by Sara Shepard
Mr. and Mrs. Fields exchanged a glance. Mrs. Fields looked like she was going to start crying again. “We’re just so concerned,” she scolded Emily. “You’ve been so . . . troubled lately. All those things you said about causing those bruises on your neck yourself. And you’ve been spending so much time in your room. I know you’ve been sleeping in your closet instead of your bed. And I’ve heard you crying. . . .”
Emily could feel her friends shifting uncomfortably. She kept her eyes on the ground. Maybe she should have told her mom about Jordan a long time ago. Maybe now her mom would understand . . . and get off her case.
“If you didn’t want to go to the party, you should have said something,” Mr. Fields added gruffly.
“I didn’t know I had a choice,” Emily mumbled, the words coming out a bit harsher than she’d intended.
Mrs. Fields sighed. Emily didn’t know if it was a sign of confusion or disappointment—maybe both. She was too numb to really care. “We’re going to have to ground you,” Mrs. Fields said. “Two weeks. No more going out. Anytime you leave the house, one of us is going with you.”
Emily could barely react. Why did she care if she was grounded? There was nothing for her on the outside anymore.
She looked up at her mom. “Can my punishment start tomorrow? Can they at least stay here tonight?” She gestured to her friends. There was no way any of them were sleeping alone.
Mrs. Fields tapped her lips, then looked at the others. “Have you called your parents? Do they know where you are?” Everyone nodded, and Emily’s mom shut her eyes. “Fine. It’s late, so you can sleep here. But no TV. And if I hear you girls up much later, I’m sending you all home.”
Then she and Emily’s dad padded out of the room. The stairs creaked as they retired to their bedroom.
Spencer looked at Emily, one eyebrow raised. “Sleeping in your closet?”
“It’s a long story,” Emily mumbled.
“Why did you tell your parents you gave yourself those bruises?” Hanna asked.
Emily looked at her exasperatedly. “What was I supposed to tell them?”
Her friends exchanged a glance. It was that look again, that Emily’s lost it look. But she was too worn out to care. So they were worried about her. So her parents were worried about her. Why couldn’t they all just leave her alone?
Aria flopped on the couch and hugged an embroidered pillow to her chest. “What do you think the police are doing right now? Do you think they’re at the house?”
It was a question they hadn’t dared to ask. When Aria had been connected to the police station, she’d told an Ashland officer that they’d been hiking around in the woods, it had gotten dark on them quickly, and they’d stumbled upon a pool house whose floors were covered in blood. The police officer said they’d send someone to the address immediately, but when he asked for Aria’s name, she’d hung up. The police didn’t need to know it was them. They’d go there, they’d find Ali’s prints—for there had to be some. And once Fuji was involved, she’d form that conclusion on her own.
Emily walked over to the closet near the den and pulled out blankets and pillows the family kept there for sleepovers. “I hope they’re surrounding the pool house right now. Maybe they even caught Ali in the woods.”
Aria helped her spread the blankets on the floor. “Do you really think it’s that easy?”
Hanna dug her phone from her clutch. “Let’s check surveillance.” They’d periodically looked at the camera feed on the drive back; the loop was still playing on camera four, and the other angles showed no movement. They’d even rewound the tapes to see if there were any flashes of someone getting into the house, but there weren’t. Ali must have gotten into the house through a way the cameras didn’t see.
But now, surely, the cameras would show something different. Police investigating the space. Forensic teams testing the traces of blood.
Hanna tapped the screen and logged on to the site. Her mouth dropped open. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Emily rushed over and looked at the screen. Every one of the camera feeds said No Signal. The video images were gone.
Spencer’s eyes widened. “Ali shut them down?”
“Maybe that’s good,” Emily said. “Maybe she was disabling the cameras as the police rolled up.”
Aria twisted her mouth. “Or maybe she got away.”
A lump formed in Emily’s throat. If Ali got away, that meant she could be coming for them. She looked at the blankets and pillows strewn on the floor. They were right in front of a huge window. The lock on the garage door was flimsy at best.
Straightening up, she rolled an armchair in front of the door. Then she moved the couch to block the windows. Her friends seemed to sense what she was doing because Aria ran into the kitchen and barricaded chairs against the sliding doors to the back. Hanna checked and rechecked the bolts of the front door, too.
There was nothing to do after that except change into T-shirts and pajama pants Emily lent everyone and huddle under the covers together. For a long time, they were very quiet, listening to the sounds of one another’s breaths. Emily considered turning on the TV, but she knew none of them would watch. She didn’t even know what to talk about. She kept refreshing her phone, thinking something would be listed about a murder at the Ashland property. But there was no news. Hanna brought up the surveillance site again and again. The lines were still cut, the images of the house gone.
Knock.
Emily shot up. The hair on the back of her neck rose.
Knock.
“What was that?” Hanna whispered.
Emily thought she might throw up. It sounded like it was coming from the kitchen. She listened hard. Then, a barrage of banging sounds followed, and the girls screamed and held one another even tighter. But then Emily realized what the sounds were.
“It’s the ice maker,” she whispered, rising and pointing to the fridge through the kitchen doorway. The appliance was older; sometimes the ice hit the bucket in one big, loud clump. Feeling brave, she peered into the dark room. The kitchen chairs were still against the sliding doors. The clutch her mother had brought to the party sat on the island, its silver clasp glimmering in the single beam of light from over the sink.
“Ali’s not here,” Emily said as she turned back to her friends.
Aria twitched. “Not yet.”
They returned to the blankets. Emily stared into the darkness, her mind frantic and alert. The hours crept past. Every noise, every tiny click, sent her into a panic. She felt herself drifting off every once in a while, jumping back to consciousness after only minutes of sleep. The final time, when she awoke, the smell of vanilla hung heavily in the room. A figure stood over her. Emily blinked hard. Ali’s blond hair hung in knotted tendrils down her chest. Her eyes were hollow, her posture stooped.
Emily sat up hurriedly, her heart leaping into her throat. She’d been anticipating this, but it was still horrifying. “Please,” she said, scuttling backward. She glanced at her friends. Astonishingly, they were all still sleeping. “Please don’t hurt us.”
Ali tilted her head and offered Emily a smile. “Oh, Em. I didn’t hurt you. You hurt me.”
“What?” Emily whispered. She looked at her friends, but still none of them stirred. “What do you mean?”
Ali’s smile didn’t waver. “You’ll see.” Then she climbed over the chair Emily had pushed in front of the garage door and slipped through. A faint giggle trailed behind her. She slammed the door loudly with a bang.
Emily shot up and looked around. Pale light streamed through the windows. The room no longer smelled like vanilla. She ran her hands along the back of her sweaty neck. Had she dreamed that?
There was another bang, but this time it was her father opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen. Hanna stirred next to Emily. Aria rolled onto her side. Spencer shot up, her eyes wide. “What time is it?” she whispered. “What’s going on?”
“It’s morning,” Emily said groggily, staring
at the empty room again. Ali had seemed so real. “And nothing happened.”
Everyone looked at one another, blinking hard. Nothing happened. It was actually more shocking than Ali breaking in.
“Maybe they got her,” Spencer whispered.
Aria’s mouth dropped open. “Maybe this is over.”
“Maybe,” Emily said shakily. But she couldn’t stop thinking of what Ali—or dream-Ali—had said. I didn’t hurt you. You hurt me.
It meant something. Emily just didn’t know what.
32
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
Hanna had never been so tired in her life. Staying up last night, one eye on the door, certain Ali was going to burst through at any moment, was more exhausting than any all-nighter she’d ever pulled. Worse than the night when they’d thought they’d accidentally blinded Jenna Cavanaugh with a firework. Worse than the night of Mona’s death, when she’d lain awake all night, wondering how her best friend could have been A. Worse than the night they’d seen Ian Thomas’s dead body—Hanna couldn’t get the sight or the smell out of her mind. Today, her limbs felt like she’d run back-to-back marathons. It took everything in her to drive home, change her clothes, and make her early call-time for her new role as Hanna Marin.
There were knots in her stomach as she drove to the set. Why was she even doing this? She got to be Hanna, but the victory had come at too high a cost—she’d lost Hailey and Mike, and who knew how many other people on the set would hate her, too, seeing her only as a backstabbing, overly ambitious bitch? Plus, she looked like hell today, and she certainly wasn’t up to performing—Hank was probably going to fire her on the spot. Should she quit and save him the trouble?
She pulled to a red traffic light and looked at her phone. A local news feed for Ashland was on her screen, but there was still nothing on the police investigation at the pool house. But that had to be a good thing, right? She and the others had talked about it before they left Emily’s this morning. News that Alison DiLaurentis was still alive—and had killed someone else—was a huge deal. An FBI screwup, actually. Of course the cops would keep the press at bay for as long as they could until their PR people figured out how to positively spin things.
The light turned green, and she rolled through it and made the turn to the set. The parking lot was mostly empty, and as she drove past the soundstages, she peeked into the alley where BreAk a leg, Hanna had been written on the ground in chalk.
She found a spot right in front of her trailer. Sighing, she got out of the car and started toward the steps, trying to figure out how she was going to tell Hank she didn’t want the job after all. Then she noticed someone standing on the steps already, blocking her way in.
Hailey.
Hanna’s heart dropped. Hailey looked tired and frazzled, her dark hair in a messy knot on her head and her makeup a little smudged. When she regarded Hanna, her eyes were narrowed and her lips were taut. Hanna wished she could whirl around and pretend she hadn’t seen her. She so couldn’t do a confrontation right now.
But Hailey was right there, staring at her. After a moment, she nodded at Hanna in greeting. “So my agent sent me dailies for the film yesterday,” she began. “I got to see my performance as Hanna Marin up close and personal.”
“Oh,” Hanna said uncertainly, wondering where this conversation was going.
“And I was awful.”
Hanna’s head shot up. Hailey’s eyes were wide and she looked distraught, but not at Hanna. “I was dreadful, Hanna. I used this stupid voice, and I was chewing gum all the time—I’m not even sure why I did that. My movements were all over the place. My agent was, like, Thank God you got out of that thing. You were a train wreck.”
“No, you weren’t!” Hanna cried automatically.
Hailey lowered her chin. “Don’t lie to me again, Hanna. I was terrible. Hank was right to get rid of me. And you know what? I kind of knew I was terrible, deep down. I never felt right playing you.”
Hanna awkwardly twisted her hands. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” It was all she could think to say.
“Oh, whatever.” Hailey waved her hand. “You know who I do think would be good at playing Hanna Marin? You.”
Hanna laughed nervously. Hailey didn’t look like she was kidding, though. In fact, she was kind of . . . smiling.
“Actually, I don’t think I want the part,” Hanna said. “Not anymore.”
“Are you kidding?” Hailey burst out. “You’ll be amazing in this movie, Hanna—in a way that I wasn’t. So do it for me. Please.”
Hanna blinked hard, astonished this was happening. “I’m sorry I went behind your back and asked Hank. But I really thought you didn’t want the part anymore. I wasn’t trying to be mean, or—”
“I know.” Hailey leaned against Hanna’s trailer. “We’re all good.” She looked contemplative for a moment, then added, “And I’m sorry I sent in that photo to TMZ. That was pretty bitchy of me. I hope Mike isn’t too upset.”
Hanna looked away, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “Actually . . . I think it ruined my relationship with Mike forever.”
One corner of Hailey’s mouth inched up slightly. “Don’t be so sure about that.”
Then she turned. The trailer door opened. Mike stood in the doorway, dressed in a lacrosse sweatshirt and jeans and with a sheepish look on his face. Hanna’s mouth dropped open.
“Hey,” he said shyly to Hanna.
“H-hey,” she stammered just as shyly back.
Hailey beamed at both of them. “I called Mike this morning and explained everything, especially about how that kiss with Jared was completely initiated by him and totally harmless.” She smiled broadly. “You’ve got yourself a keeper, Hanna. I wish I were so lucky.”
“Thanks,” Hanna said tentatively. Then she peeked at Mike. He was still smiling. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about that kiss.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to explain,” Mike said. Then he grinned mischievously. “Although, now that you’re a big-shot movie star, do you think you can maybe get that Jared guy fired? I mean, not only do I not want him thinking he can go around kissing you on the reg, but he really doesn’t have my vibe at all.”
Hanna burst out laughing. “Only if you volunteer to play yourself.”
“Done,” Mike said. “Now, come here and hug me so we can make up for the few hours I have until I have to catch a train back to soccer camp.”
Hanna ran up to him and fell into his arms, squeezing him as tightly as she could. It was incredible. In one fell swoop, everything was right again. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if things would just . . . stay this way?
A new sensation blossomed inside her. Hanna basked in the unfamiliar feeling. It was so unknown that at first she couldn’t even put a name to it.
But then she realized what it was. Hope.
33
NO PRESS IS BAD PRESS
Aria parked on a side street in Old Hollis and looked around. The same beat-up Mercedes, vintage Jaguar, and bright orange VW bus surrounded her at the curb. The same potted plants sat on the front stoop of the large Victorian across from the gallery, and the same rainbow gay pride flag waved over the front porch of the Tudor-style house next door. The neighborhood was unchanged. . . . It was only Aria who was different.
An older couple walked out of the gallery hand in hand. Aria crouched down behind a bush, not quite wanting anyone inside to see her yet. She wasn’t ready to do this.
She looked at her phone again. PRETTY LITTLE FRAUD, read the front page of the New York Post. Frank Brenner, the reporter who had called her yesterday, had written about the fake transaction using John Carruthers’s name as a publicity stunt of Aria’s. “‘My mother took the call, so I had to disguise my voice,’” Brenner quoted Aria as saying. He’d also said that Aria had seemed very “distraught” on the phone when he’d called her, clearly because “she was horrified that she’d actually gotten caught.”
The story als
o said that a banking institution was tracking down the source of those funds, implying that Aria had randomly used someone’s account. In a normal world, that would be a good thing—the account would lead back to Maxine Preptwill. But Aria knew Ali was too smart to be sloppy; she’d probably used Aria’s name and Social Security number at the bank. Because she was just that devious.
Everything was such a mess. Patricia, Aria’s agent, had called her a zillion times, but Aria hadn’t picked up, way too embarrassed to have the inevitable conversation. She couldn’t even bring herself to listen to Patricia’s messages. There were other ramifications, too. How would this affect Ella? Her mom had facilitated the sale; what if the press thought she was involved in Aria’s get-famous-quick scheme? What if Carruthers sued her? Would Ella’s boss fire her mom? What if she was blacklisted from the art world? What if the whole gallery shut down because of this stupid—and untrue—scandal?
And then there were the texts from Harrison. Last night’s were full of concern; he’d wondered where Aria had disappeared to. The ones this morning were a bit more circumspect: Saw the post. Is that why you ran off last night? Can we talk? I like you no matter what the truth is.
She stared at the latest one from him. It was sweet for Harrison to say he’d stand by her, but the thing was, Aria didn’t want him to be her boyfriend. Not-very-deep-down, Aria knew she felt nothing for him. She wished she did. It would be so much easier. But her feelings were her feelings.
Sighing, she composed a reply. “It’s not the truth, but I can’t get into it right now. To be honest, I kind of need my space. I’m sorry. Good luck with everything.” Then she hit SEND. It was ironic, she realized, how much her text sounded like what Noel had said to her only two weeks before. But she sent it off anyway, just needing it to be done.
Taking a deep breath, Aria started up the sidewalk. Every step to the gallery was painful. She pushed the door open, wincing at the cheerful bell chimes. Her mother was standing at the desk, looking at some papers. She looked up, straight into Aria’s eyes. Heat filled Aria’s cheeks. Here goes.
