by Sara Shepard
“A job?” Spencer sputtered. Her parents had never made her work before. She thought about the people at Rosewood Day who had jobs. They worked at the Gap at the King James. At Auntie Anne’s pretzels. At Wawa, making sandwiches.
“Or borrow our car,” Mrs. Hastings said. “Or I hear there’s a wonderful new invention that takes you places the same as a car does.” She laid the knife on the cutting board. “It’s called the bus.”
Spencer gaped at both of them, her ears ringing. Then, to her surprise, a peaceful feeling settled over her. She had her answer. Her parents truly didn’t love her. If they did, they wouldn’t be trying to take away everything from her.
“Fine,” she said tersely, whirling around. “It’s not like I’ll be here much longer, anyway.” As she strode out of the kitchen, she heard her father’s glass clink against the granite countertop. “Spencer,” Mr. Hastings called. But it was too little, too late.
Spencer ran upstairs to her bedroom. Usually, after her parents dissed her, tears would stream down her face, and she’d fling herself on the bed, wondering what she’d done wrong. But not this time. She marched over to her desk and picked up the expandable file Olivia had been lugging around yesterday. Taking a deep breath, she peered inside. Just as Olivia said, it was filled with papers about the apartment Olivia and her husband had purchased, things like dimensions of rooms, floor and cabinet materials, and the amenities in the building—a pet groomer, an indoor Olympic-length swimming pool, and an Elizabeth Arden salon. Clipped to the front of the file was a business card. Michael Hutchins, Real Estate.
Michael, our Realtor, could find you something really special, Olivia had said at dinner.
Spencer looked around the room, assessing its contents. All the furniture, from her four-poster bed to her antique writing desk to the mahogany armoire and Chippendale vanity table, was hers. She’d inherited it from her great-aunt Millicent—apparently she didn’t have the same animosity toward adopted children. Of course she’d have to take her clothes, shoes, bags, and collection of books, too. It would probably fit in a U-Haul. She could even drive the thing herself if she had to.
Her phone buzzed, and Spencer flinched. She eagerly reached for it, hoping Andrew was calling to make up, but when she saw it was a text from Caller Unknown, her heart plummeted to the floor.
Dear Little Miss Spencer-Whatever-Your-Name-Is,
Shouldn’t you know by now what happens if you don’t listen to me? I’ll use small words this time, so even you’ll understand. Either give Long-Lost Mommy a rest and keep searching for what really happened…or pay my price. How does disappearing forever sound?
—A
17 JUST LIKE OLD TIMES…
Later that night, after swimming practice ended, Emily slid into her favorite booth at Applebee’s, the one with the old-fashioned tandem bicycle suspended from the ceiling and the colorful license plates on the walls. Her sister Carolyn, Gemma Curran, and Lanie Iler—two other Rosewood Day swimmers—piled in beside her. The dining room smelled like salty french fries and burgers, and an old Beatles song was playing loudly on the stereo. When Emily opened the menu, she was pleased to see that mozzarella sticks and hot wings were still featured appetizers. The southwest chicken salad still came with spicy ranch dressing. If Emily closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was last year at this time, when she used to come to Applebee’s every Thursday night—back when nothing bad had happened yet.
“Coach Lauren had to be smoking crack when she wrote that set of five hundreds,” Gemma whined, flipping through the laminated menu.
“Seriously,” Carolyn echoed, shrugging out of her Rosewood Day Swim Team jacket. “I can barely lift my arms!”
Emily laughed with the others, then saw a flash of blond hair out of the corner of her eyes. She stiffened and glanced toward the bar, which was packed with people watching an Eagles game on the flat-screen TVs. There was a blond guy at the very end of the bar, talking animatedly to his date. Emily’s heart slowed down. For a second, she’d thought he was Jason DiLaurentis.
Emily couldn’t get Jason off her mind. She hated that Aria had brushed off her warnings about him in the courtyard on Tuesday, making excuses for his anger. And she really didn’t know what to make of the strange photo A had sent her yesterday, the one of Ali, Naomi, and Jenna all together, presumably friends. If Jenna was Ali’s friend, Ali might’ve opened up to her truthfully, right? She might’ve told Jenna a deep, dark secret about her brother, having no idea that Jenna was going to reveal something similar.
A few months ago, before the cops arrested Ian for Ali’s murder, Emily had seen an interview with Jason DiLaurentis on TV. Well, it was sort of an interview—a reporter had tracked him down at Yale, asking him what he thought of the investigation into his sister’s murder, and he’d waved them away, saying he didn’t want to talk about it. He stayed away from his family as much as possible, he said—they were too messed up. But what if Jason was the one who was messed up? The summer between sixth and seventh grade, Emily had been over at Ali’s house when the DiLaurentises were packing up to go to their mountain house in the Poconos. While the whole family industriously carried suitcases to the car, Jason slumped on the recliner in the den, flipping through the TV channels. When Emily asked Ali why Jason wasn’t helping, Ali just shrugged. “He’s in one of his Elliott Smith moods.” She rolled her eyes. “They should put him in the mental ward, where he belongs.”
A shiver traveled down Emily’s back. “Jason needs to be in a mental ward?”
Ali rolled her eyes again. “It was a joke,” she groaned. “You’re so literal!”
But as she turned to carry another suitcase to the car, Ali’s mouth flickered slightly. It seemed like something was going on deep beneath Ali’s cool exterior, something she wouldn’t admit.
Emily had forwarded A’s picture to each of her old friends. Both Spencer and Hanna had responded, saying they had no idea what it could mean, but Aria hadn’t acknowledged it at all. What if they should be worrying about Jason? There was a lot about him they didn’t know.
A blond waitress in a green Applebee’s button-down and an Eagles baseball cap took their orders. Then the swimmers started talking about the party at the Radley. “Topher managed to snag an invite, and he wants me to go,” Carolyn was saying. “But what do you wear to something like that?”
Emily sipped her vanilla Coke. Topher was Carolyn’s boyfriend, but usually the two of them preferred Heroes marathons to fancy parties. “What about the pink dress I wore to the Rosewood Day benefit?” she suggested. Then she drummed her fingers on the table. “You don’t have to worry about me borrowing from your closet yet again. I already got a dress.”
Carolyn’s eyes lit up. “You’re going?”
“Someone asked me,” Emily blurted out. Lanie and Gemma leaned forward, intrigued.
Carolyn squeezed Emily’s arm. “Let me guess,” she whispered. “Renee Jeffries from Tate? You guys were so cute when you were talking before the two hundred fly last month. And someone told me she’s…you know.” Carolyn trailed off.
Emily fiddled with the red straw in her vanilla Coke. She hadn’t told her family or swimming friends about Isaac yet.
She took a deep breath and looked at the others. “Actually…it’s a guy.”
Carolyn blinked hard. Lanie and Gemma smiled, puzzled. On TV, the Eagles scored a touchdown. The whole room cheered, but none of them turned.
“I met him at church,” Emily went on. “He goes to Holy Trinity Academy. His name’s Isaac. We’re sort of…dating.”
Carolyn placed her palms flat on the table. “Isaac Colbert? The hot guy in that band, Carpe Diem?”
Emily nodded, pleased color rising to her cheeks.
“I know him,” Gemma said, swooning. “We worked on the same Habitat for Humanity project last year. He’s gorgeous.”
“Is it serious?” Carolyn’s eyes popped wider and wider.
Emily nodded again, gazing at her sister. “I plan
to tell Mom and Dad. Don’t break the news to them first. I just needed to make sure it was…for real.”
Carolyn picked up a piece of garlic bread that had just arrived. “Go you.” Gemma gave Emily a high five, and Lanie patted her on the back.
Emily breathed out, relieved. She’d worried about how that would go. And she’d especially fretted that Carolyn would make a face and ask her why she’d put the family through the lesbian stuff if she was going to eventually date guys again.
But now that her thoughts had turned to Isaac, she couldn’t help but think about what had happened at dinner last night. All those awful, jabbing digs. All those bitter looks. And that photo in the drawer, the one of Emily beheaded. Would Emily and Isaac be able to go to the Radley party together, if Mrs. Colbert knew what they’d done?
She’d left Isaac’s house soon after seeing the photo in the drawer, not telling Isaac a word about it. But she had to say something. They were a couple. They were in love. Surely he would understand. She could say, Are you sure your mom likes me? Does your mom like to haze your new girlfriends? Did you know your mom is a psychopath and beheaded me in a photo?
Their dinners came, and the swimmers scarfed them down. As the waitress cleared their plates, Emily’s phone rang. Spencer Hastings, said the name in the Caller ID window. A flutter of nerves streaked through Emily’s stomach. She glanced apologetically at her friends, slid out of the booth, and walked down the hall toward the bathrooms. It was way too loud in the bar area to even attempt a phone conversation.
“What’s up?” Emily said when she pushed through the bathroom door.
“I got another note,” Spencer said.
Emily placed a shaky hand on the marble sink and stared in the mirror. Her eyes were round, and her face had gone very pale. “W-what did it say?”
“Basically that we have to keep searching or pay A’s price.”
“Searching…for the killer?” Emily whispered.
“I guess. I don’t know what else it could mean.”
“Do you think it has to do with that photo I got? The one of Ali and Jenna?”
“I don’t know.” Spencer sounded hopeless. “That doesn’t make much sense either.”
A toilet flushed, and a pair of loafers shuffled behind one of the stall doors. Emily tensed. She hadn’t realized anyone else was in the bathroom. “I have to go,” she hissed into the phone.
“Okay,” Spencer said. “Be careful.”
Emily clapped her phone shut and stuffed it back into her pocket. When the stall door opened and the woman emerged, Emily’s blood went cold.
“Oh.” Mrs. Colbert stopped short. She was dressed in a silk blouse and black pants, as if she’d come from work. The corners of her mouth turned sharply down.
“Hi,” Emily chirped, her voice an octave higher than it normally was. Her hands shook. “H-how are you?”
Mrs. Colbert whisked past her to the sink and turned on the hot tap. She plunged her hands underneath the stream of water, rubbing so vigorously it was a wonder her skin didn’t peel off in curls. She was blocking the paper towel dispenser, but Emily didn’t dare ask her to move.
“Are you and Mr. Colbert having dinner here?” Emily asked, mustering a smile. “I love their burgers.”
Mrs. Colbert whirled around and glared at her. “Cut the sweet act. It’s insulting.”
Emily sucked in her stomach. Another cheer erupted from the bar. “I’m…sorry?”
Mrs. Colbert turned off the tap and tore off a piece of paper towel violently, wadding it up in her hands. “I didn’t want to say this in front of my son, which is why I tolerated you at dinner the other night. But you’ve disrespected me and my home. As far as I’m concerned, you’re trash. Don’t you dare set foot in my house again.”
Emily paled. All other sounds fell away. Dizzily, she backed out of the room butt-first and sprinted back to her table. She snatched her coat off her chair and darted for the door. “Emily?” Carolyn called, standing halfway up. But Emily didn’t answer. She had to get out of here. She had to get away from Isaac’s mom before she could say anything else.
Bitter wind swept across her cheeks as she walked into the parking lot. Carolyn was right behind her, tugging at her sleeve. “What’s wrong?” her sister asked. “What happened?”
Emily didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she could answer. You’ve disrespected me and my home. Mrs. Colbert had said it all.
She stared at the bright Applebee’s sign, cursing her terrible luck. Why did Mrs. Colbert have to eat at Applebee’s tonight of all nights? And it was 8 P.M., not exactly the normal dinnertime hour. It was bitter cold out, too, a good night to stay indoors.
Then, from deep inside her purse, Emily’s phone chimed. Suddenly, it hit her. Maybe it wasn’t luck or coincidence that Mrs. Colbert was at Applebee’s tonight. Maybe someone had told her to come.
“Just…give me a sec,” she said to her sister. She walked over to the curb near the takeout door and lowered herself down. Her cell phone’s greenish window glowed in the darkness. One new photo message, the screen said.
A picture appeared on the Nokia’s screen. But it had nothing to do with Emily, Isaac, or Isaac’s mom. Instead, it was of a big room with stained-glass windows, glossy wooden pews, and thick red carpeting. Emily frowned. It was Holy Trinity, her family’s church. There was Father Tyson’s confessional, the little wooden alcove near the lobby. Someone was emerging from the confession booth, his head bowed. Emily brought the phone close to her face. The guy in the photo was tall, with short, dark hair. A Rosewood Police Department badge glowed on his jacket, and a pair of handcuffs dangled from his belt.
Wilden?
Then she noticed the text at the bottom of the photo. Even though she wasn’t quite sure what it meant, an uneasy shiver rippled from the top of her head down to the soles of her feet.
I guess we all have stuff to feel guilty about, huh?—A
18 SOMETHING’S ROTTEN IN ROSEWOOD…
Friday morning, as the sky was turning from dark blue to pale purple, Hanna zipped up her green Puma running jacket and did a couple of calf stretches against the big maple tree in her front yard. Then she set off running down her driveway, listening to music on her iPhone. She’d been an idiot not to get an iPhone sooner—armed with a new unlisted phone number, she hadn’t received a single text from New A.
New A was certainly texting Emily up a storm, though—Hanna had received a forward from Emily early this morning, a photo of Darren Wilden skulking around a church. What do you think this means? Emily wrote, as if Hanna really would know. Lots of people went to church. She didn’t buy that A was sending Emily texts as all-important clues. More than likely, A was just messing with poor Emily’s already addled mind.
But Hanna had received quite a few texts from Mike Montgomery. Like the one that came in right now: U awake?
Yes, Hanna typed back quickly. On a run.
Sexy, Mike wrote back. What R U wearing?
Hanna smirked. Spandex. Super tight.
Mike: Run by my house!
You wish, Hanna answered, giggling.
Mike had even texted her last night, presumably after he’d returned from his date with Kate. Hanna considered scolding him about double booking, but then she worried she might sound whiny and insecure. Did Mike think Kate was prettier? Thinner? Did he take her shopping and try and bust into her dressing room, too? What did Kate do? Laugh…or freak?
What time do U want me to pick U up for the Radley party 2morro? Hanna texted.
She was at the bottom of her street before Mike responded. Do U mind if we add a third? Hanna came to an abrupt stop at the corner. It was obvious who the third person Mike wanted to add was—Kate.
She kicked the metal post of the stop sign hard. It made a loud clanging sound, startling a few birds from a nearby tree. Her dad might have relaxed the all-Kate-all-the-time punishment, but he was still trying to coerce Hanna and Kate into being BFFs. Like yesterday, when Kate had returned from
her date with Mike, she’d joined Hanna and Mr. Marin in the kitchen, where Hanna was proudly showing her father her decorated Time Capsule flag. Mr. Marin studied it, then Kate, and then gently asked Hanna if Kate could have some of the credit for finding the flag too. Maybe Hanna could let her draw a little decoration in one of the corners?
Hanna’s mouth had dropped open. “It’s my flag,” she cried, astonished her dad could even suggest such a thing. “I found it.” Her father looked at her disappointedly, then walked away. Kate didn’t say a word the whole time, probably figuring that a silent, humble daughter was better than a screechy, bratty one. But Hanna knew Kate was thrilled that Hanna and her father’s relationship was dying a slow, painful death.
There was a swish behind her, and Hanna whirled around, suddenly struck with the distinct feeling that someone was on her tail. Only the narrow road was empty. She let out a long sigh and decided not to answer Mike at all, sliding her iPhone into her pocket and cranking up the music. She ran down the hill from her neighborhood, cut across a narrow footbridge between two yards, and found herself at a familiar intersection. There was an old gray farmhouse on the corner, set back from the street. Two cinnamon-colored horses and one spotted Shetland pony stood calmly next to the wood fence. This was the turn to Ali’s.
The first time Hanna stood at the crossroads was the day she’d tried to steal Ali’s piece of the Time Capsule flag. Hanna remembered gazing into the pony’s big, soft eyes, wishing she could ask its opinion about what she was about to do. Who did she think she was, assuming she could march in and snatch Ali’s flag? What if Naomi and Riley were there and they all laughed in Hanna’s face? Maybe I should face the fact that I’ll never be popular, she’d almost said out loud to the pony. But then a car had passed, and she’d squared her shoulders and biked on.
Now she jogged into Ali’s neighborhood, breathing hard. Mona’s house was one of the first houses on the street, its grand circular driveway and gabled six-car garage painfully familiar. Hanna looked away. Next came Jenna’s house, the red colonial with the big tree off to the side, the one that had once held Toby’s tree house. Then Spencer’s estate, which sat aloofly behind a large wrought-iron gate. Hints of the KILLER graffiti were visible through the repainted barn garage doors. Ali’s old house was last, looming at the end of the cul-de-sac.
