Pretty Little Liars #9: Twisted

by Sara Shepard

  Aria kissed him hello, then wheeled away without giving Emily another word.

  A group of people in the middle of the room burst into laughter. Mr. Kahn, who was staggering as though he’d had too much to drink, started fiddling on the Hastingses’ piano, playing the right hand part to the “Blue Danube Waltz.” All at once, Emily couldn’t bear to watch the party any longer. She tumbled through the front door just before the tears started to fall.

  Outside, the air was unseasonably warm for February. She trudged around the side of the house to the Hastingses’ backyard, tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

  The view in Spencer’s backyard was so different now. The historic barn that had stood at the back of the property was gone—Real Ali had burned it down last year. Only scorched, black dirt remained. Emily doubted anything would ever grow in that spot again.

  Next door was the DiLaurentises’ old house. Maya St. Germain, whom Emily had had a thing with junior year, still lived there, though Emily hardly saw Maya anymore. In the front yard, the Ali Shrine, which had stood for so long after Courtney’s—her Ali’s—death on the DiLaurentises’ old curb, was gone, too. The public was still obsessed—the newspapers were already running Alison DiLaurentis Fire Anniversary features, and then there was Pretty Little Killer, that awful Alison biopic—but no one wanted to eulogize a murderer.

  Thinking about it, Emily slipped her hand into her jeans pocket and felt for the silky tassel she’d carried with her for the past year. Just feeling that it was still there calmed her down.

  A small cry rang out, and Emily turned. Just twenty feet away, almost blending into the trunk of the Hastingses’ giant oak, stood a teenage girl bouncing a bundled baby. “Shhh,” the girl cooed. Then she glanced over at Emily, smiling apologetically. “Sorry. I came out here to keep her quiet, but it’s not working.”

  “It’s okay.” Emily covertly wiped her eyes. She glanced at the tiny baby. “What’s her name?”

  “Grace.” The girl shifted the baby higher in her arms. “Say hi, Grace.”

  “Is she . . . yours?” The girl looked about Emily’s age.

  “Oh God, no.” The girl laughed. “She’s my mom’s. But she’s inside, schmoozing, so I’m on nanny duty.” She shifted for something in the big diaper bag on her shoulder. “Would you mind holding her for a second? I have to get her bottle, but it’s way at the bottom.”

  Emily blinked. She hadn’t held a baby in a long time. “Well, okay . . .”

  The girl handed Emily the baby, who was swaddled in a pink blanket and smelled like powder. Her little red mouth opened wide and tears dotted her eyes. “It’s okay,” Emily told her “You can cry. I don’t mind.”

  A wrinkle formed on Grace’s tiny brow. She shut her mouth and stared at Emily curiously. Tumultuous feelings rushed through Emily. Her memories pulsed close, ready to break free, but she quickly pushed them down deep.

  The girl raised her head from the diaper bag. “Hey! You’re a natural. Do you have young brothers or sisters?”

  Emily bit her lip. “No, just older ones. But I’ve done a lot of babysitting.”

  “It shows.” She smiled. “I’m Chloe Roland. My family just moved here from Charlotte.”

  Emily introduced herself. “Where are you going to school?”

  “Rosewood Day. I’m a senior.”

  Emily smiled. “That’s where I go!”

  “Do you like it?” Chloe asked, finding the bottle.

  Emily handed Grace back. Did she like Rosewood Day? So much about the school reminded her of her Ali—and of A. Every corner, every room held a memory she’d rather forget. “I don’t know,” she said, then inadvertently let out a loud sniff.

  Chloe squinted into Emily’s tear-stained face. “Is everything okay?”

  Emily wiped her eyes. Her brain conjured up the words I’m fine and It doesn’t matter, but she couldn’t say them. “I just found out I didn’t get a college swimming scholarship,” she blurted. “My parents can’t afford to send me without it. It’s my fault, though. I . . . I dropped out of swimming this summer. No team wants me now. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Fresh tears cascaded down Emily’s face. Since when did she go around blubbering about her problems to girls she didn’t know? “I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t want to hear that.”

  Chloe sniffed. “Please. It’s more than anyone else has said to me at this party. So you swim, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Chloe smiled. “My dad’s a big donor at the University of North Carolina, his alma mater. He might be able to help.”

  Emily looked up. “UNC is a great swimming school.”

  “Maybe I could talk to him about you.”

  Emily stared at her. “But you don’t even know me!”

  Chloe shifted Grace higher in her arms. “You seem nice.”

  Emily peered at Chloe more closely. She had a pleasant round face, sparkling hazel eyes, and long, shiny brown hair the color of a chocolate Pudding Pop. Her eyebrows looked like they hadn’t been plucked in a while, she didn’t have much makeup on, and Emily was pretty sure she’d seen the dress Chloe was wearing at The Gap. She liked her instantly for not trying so hard.

  The front door to the Hastingses’ house opened, and a few guests emerged onto the porch. A zing of fear bolted through Emily’s chest. Coat check!

  “I-I have to go,” she cried, spinning around. “I’m supposed to be working coat check. I’m probably going to be fired now.”

  “It was nice to meet you!” Chloe waved, and then made Grace wave, too. “And, hey! If you’re that eager for money, want to babysit for us Monday night? My parents don’t know anyone yet, and I have a college interview.”

  Emily paused in the frosty grass. “Where do you live?”

  Chloe laughed. “Right. That would be helpful, huh?” She pointed across the street. “There.”

  Emily stared at the large Victorian and swallowed a gasp. Chloe’s family had moved into the Cavanaughs’ old house.

  “Um, sure. Yeah.” Emily waved good-bye and sprinted back toward the house. As she passed by the thick line of shrubs that separated the Hastings property from the DiLaurentises’, she heard a high-pitched giggle.

  She stopped suddenly. Was someone watching her? Laughing?

  The giggling faded into the trees. Emily shuffled up the front walk, trying to shake the sound from her head. She was just hearing things. No one was watching her anymore. Those days were thankfully long, long gone.

  Right?

  Chapter 3

  Just another perfect political family

  That same Saturday night, Hanna Marin sat with her boyfriend, Mike Montgomery, in an old glass bottle warehouse turned photography studio in downtown Hollis. The high-ceilinged industrial space was filled with hot lights, multiple cameras, and several different backdrops—a blue cloth, an autumn scene, and a screen covered with a big, waving American flag, which Hanna found unbearably cheesy.

  Hanna’s father, Tom Marin, stood amid the throng of political advisors, adjusting his tie and mouthing his lines. He was running for U.S. Senate next November, and today he was filming his very first political commercial that would introduce Pennsylvania to just how senatorial he was. His new wife, Isabel, stood next to him, fluffing her brown, chin-length hair, smoothing down her red politician’s-wife power suit—complete with shoulder pads, ugh—and inspecting her orangey skin in a Chanel hand mirror.

  “Seriously,” Hanna whispered to Mike, who was helping himself to yet another sandwich from the food cart. “Why didn’t someone tell Isabel to lay off Mystic Tan? She looks like an Oompa Loompa.”

  Mike snickered, squeezing Hanna’s hand as Hanna’s stepsister, Kate, glided past. Unfortunately, Kate wasn’t a clone of her mom—she looked like she’d spent the day in the salon getting her chestnut hair highlighted, fake eyelashes glued on, and teeth whitened so she’d look absolutely perfect for her father’s big commercial. Stepfather, not that Kate ever made the disti
nction. And not that Hanna’s dad ever did, either.

  Then, as if sensing Hanna was thinking nasty thoughts about her, Kate pranced over. “You guys should be helping, you know. There’s a ton to do.”

  Hanna took an apathetic sip from the can of Diet Coke she’d pilfered from the cooler. Kate had taken it upon herself to be her dad’s mini assistant like some eager intern on The West Wing. “Like what?”

  “Like you could help me run my lines,” Kate suggested bossily. She reeked of her favorite Jo Malone Fig and Cassis body lotion, which to Hanna smelled like a moldy prune left out in the woods too long. “I have three sentences in the ad, and I want them to be perfect.”

  “You have lines?” Hanna blurted, and then instantly regretted it. That was exactly what Kate wanted her to say.

  As Hanna predicted, Kate’s eyes widened with fake sympathy. “Oh, Hanna, you mean you don’t haveany? I wonder why that is?” She whirled around and sauntered back to the set. Her hips swung. Her glossy hair bounced. No doubt there was a huge smile on her face.

  Shaking with fury, Hanna grabbed a handful of potato chips from the bowl next to her and shoved them in her mouth. They were sour cream and onion, not her favorite, but she didn’t care. Hanna had been warring with her stepsister ever since Kate reentered Hanna’s life last year and became one of the most popular girls at Rosewood Day. Kate was still BFFs with Naomi Zeigler and Riley Wolfe, two bitches who’d had it in for Hanna ever since their Ali (aka Courtney) ditched them at the beginning of sixth grade. After Hanna reunited with her old friends, Kate’s rise to popularity didn’t bother her so much, but now that she, Spencer, Aria, and Emily weren’t speaking, Hanna couldn’t help but let Kate get to her.

  “Forget her.” Mike touched Hanna’s arm. “She looks like she has an American flag shoved up her butt.”

  “Thanks,” Hanna said flatly, but it wasn’t much of a salve.

  Today, she just felt . . . diminished. Unnecessary. There was only room for one shining teenage daughter, and that was the girl who’d received three whole sentences to say on camera.

  Just then, Mike’s cell phone pinged. “It’s from Aria,” he murmured, texting back. “Want me to tell her hi?”

  A short guy in thick geek-chic glasses, a pink pinstriped shirt, and gray pants clapped his hands, startling Hanna and Mike. “Okay, Tom, we’re ready for you.” It was Jeremiah, Mr. Marin’s number-one campaign advisor—or, as Hanna liked to call him, his bitch boy. Jeremiah was by her dad’s side at all hours of the day, doing whatever was needed. Hanna was tempted to make a whip-cracking noise whenever he was around.

  Jeremiah bustled about, positioning Hanna’s father in front of the blue screen. “We’ll do a few voiceovers of you talking about how you’re the future of Pennsylvania,” he said in a girlish nasal voice. When he ducked his head, Hanna could see the growing bald spot on his crown. “Be sure to talk about all the good community work you’ve done in the past. And definitely mention your pledge to end teenage drinking.”

  “Absolutely,” Mr. Marin said in a presidential tone.

  Hanna and Mike exchanged a look and struggled not to laugh. Ironically, Mr. Marin’s cause célèbre was abolishing teenage drinking. Couldn’t he have focused on something that didn’t have a direct impact on Hanna’s life? Darfur, maybe? Better treatment for Wal-Mart employees? What fun would a party be without a keg?

  Mr. Marin ran through his lines, sounding robust, trustworthy, and vote-for-me chipper. Isabel and Kate grinned and nudged one another proudly, which made Hanna want to puke. Mike gave his opinion by belching loudly during one of the takes. Hanna adored him for it.

  Next, Jeremiah guided Mr. Marin toward the American flag background. “Now let’s do the family segment. We’ll splice this into the end of the commercial—everyone will see what a good family man you are. And what a gorgeous family you have.” He paused to wink at Isabel and Kate, who tittered faux-bashfully.

  Family man my ass, Hanna thought. Funny how no one had mentioned that Tom Marin had divorced, moved to Maryland, and forgotten his old wife and daughter for three long years. Interesting, too, that no one had brought up that her dad moved himself, Kate, and Isabel into Hanna’s house last year while Hanna’s mother took a job overseas, nearly ruining Hanna’s life. Thankfully, they’d been kicked out after Hanna’s mother returned from Singapore, finding a McMansion in Devon that wasn’t nearly as cool as Hanna’s house on top of Mt. Kale. But their presence still lingered: Hanna still got whiffs of Kate’s Fig and Cassis perfume when she walked down the hall or sank into the couch.

  “Okay, family!” The director, a long-haired Spaniard named Sergio, flicked the lights. “Everyone against the flag! Get ready with your lines!”

  Kate and Isabel obediently walked into the hot spotlights and posed next to Mr. Marin. Mike poked Hanna’s side. “Go!”

  Hanna hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be in front of a camera—she’d always fantasized about becoming a famous anchorwoman or a runway model—but she didn’t want to be in a commercial with her stepsister like they were a big happy family.

  Mike poked her again. “Hanna, go.”

  “Fine.” Hanna groaned, sliding off the table and stomping toward the set.

  Several of the directors’ assistants turned and stared at her confusedly. “Who are you?” Sergio asked, sounding like the hookah-smoking caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland.

  Hanna laughed uncomfortably. “Uh, I’m Hanna Marin. Tom’s biological daughter.”

  Sergio scratched his mop of long curls. “The only family members on my call sheet are Isabel and Kate Randall.”

  There was a long pause. Several of the assistants exchanged uncomfortable glances. Kate’s smile broadened.

  “Dad?” Hanna turned to her father. “What’s going on?”

  Mr. Marin tugged at the microphone one of the assistants had threaded under his jacket. “Well, Hanna, it’s just that . . .” He craned his neck and located his assistant.

  Swiftly, Jeremiah scuttled over to the set and gave Hanna an exasperated look. “Hanna, we’d prefer if you just watched.”

  We? “Why?” Hanna squeaked.

  “We’re just trying to spare you from more nosy press people, Hanna,” Mr. Marin said gently. “You were in the limelight a lot last year. I didn’t know if you wanted to bring more attention to yourself.”

  Or maybe he didn’t want to bring the attention back to her. Hanna narrowed her eyes, realizing her dad was worried about the mistakes she’d made in the past. How she’d gotten caught shoplifting from Tiffany and then stole and wrecked her boyfriend Sean Ackard’s car. How the second A—the real Ali—had sent Hanna to The Preserve, a mental institution for troubled teens. And, the cherry on top, some people had believed Hanna and her friends killed Ali—their Ali, the girl who’d disappeared in seventh grade.

  There was also what had happened in Jamaica, not that Mr. Marin knew about that. Not that anyone would know about that—ever.

  Hanna took a big step away, feeling like the floor had dropped out from under her. Her dad didn’t want her associated with his campaign. She didn’t fit his wholesome family portrait. She was his old daughter, his castoff, a scandal-ridden girl he didn’t want to remember anymore. Suddenly, an old note from A flashed in her mind: Even Daddy doesn’t love you best!

  Hanna spun on her heel and walked back to Mike. Screw them. She didn’t want to be in her father’s stupid commercial, anyway. People in politics had bad hair, pasted-on smiles, and horrible fashion sense—except for the Kennedys, of course, but they were the exception that proved the rule. “Let’s go,” she growled, grabbing her purse from the empty chair.

  “But, Hanna . . .” Mike stared at her with round blue eyes.

  “Let’s. Go.”

  “Hanna, wait,” her father called behind her.

  Keep walking, Hanna told herself. Let him see what he’s missing. Don’t speak to him ever again.

  Her father called her name once more. “Come on
back,” he said, his voice dripping with guilt. “There’s room for all of us. You can even say a few lines if you’d like. We can give some of Kate’s to you.”

  “What?” Kate shrieked, but someone shushed her.

  Hanna turned around and saw her father’s eyes pleading with her.

  After a moment’s frustration, she handed Mike her purse and trudged back to the set. “Tom, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Jeremiah warned, but Mr. Marin just shrugged him off. When Hanna stepped into the lights, he gave her a big smile, but she didn’t smile back. She felt like the loser kid the teacher made everyone play with at recess. Her dad was only asking her back because it made him look like an asshole if he excluded her.

  Sergio ran their lines with the family, divvying up Kate’s lines between the two daughters. When the camera turned to Hanna, she took a deep breath, cast off the negative vibes around her, and got into character. “Pennsylvania needs a strong leader who works for you,” she said, trying to look natural, tamping down her wilted hopes. Sergio shot take after take until Hanna’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. An hour later, it was over.

  As soon as the lights dimmed and Sergio declared it was a wrap, Hanna ran over to Mike. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “You were really good, Han,” Mike said, jumping off the table.

  “He’s right,” a second voice said.

  Hanna looked over. One of Sergio’s assistants stood a few feet away, two large black suitcases full of equipment in his hands. He was probably only a few years older than Hanna. His hair was cut in a messy yet artfully arranged way, and he wore snug-fitting jeans, a weathered leather jacket, and a pair of aviator sunglasses, which were propped atop his head. His fawn-colored eyes grazed Hanna up and down as if he approved of what he saw. “Totally poised,” he added. “With a ton of presence. You kicked that other girl’s ass.”