Pretty Little Liars 14: Deadly

by Sara Shepard

  She felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She grabbed it and looked at the message. I’m back on the hunt, Emily had written. Are you in or out? In the same thread, Hanna had responded to count her in. A minute later, Spencer had said yes, too.

  “What’s that?” Mike asked, leaning over. Aria was about to cover the screen, but Mike had already seen the text. His face brightened. “Yes. You’re going after Ali again?”

  “You’re not getting involved,” Aria said quickly.

  Mike slumped. “Why not? I know everything. I can help. You have nothing to lose.”

  Aria shut her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t let you help.”

  Mike’s face fell. “In the immortal words of that freak-job lawyer, you’ll regret it.”

  Aria shoved her phone back in her pocket. No, she’d regret it if she did let him help. She’d lost too much already. She couldn’t lose her brother, too.

  It was raining when Aria biked up to the curb behind the local Wawa several hours later, after dark. She spied her old friends standing near the woods that divided the mini-mart from an apartment complex and started toward them. Her shoes immediately sank into the mud. Raindrops pelted her cheeks. She pulled her hoodie over her head and ran.

  Spencer inhaled shakily when they had all assembled. “Okay. How are we going to do this? What do we have on Ali that we can look into?”

  Everyone was quiet. A milk truck chugged into Wawa and parked around the side. Then Emily cleared her throat. “I got a voicemail from Ali. She was laughing at me. At us.”

  Aria’s eyes widened. “Ali called you?”

  “Why would she do that?” Spencer whispered, her stomach swirling.

  “I don’t know.” Emily placed her hands on her hips. “But she did.”

  “Maybe she thought you were the least likely to tell on her,” Spencer suggested.

  “Well, she was wrong.” Emily pulled out her phone. They gathered around and listened to the voicemail. When Aria heard the high-pitched giggle, a shiver wriggled up her spine.

  “I can’t believe it,” Hanna murmured, turning pale. “Do you think she meant to call you, or did so by accident?”

  Emily shut her eyes. “I have no idea.”

  “Should we send this to Fuji?” Aria asked after a beat.

  Spencer snorted. “She’ll think we made it up. It probably comes from our phones for all we know.”

  Aria looked at Emily. “Play it again.”

  Emily did as she was told. Aria listened once more as that familiar laugh twirled through the air. “It sounds like she’s in a crowd, don’t you think?”

  “And there’s some sort of announcement,” Hanna pointed out. “I can’t tell what the guy’s saying, though.”

  “I know, I heard that, too,” Emily said. “If we were able to isolate that part of the message, maybe we could track where Ali was when she called. Maybe it’s somewhere she hangs out a lot.”

  “Or maybe it’s another trap,” Aria said sourly.

  Hanna glowered at her. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “I’m sorry.” Aria threw up her hands. “But even if the message did have a clue, what can we do about it? It’s not like we can stroll into Rosewood PD and say, Hey, can we borrow your forensic equipment?”

  Spencer’s eyes lit up. “Actually, I know someone who might know how to use that stuff—and help us.”

  Emily cocked her head. “Who?”

  “My sister and Wilden.”

  Hanna burst out laughing. “Melissa? Seriously?”

  “She offered her services. And think about it—of course Melissa wants Ali dead.” Spencer crossed her arms over her chest. “We can take SEPTA into the city. It’s so late—no one will notice us on the train. The worst thing that happens is Melissa slams the door in our faces . . . or calls the cops.”

  Aria stared blankly at Wawa, considering this. The wind gusted, sending the sweet smell of the convenience store’s homemade donuts into her nostrils. “I’m in if you guys are in.”

  “Me, too,” Hanna said.

  “Me, three,” Emily said, her eyes blazing. “Let’s go.”

  25

  SOUND BITES

  “Uh, hello?” Melissa Hastings said as she opened the red door of her Victorian town house on Rittenhouse Square for Spencer and the others. It was almost midnight, and she had lavender-smelling night cream all over her face and was dressed in a frayed Rosewood Day Debate Team T-shirt and boxers printed with mini golden retrievers. Spencer had a feeling they were Wilden’s.

  “Can we come in?” she asked her sister. “It’s important.”

  Melissa glanced at the other girls on the porch, then nodded solidly. “Come on.”

  She directed them into the house, asking them to drop their things and leave their shoes in a small coatroom off the vestibule. They walked into the living room, which was a calming yellow and had gleaming walnut floors. The furniture, knickknacks, and throw rugs matched perfectly. The room seemed familiar, and Spencer suddenly knew why. It was decorated exactly like her house in Rosewood. The TV in the living room was tuned to CNN. As usual, the reporters were talking about Tabitha’s murder. Liars’ Arraignment in Seven Days, read the banner at the bottom of the screen. Even the crawl was all about it. Melissa switched it off.

  “Spencer? Hanna?” Wilden appeared at the top of the stairs, also dressed in boxers and a T-shirt. He looked nervous.

  Spencer sucked in her stomach. Maybe this was a bad idea—Melissa was their ally, but was Wilden?

  Melissa stepped forward. “Darren, we need to help them.”

  Wilden sighed and walked down to the first floor. His expression was cautious but also curious. Emily reached into her pocket and handed him her phone. “There’s a voicemail I want you to check out. I’m almost positive it’s Ali.”

  “Do you have any sort of equipment that might be able to amplify a part of the recording?” Spencer asked. “We might be able to figure out where she was calling from.”

  “Or even isolate her voice to prove that it is her,” Emily added. “The cops don’t believe she’s still alive. We have to make them understand.”

  Wilden narrowed his green eyes. “I’m still not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Darren, please.” Melissa sidled up next to him. “This is my sister.”

  Spencer swallowed a lump in her throat. It felt so good to hear Melissa say that.

  Wilden glanced from one girl to the next. “All right,” he said, after a moment, then took Emily’s phone and sat down on the couch. “When I worked for Rosewood PD, we used a program we accessed on our intranet—all you needed was a digital file of the recording. If the pass codes to the intranet haven’t changed, I should be able to get into the system.”

  “That would be awesome,” Emily breathed.

  Melissa scurried into a back room. The girls settled on the couch and waited. Melissa returned with a silver MacBook Air and a USB cord. Wilden lifted the lid and typed something on the keyboard. “I’m in.” He handed Emily the phone and the USB. “Plug this in, and then play the recording back for us.”

  Emily did as she was told, accessing her voicemail and finding Ali’s saved message. There were the sounds of a lot of voices talking at once, all of their words muffled. Then Ali’s chilling laugh rang through the room. Everyone stiffened. She laughed for a good five seconds, and then the recording ended.

  Melissa shut her eyes. “It’s totally her.” Even Wilden looked freaked out.

  They played the message again. Melissa tilted her ear toward the phone. “It sounds like she’s in a crowd.”

  “That’s what we thought, too.” Spencer glanced at the laptop. An audio program that broke down the voicemail into packets of information and sound waves was on the screen. Every time Ali laughed, a sound wave spiked. In the background, there was cheering and laughter. Someone made a garbled announcement over a megaphone, and a second wave peaked.

  “Did you hear that?” Spencer pointed a
t the second wave. “We thought if we could punch up that announcement, we might be able to figure out where she’s calling from.”

  Melissa, who had settled into the corner of the couch, hugged her knees to her chest. “I can’t believe she’s ballsy enough to call you from the middle of a crowd.”

  “Unless she’s not in the crowd but near it,” Spencer said.

  Wilden listened to the voicemail one more time, highlighted the second spiky sound wave, and clicked a button at the bottom of the screen. The background noise dimmed and the announcement got louder, but it wasn’t any clearer.

  There was a scratching noise somewhere else in the house. Spencer shot up. “What’s that?”

  Everyone fell silent. Hanna’s face was pale, and Emily didn’t move a muscle. Something rustled. There was a teeny, tiny creak. Aria clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Melissa half rose from the couch and peered around. “This place is a hundred years old. It makes a lot of noise, especially when it’s windy.”

  They listened for a few moments more. Silence. Wilden turned back to the computer. “Let me try something else,” he murmured, pressing a few more buttons.

  The message played again. Melissa squinted hard. “It sounds like someone is saying Mo Mo through a bullhorn . . . and then the message gets cut off.”

  Wilden hit PLAY over and over. Cheering. The loud feedback of a bullhorn. Mo, Mo. “Maybe they’re at a sports event,” Hanna suggested.

  “And Ali’s hiding under the bleachers?” Spencer asked, giving Hanna a doubtful look.

  Wilden punched more buttons. Then a message appeared on the screen. Unknown user, it flashed. Access denied. “Shit,” he said, sitting back. “I think they realized someone outside the force is using this. They kicked me out.”

  Spencer leaned forward. “Can you go log back in under a different name?”

  Wilden closed the laptop lid and shook his head. “I don’t think I should. I shouldn’t be doing this at all.”

  Spencer looked from him to her sister. “Can’t you do anything else?”

  Wilden’s eyes darted back and forth. “I’m sorry, girls.”

  Tears filled Melissa’s eyes. “This just isn’t fair. You girls don’t deserve this. Alison shouldn’t get to win.”

  “Have you talked to Dad? What are they saying about our chances?” Spencer asked. “Every time I ask Goddard or the other guys on the legal team, they sort of dance around the question. Do you think we’ll actually get shipped to Jamaica?”

  Melissa glanced at Wilden. He turned away. When she looked back at Spencer, there were tears in her eyes. “Dad’s saying it’s looking pretty hopeless,” she whispered.

  Spencer’s stomach plunged. She reached out and grabbed Aria’s hand. Emily laid her head on Hanna’s shoulder. Hopeless.

  “What are we going to do?” Emily moaned.

  Wilden cleared his throat. “Don’t do anything rash, girls. I’ve heard . . . rumors.”

  Everyone exchanged another look. It wasn’t even worth asking—they all knew what the rumors were about: the suicide pact. Suddenly Spencer thought it didn’t really sound like that bad of an idea. What did she have left, after all?

  But then Spencer looked at Melissa again. She looked worried, almost like she could read Spencer’s thoughts. Spencer placed her hand over Melissa’s, and her sister pulled her into a hug. After a moment, Aria hugged them, too, and then Emily and Hanna. Spencer inhaled Melissa’s clean, soapy scent. It was nice to be on Melissa’s side after so many years of hating her. Even if she was no help, at least someone cared.

  Because there was nothing left to do, everyone stood and headed for the door. Melissa followed them, her head lowered, looking defeated. She offered to drive Spencer and the others to the train, but Spencer waved her off. “You’ve done enough already.”

  “Call me if you need anything,” she told Spencer, tears now running down her cheeks. “Even if you just want to talk. I’m always here.”

  “Thanks,” Spencer said, giving her hand a squeeze.

  And then she turned to the street. The temperature outside had dropped significantly, and the moon was now hidden in clouds. Spencer hugged her arms tight to her torso and followed the others back to the train station. No one said anything, because what was there to say? Another dead end. Another lead gone cold.

  26

  THE DARKEST PLACE EVER

  That next Thursday, Emily woke to a headache and a perfect blue sky. She tried to get out of bed, but her legs wouldn’t move. You have to get up, she told herself.

  Only, why? Her Rosewood Day graduation was in an hour, but it wasn’t like the school was allowing her to take part in it. She’d been given permission to attend, but why would she want to watch? And more than that, her mother still hadn’t returned from the hospital, more expensive items were missing from her house, and the FBI still thought Ali was dead and the girls had killed Tabitha. Emily’s arraignment was tomorrow, and then she’d be shipped off to Jamaica. All around her, summer was unfurling: Her neighbors were grilling and playing with their dogs and going for walks around the neighborhood. But when Emily even looked at the blooming flowers or the brilliant green grass, all she felt was dread. All of this was for other people to enjoy, not her.

  She grabbed her phone, pulled up CNN, and looked again at the video. By now, eleven thousand, eight hundred, forty-two—no, forty-three—people had commented that Emily and her friends were evil incarnate. She winced as the shadowy girls beat Tabitha to death. It did look like the four of them. Besides, if the police suspected the video was a fake, wouldn’t they have already blown the thing up, used all their high-tech equipment to prove it? Ali had somehow made that video foolproof.

  So figure out who N could be, a voice told her.

  Another impossibility. Like the staff at The Preserve was going to allow a suspected criminal to infiltrate their building. Besides, they’d already balked when she’d asked.

  But she dialed The Preserve’s number all the same, another matter on her mind. When a nurse answered, Emily coughed. “Has Iris Taylor returned?” she asked shakily.

  “Let me check.” There was typing. “No, Iris Taylor isn’t here,” she answered.

  Emily gripped the phone hard. “You haven’t found her?”

  There was rustling on the other end, and a second voice got on the line. “Who is this?” a man demanded. “Are you another reporter?” And then, click.

  The call time flashed on Emily’s screen. She set her phone down on the bedside table and stared blankly out the window. Iris was out there somewhere. Who knew if she was alive or dead? And it was all Emily’s fault.

  Suddenly, a second voice sounded in Emily’s head, this one lower in pitch and eerily hypnotic. So give up, it echoed. Just stay in bed. Close your eyes. There’s no point to anything.

  A door slammed outside, and Emily opened her eyes once more. Though it took a huge effort, she hefted herself out of bed and crossed the hall to the front window. Outside, her father was helping her mom out of a cab. Carolyn grabbed Mrs. Fields’s bags, and Emily’s sister Beth and brother, Jake, fluttered around, trying to be useful.

  She watched her mom hobble to the front door. Mrs. Fields looked gray and old, clearly sick. The door creaked as it opened, and Emily heard voices downstairs. “Sit right here,” Mr. Fields encouraged softly. “See? Isn’t that nice?”

  “Can I get you something, Mom?” That was Beth’s voice.

  “How about some ginger ale?” said Jake.

  “That would be lovely,” Mrs. Fields said. Her voice was scratchy, like a grandmother’s.

  There were quick footsteps, the kissing sound of the fridge opening and closing. Emily hesitated at the top of the stairs, more nervous than she’d felt on the blocks before the state-championship swim meet last year. After a few heaving breaths, she squared her shoulders and walked down the stairs.

  Beth and Carolyn were sitting on the couch, their hands in their laps, their smiles twitchy. Jake
returned from the kitchen with a tall glass of ginger ale. Mr. Fields was squatting by the TV, doing something with the cable box, and Emily’s mom was sitting on the recliner, her face pale and lined.

  When Emily reached the bottom of the stairs, everyone froze. Carolyn’s lips puckered. Jake shot to his feet. Beth looked away, which made Emily feel especially awful.

  Emily stepped toward her mom. “It’s so nice to see you home,” she said shakily. “How are you feeling?”

  Mrs. Fields stared at her hands. All at once, her breathing began to quicken.

  “Tired?” Emily tried. “Did they feed you okay in the hospital?”

  Mrs. Fields was actually wheezing now. Carolyn let out a whimper. “Dad, do something.”

  “She shouldn’t be here,” Beth said quickly, sharply.

  Mr. Fields rose from the TV stand. He had disconnected the cable box from the television. Were they so broke that they couldn’t even afford cable anymore? “You need to go back upstairs,” he said firmly to Emily, his eyes cold.

  “I’m sorry, everyone,” she eked out. “I’m really, really sorry.”

  Then she fled back upstairs, holding in her sobs only until she was safely behind her closed door. Her phone was flashing on the bed. GOOGLE ALERT FOR THE PREPPY THIEF, said the screen. Emily scanned the headlines. Jordan’s sentencing trial was scheduled for next week. Experts say her sentence will be somewhere between twenty and fifty years.

  Emily threw the phone against the wall. Jordan would have been fine if it weren’t for Emily. She’d ruined her life, too.

  All at once, she thought of Derrick, her pal from last summer. How many times had he held her hand in the break room when she’d poured her heart out about how scared she was about having the baby? How many times had she called him in the middle of the night because she couldn’t sleep? She’d seen him not too long ago, when A was tormenting her about Gayle, so she knew he was still around. Maybe he’d listen. Maybe he’d understand.

  She scooped up her phone from the carpet and dialed his number, but the call went to voicemail. Emily hung up without leaving a message. What if Derrick saw her number and hit IGNORE? Maybe he thought she was a killer, just like everyone else did. Maybe he was still upset that she’d cost him his job with Gayle, because she hadn’t given Gayle her baby—the last time she’d seen him, he’d mentioned it. She’d negatively impacted Derrick’s life, too.