emily shrugged, then did as she was told. Things between her and Iris were back to being tense again. Iris had created an itinerary of stuff for them to do this weekend that wasn’t even on her bucket list, the activities stretching long into the night. It was like she was purposefully keeping Emily away from prom—if Iris couldn’t be happy, then Emily couldn’t, either.
They headed down the quiet neighborhood sidewalk, which was swept clean of leaves and eerily unblemished by sidewalk drawings. The whole place almost felt like a movie set. “It’s the next house on this block,” Iris said, giving a tight smile to a passing woman walking her dog, as if she was the one who wasn’t supposed to be here.
Finally, they stopped in front of a large brick-and-stone structure with a long strip of windows across the top level. MAXWELL, it said on the mailbox. Rolling back her shoulders, Iris marched up the front walk and rang the bell. Emily remained at the curb. A woman Emily could only assume was Tripp’s mom opened the door, and Iris’s voice rose. The woman frowned and shook her head. A second later, the door shut. Iris knocked once more, but it didn’t reopen.
Iris stomped back down the walk angrily. “Tripp doesn’t live here anymore. That stupid bitch kicked him out.”
“Did she say why?” Emily asked.
Iris angrily yanked a daffodil from the flowerbed by the mailbox and twirled it between her palms. “Tripp always used to say his mom was a hard-ass.”
“Where could he have gone?”
Iris tossed the flower onto the lawn. “She said with his father. I asked where that was, and she said she didn’t know.” She set her jaw. “Then I said I was his old girlfriend, and that made her even angrier! She slammed the door on me!” She stared fixedly into the street. “Do you think he said bad stuff about me? Why would she have done that?”
The garage door rose, and they turned toward the house again. A silver Mercedes backed out of the driveway. Iris pulled Emily behind a huge shrub so Tripp’s mom wouldn’t see them. The car backed into the street and zoomed away, the garage closing quietly in its wake.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” Emily said.
Iris clutched her arm. “Are you kidding? Tripp might not be there, but I bet some of his stuff still is. If I’m not going to find him, at least I want something to remember him by.”
Emily placed her hands on her hips, a sinking feeling in her stomach. “And let me guess. We sneak in and steal it?”
“Aw, you know me so well!” Iris pinched Emily’s cheek. Then she pirouetted toward the house. Emily followed a few steps behind, considering just leaving Iris here to do this by herself. But then she thought of Iris getting stuck inside, Tripp’s mom finding her, Iris telling everyone that she’d been kidnapped . . .
Iris circled to the back of the property and climbed onto a multitiered patio. She tried one sliding glass door, then another. Then she spied a dog flap set into the French doors off the kitchen. “Yes.”
“Iris . . . ,” Emily called weakly. Helplessly, she watched as Iris got down on her hands and knees and tumbled through the dog door. Then she unlatched the patio door, letting Emily in. “Welcome,” she trilled, picking up an oven mitt that was sitting on the island and sliding it over her hand. “Would you like some fresh-baked muffins? A cup of tea? I make a good suburban housewife, don’t I?”
Emily looked around the kitchen. It was massive, with a six-burner stainless-steel stove and the longest granite-topped island Emily had ever seen. An enormous fridge sat off to the left, a shiny cappuccino maker was on the counter, and a wine refrigerator filled with bottles stood near the pantry. Not even Spencer’s kitchen was this luxurious. Yet it had an unlived-in quality to it, too, the appliances a little too clean, not a speck of dirt in the grout of the tiles, every single towel monogrammed with a swirly letter M. It was strange to think that a mental patient had grown up inside these walls—when Emily was younger, she’d assumed that nothing bad happened to people who had this much money.
“What was wrong with Tripp, anyway?” Emily whispered to Iris, who was searching through a drawer across the room, the mitt still on her hand.
Iris inspected the items hanging on the refrigerator, flipped through a desk calendar, and opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of 5-Hour Energy. “The doctors said he was schizophrenic, but I think that’s bullshit. He was the sanest person there. Super smart, too. He was always coming up with fun dates for us to go on within the hospital walls.” She pulled out a picture in the drawer, squinted at it, then let it flutter to the floor. Emily scrambled after her to pick it up. An older couple were clinking wine glasses. The man wore a Santa hat on his head.
“There’s got to be something of his,” Iris grumbled. She crossed the room. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”
She headed down the hall and up the stairs as if she’d been here before. Colorful oil paintings lined the walls, including a swirly one that reminded Emily of Aria’s Van Gogh. Her stomach gurgled. It was easy to forget about the painting, hidden inside Aria’s closet. But what if that was what Agent Fuji wanted to talk to all of them about?
Iris tried each of the closed bedroom doors. When she looked through the third one, she gasped and plunged inside. Emily followed. A twin bed stood in the corner. There were lines in the carpet from where the vacuum had swept, and the bureau was free of clutter. It reminded Emily of Iris’s depersonalized room at The Preserve.
But then Iris opened the closet. A few plaid shirts hung on hangers, and a single milk crate sat at the bottom. “Bingo,” Iris whispered, shedding the oven mitt and pulling the crate into the room.
Inside were paperbacks, notebooks, and an old cell phone with a cracked screen. Iris grabbed the notebooks and leafed through them. Emily ran her fingers along the pages of an old copy of 1984. Was this all Tripp’s mom kept to remind herself of him?
“Not a single frickin’ thing,” Iris said to the notebook, slamming it closed.
“What were you looking for?” Emily asked.
“My name in a heart. Something.” Iris rummaged through the crate some more, tossing aside stuffed animals, an empty water bottle, a container of hand sanitizer, a hospital bracelet that said THE PRESERVE AT ADDISON-STEVENS. When she got to the bottom of the crate, her jaw wobbled. “Well, I guess that proves it. I meant nothing to Tripp.”
“Maybe he brought something of yours with him when he left.”
Iris snorted. “I’ve been kidding myself for way too long. Tripp and I never really had anything real. It was stupid to come here.”
Instead, she picked up the cell phone and pressed the power button. Surprisingly, a Motorola logo appeared on the screen. She clicked on the CONTACTS button. Everything had been deleted. She opened up the texts, but that folder was empty, too. A few photos had been saved, however—a penis-shaped cloud, a golden retriever, and then, the third photo, a girl Emily knew well.
“Oh my God,” Emily whispered.
Ali’s blond hair cascaded down her shoulders. Her blue eyes sparkled. She wore the same white pajamas that Iris had been wearing at The Preserve. Emily guessed the photo had been taken a few years ago, when Ali was maybe fifteen.
Iris wiped a tear and looked at the screen, too. She let out an annoyed sniff. “Well, I guess you found something.”
“Why would this guy have a picture of Ali?” Emily asked shakily.
Iris leaned back on her hands. “Because we all were at The Preserve together. We were friends.”
Emily stared at the picture again. Just seeing Ali’s face in somewhere so unexpected made her itchy. Someone just out of the photo had an arm slung around her shoulder—the only identifying thing was a gold watch on the person’s hairy wrist. She squinted at it. Had she seen it before?
She pointed to the disembodied hand. “Who’s that?”
Iris brought the photo close to her face. Her mouth made an O. “You know, that might be him. The boyfriend.”
Emily blinked hard. “You mean the one who came to the hospital all the time to see her? The one who she met at Keppler Creek when she got out?” Emily grabbed Iris’s wrist. “You have to tell me his name. Right now.”
Iris shook her head. “No can do.” She stood up and headed out of the room.
Emily pocketed the cell phone with Ali’s picture and followed her downstairs, out the back door, and onto the lawn. Iris was walking quickly, but Emily finally caught up with her on the sidewalk.
“Damn it, Iris!” Emily squealed. She gestured to the house. “I broke into a house with you! What’s next, murder? You’ve been stringing me along all week—just give me something real, okay? Is it too much to ask for this guy’s name?”
Iris stopped next to a tree stump. She lowered her eyes. “I can’t tell you his name . . . because I don’t know it.”
Emily felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. “What?”
Iris’s skin looked even paler in the sunlight. “I never knew it. I’m sorry. I wasn’t lying—Ali did have a guy who visited all the time. But she just called him Mr. Big . . . like Carrie in Sex and the City. I never knew his name. It was this big secret she kept from me. I was never allowed to hang out with him, either.” Her mouth tightened. “That’s why I’m not loyal to that bitch, you know. She kept things from me. It’s like I wasn’t worth knowing the truth.”
Emily wilted against a tree. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
Iris kicked at a divot in the grass. “I thought it was the only way you’d keep driving me around, taking me wherever I want, letting me stay at your family’s house—the only way things could be normal for a little while. As soon as you found out I didn’t know anything, you would ship me right back to The Preserve.”
Emily blinked. She had no idea Iris was afraid of that. “So . . . wait. You like hanging out at my family’s house?”
“Uh, yeah,” Iris said, as if it was an obvious answer. “But whatever—it’s over now. You can leave me just like my mom did. Just like Tripp did. It’s cool—I’ll just go back to The Preserve now and rot there for another four years. You can go to prom. Get on with your life.”
She turned away. After a moment, her shoulders shook silently. Emily was so stunned that she couldn’t move. She knew she should be angry, but seeing Iris there, her spindly arms wrapped around herself as she sobbed, Emily couldn’t help but feel for her. She knew what it was like to be abandoned by her family, too. And to be ditched by someone she thought loved her. When Ali laughed at Emily in the tree house at the end of seventh grade, something inside Emily had died. Another piece of her had withered away when Real Ali tried to kill her in the Poconos.
She looked at Iris’s quivering form. Really, she and Emily weren’t that different. If Emily’s circumstances had been just a bit harsher, who was to say she wouldn’t have lied about information just to get someone to pay attention to her? In a strange way, it was almost flattering that Iris found Emily worthy of lying to, Emily’s life worth living. Another surprising thought struck her: If Iris had just asked Emily to hang out for a few days longer, even though she didn’t know Ali’s boyfriend’s name, Emily might have said yes.
She put a hand on Iris’s shoulder. “Iris, I’m not going to send you back to The Preserve before you’re ready. In fact, I think you should come to prom with me. As my date.”
Iris sniffed loudly and gave her an incredulous look. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.” Emily’s voice rose. “I know prom isn’t on your list, but maybe it should be. Have you ever been to one?”
Iris tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, no, but . . .”
“A lot of guys go stag. We could find someone new for you to go out with. Someone much cooler than Tripp.”
Iris pinched a piece of skin on her arm. A bird chirped in the distance, and a car swished past on the road. Emily’s heart pounded hard. Please say yes, she willed silently. Both because she wanted to see Jordan’s surprise . . . and because she really thought it would do Iris some good to come.
Finally, Iris sighed. “Well, okay.”
“Yes!” Emily whooped, moving in to give Iris a hug. Iris was stiff for a moment, but then she hugged back. When they pulled away, Iris’s cheeks were shiny and pink.
Then Emily’s burner cell rang. She picked it up and said hello.
“Miss Fields?” said a brisk voice. “This is Jasmine Fuji. We met the other day?”
Emily opened her mouth, but only a small grunt came out. She stared at the phone as if it were on fire. “H-how did you know this number?”
“Your mother gave it to me. I called your house first.”
Emily’s head started to spin. Her mom. Mrs. Fields had forced the burner cell number out of her, and Emily hadn’t thought to warn her not to give the number out to anyone. Who else had she given it out to?
“Look, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you and all of your friends, but I’m beginning to feel like you’re blowing me off.” Agent Fuji barked out a harsh laugh. “Do you have a moment to talk right now?”
Emily glanced at Iris, who had now stopped on the sidewalk and was staring at her. “Um, I’m kind of tied up.”
“It won’t take long, I promise.”
“I’m sorry,” Emily blurted out. “But I can’t right now. Maybe another time.” And then, before she knew what she was doing, she hung up the phone.
23
The Cold, Hard Truth
“Oh, decor chairwoman!” sang a soprano voice on Friday afternoon in the journalism barn. The room was packed with kids putting the final touches on Van Gogh murals, canvas paintings, and goody bags. Taylor Swift crooned through computer speakers, and a couple of the decor committee girls had made up an impromptu dance/cheer to “Love Story.”
“Yoo-hoo!” the voice sang again. “Miss Montgomery?”
It wasn’t until Aria felt a hand on her shoulder that she realized the girl was talking to her. It was Ryan Crenshaw, a Rosewood Day alumna who was helping with the prom decorations. Per Rosewood Day tradition, a recent graduate always came back and supervised, reminding the committees about the silly prom rituals like taking photos of the prom king and queen in the graveyard near the Four Seasons and organizing a massive conga line. It was an honor to come back and help with prom, but Ryan, who had mousy brown hair and freshman-fifteen, beer-drinking
arms, and who whined unendingly about how college sucked, was just one of those girls who didn’t want to let go of high school.
Ryan guided Aria, who had been hiding in the supply closet, freaked out by all the Van Goghs, toward a table and pointed at a huge SLR camera. “You need to start snapping photos for the yearbook, paparazzo! Let’s get action shots of some mural painting! And, look! There’s our queen! Let’s get one of her trying on her crown!”
Across the room, Hanna was chatting quietly with Scott Chin, one of the yearbook editors. Ryan ushered Aria over. As soon as Hanna spied her, her face paled. She grabbed Aria’s arm and pulled her into the hall. “There you are. I need to talk to you.”
“What about pictures, girls?” Ryan called out.
“In a minute!” Hanna shouted over her shoulder, rolling her eyes.
They stepped onto the path that led to a small sculpture garden that a wealthy alumnus had donated to the school back in the eighties.
Hanna walked to a sculpture of a woman whose nose had fallen off years ago, faced Aria, and took a deep breath. “You know how Spencer said that Ali’s helper might be connected to the Bill Beach—there was that prescription-drug theft there a while ago?”
“Yeah.” Unconsciously, Aria started picking at the skin on the side of her thumb.
“Well, I saw Noel at the Bill Beach yesterday.”
A bolt of cold ran through Aria. “Are you sure?”
Hanna nodded gravely. “I’m dead serious. It was definitely him.”
Aria set her jaw and stared at a metal sculpture of a gyroscope a few paces away. “Maybe he had a good reason to be there.”
“Like stealing prescription drugs for Ali?” Hanna crossed her arms. “If you think he’s innocent, figure out why he was there.”
Aria turned away. “Actually, Noel and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now. I kind of told him about Olaf.”
Hanna’s eyes widened. “Why?”
Aria waited for a noisy riding mower to pass. “Noel got a text from A that said he should look in my closet. A obviously wanted him to know about the painting. Then the moment got weird, and Noel was convinced I was hiding something, and so . . . well, I spilled the beans about Olaf.”
Pretty Little Liars #13: Crushed Page 17
