by Sara Shepard
Nick shrugged. “They’re there in print.”
“I’m just wondering how you knew such specific details,” Rubens said to Nick. “Did Alison tell you willingly?”
“Wait!” The DA stood up. His mouth hung open. He didn’t say anything. He kind of looked bamboozled.
For the first time since the trial began, Hanna looked at Spencer and met her gaze. Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. It was like a tiny glimmer of sunlight had entered the courtroom. Nick wiped his hand across his forehead. “Uh, no?” He seemed uncertain, like he no longer knew the script he was supposed to follow. “I-I forced it out of her?”
“Ah.” Rubens placed his hands on his hips. “Of course. But, Mr. Maxwell, if Alison truly wasn’t the one to blame in these murders, if Alison was looking for a sure way to prove to these girls that she wasn’t the enemy, wouldn’t she have fed you some incorrect details instead?”
Nick blinked. “Huh?” he said softly.
Reginald stood up again from his seat, but he didn’t say anything, just stared.
“It wasn’t like you’d know if the details were true or not,” Rubens said. “And if Alison was smart—which she is—she would have given incorrect details, so that when the girls read the letter in that bedroom in the Poconos, they would have thought, Huh. This isn’t Ali. They would have been scared, of course—they were locked inside the house, a match had been lit—but they might have wondered what was exactly at play.”
“Maybe Alison isn’t that smart,” Nick said, but he sounded unconvinced.
Rubens shrugged. “Clearly the two of you didn’t bank on the girls surviving and explaining what the letter said at all. But they did, and it seems to me that by Alison giving you specific and accurate details, she could be seen as your co-conspirator, not your captive. Now, tell the truth. Alison willingly fed you that information for the letter. But she did so because she wanted the girls to know the whole, awful truth. She asked you to write it, though, so your prints would be on it if it was found. I bet she praised you for your writing, didn’t she? Made you think you were better suited to write such a letter, that you had a better way with words.”
Nick licked his lips. “How did you know that?” he whispered.
“Objection!” Reginald said, shooting up. But then he just stared at Nick, furious.
“I’ll keep you just a minute longer,” Rubens said. “My last question is about Ms. Marin, Ms. Hastings, and the others’ visit to you in prison last week.” He smiled. “I’m assuming you had a nice talk?”
“Not really,” Nick spat.
“It’s funny, though, that they turned up in Cape May, New Jersey, the day after their visit. It’s also funny that your grandmother, Betty Maxwell, has a vacation home there.”
“Lots of people have vacation homes in Cape May,” the DA called out from his seat.
“That’s true.” Rubens looked at Nick. “Very, very true. But I had some guys do some snooping, and do you know what they found? A witness who can put Ms. Hastings and the other girls at that beach house that day.” He went to the screen and clicked on a new file. Up popped a picture of Hanna, Spencer, Emily, and Aria standing in front of the beach house they’d raided, hugging. Hanna’s heart lurched—she hoped this wouldn’t get them in even more trouble. But by the look on Rubens’s face, maybe that wasn’t where he was going.
“That doesn’t seem like a coincidence, does it?” he said. “And strange—when I questioned the guard at your prison who escorted you out of the room after you spoke to the girls, he said you mentioned your grandmother Betty to them—and Cape May. Now, why would you do that?”
Nick’s lip quivered. “I—”
“Can I offer a theory?” Rubens suggested, lacing his hands together. “I think you wanted them to go to that beach house because you can’t be sure Alison’s really dead. And you’re furious that she pinned all of her crimes on you—you loved her, you thought you two were bound for life. You thought the girls might find her there. And you wanted them to bring her in once and for all.”
“That’s not true,” Nick said.
“Why else would you have hinted that your grandmother has a house there?” Rubens raised his hands in the air. “Surely you weren’t offering the place so the girls could get some R & R. Will you honestly sit up here and tell me that you really and truly think Alison is dead? In front of all these people, after swearing on the Bible, with the risk of perjury on your record, you want to tell me that you really and truly believe Alison isn’t alive?”
There was a deathly hush in the courtroom. Hanna peeked at Reginald. His face was pale, his mouth slack. Nick ran his hands down his face, his eyes darting back and forth. Finally, the judge shifted. “Answer the question,” he demanded.
“I-I don’t know.” Nick’s voice cracked. “She could be out there. I mean, probably not, but . . .”
“But she could.” Rubens looked at the jury, his expression triumphant. “She could. And that’s because Alison is the mastermind here, not Nicholas. He was a pawn in her game, not the other way around. And may I remind all of you that we are convicting Ms. Hastings and Ms. Marin—and Ms. Montgomery, when she returns—based on one hundred percent certainty that they not only killed Alison, but that Alison is indeed dead. And maybe, just maybe, she’s not. She’s been presumed dead before, after all—after the Poconos, when Nick himself saved her. She knows how to lie low. She knows how to evade the law. It’s not unthinkable that she’s doing the same thing here.”
Then, dropping his hands to his sides, he looked wearily at the judge. “No further questions, your honor.”
“That’s the last witness,” the judge said. “After closing statements, the jury will deliberate. We’ll recess for one hour.”
Instantly the courtroom started buzzing. The guard grabbed Nick and led him back down the aisle, but not before he shot the DA a trapped, scared glance. Rubens strode out of the courtroom, too, looking almost giddy. Hanna turned to Spencer again. Her old friend glanced at Hanna cagily, then gave her the tiniest of smiles.
Hanna smiled back just before Spencer turned away. Just like Nick’s testimony, it wasn’t much—just the tip of the iceberg. But at least it was something.
21
ONE LAST HURRAH
On Friday night, Spencer sat in the kitchen, helping Melissa go through bags and bags of stuff she’d purchased from Buy Buy Baby. There must have been at least fifteen tiny, neutral-colored onesies in the pile. “Now, I’ve heard that babies are really sensitive to dyes, so you have to wash all their clothes first,” Melissa murmured, pulling out a huge bottle of Honest Company organic detergent.
“I’ll be on wash duty,” Spencer volunteered. Then she laughed—the baby wasn’t coming for seven more months, so it seemed silly to wash all the clothes now. On the other hand, she might not be around in seven months to help. If Angela made her disappear, she wouldn’t be here for the birth. She wouldn’t get to meet the baby . . . ever.
She gathered up the onesies and began to remove their tags, trying to push the thought down deep.
“So,” Melissa said as she pulled out several different brands of bottles. “The trial was kind of encouraging today, huh?”
Spencer nodded, too afraid to speak. Everyone was abuzz about how Rubens had cross-examined Nick that day. Some reporters were saying it was a major turning point in the case, but still others continued to be focused on Reginald’s version of the facts and all of the character-assassinating things Spencer and the others had done in the past few years.
The whole thing made Spencer feel jittery. She wanted to hold on to hope, but maybe that was foolish. Maybe it was better to stick with her original plan: Get the hell out of here before the final verdict was passed down.
“And I heard about Aria, too,” Melissa added.
Spencer ran her fingers along a beige-and-white-striped romper. Aria’s plane had landed at the Philly airport about an hour ago. A TV camera had tried to catch Aria disembarking, but a police escor
t had held his hand toward the screen, shielding her.
“I wish they’d never found her,” Spencer said softly. It was weird: When Aria had first taken off, Spencer had been so annoyed—that Aria had accomplished what she’d wanted to do, but also that she’d left them to handle the trial alone. But as the week progressed, her anger had given way to acceptance. Maybe one of them deserved freedom. It was scary to imagine what Aria had been through overseas—and what Aria might face now that she was back. The news was that she’d receive double the sentence because she’d run off.
The side door opened, and Mrs. Hastings burst through carrying a bunch of grocery bags in her hands. Spencer rushed over to help, but her mother brushed her off. “I’m fine,” she snapped, giving Spencer a strange look.
Spencer recoiled. Her mother was still staring at her. “What?” Spencer finally asked.
Mrs. Hastings dropped a bag on the kitchen table. “Perhaps you can explain why Wren Kim is in the driveway, asking for you?” Spencer’s mouth dropped open. She and Wren hadn’t made plans, though it was kind of exciting that he was here. Then again, her mom looked so furious. “You’re not supposed to leave the house,” Mrs. Hastings added. “Especially not with him.”
“Mom,” Melissa said softly from the island. “Let Spencer go. It’s not going to hurt anything. Let her have some fun—hasn’t she been through enough?”
Both Spencer and Mrs. Hastings whirled around and stared at Melissa. Spencer wanted to run over and give her a huge hug. After a beat, Mrs. Hastings sighed and began jerkily removing the groceries. “Fine,” she spat. “If that’s how you’d like to spend your last few days, be my guest.”
Spencer bit the inside of her cheek. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom. It sounded like she was pretty sure Spencer was headed to jail.
She ran a tube of lipstick over her lips, smoothed her button-down, and hurried out the front door. Sure enough, Wren was standing on the front porch, hands shoved into his pockets. His whole face lit up when he saw her, and Spencer felt her insides sparkle. Wren’s dark hair was pushed off his face, his sharp cheekbones were especially prominent, and his trim body looked good in a vintage-style corduroy jacket and narrow-cut jeans. All of the feelings of attraction that she’d been trying to suppress suddenly let loose inside her. She wanted him. She really did. And what was amazing was that she could have him.
“Hey,” he said shyly, holding out a bouquet of lilies.
“H-hi,” she answered back, taking the flowers and hugging them to her chest.
Wren’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I was hoping to take you somewhere tonight. For dinner, maybe?” He looked around. “Somewhere off the property? But, um, I wasn’t sure if I should come inside.” He made a face. “Your mom seemed kind of angry.”
Spencer rolled her eyes. “She’ll be fine. Let’s get out of here,” she agreed, grabbing her purse. But as he took her arm and led her to his car, her spirits suddenly plunged. Saturday night, 10 PM sharp, Angela had told her. That was . . . tomorrow. In twenty-four hours, she’d never see Wren again.
She decided not to think about it.
As they swung into Wren’s car, she turned to him and smiled. “You know, there are a few things I wouldn’t mind doing this evening, if you’re game.”
He looked at her and grinned. “I’m up for anything,” he answered. “As long as it’s with you.”
And off they went.
Two hours later, Spencer had a new pair of shoes from a shopping spree on Walnut Street, felt much more relaxed from the ten-minute neck massage she’d gotten from one of the Chinese women on the sidewalk in Rittenhouse Square, and was delightfully full after an impromptu cheese-tasting session at a small tapas bar on 19th Street. It was the most spontaneous she’d behaved in, well, maybe ever, and it felt good to shed that old Spencer Hastings attitude and embrace someone much more lighthearted, at least for one more day.
After a few more whirlwind stops wherever struck her fancy, she and Wren were walking hand-in-hand, her shopping bag swinging at her side, along Chestnut Street toward downtown. Suddenly, she spied something in the distance and squeezed his hand. “Let’s go for a carriage ride!”
Wren looked at her, seeming startled. “You want to go for a carriage ride? As I recall, you told me once that you thought they were cheesy and inhumane.”
Spencer frowned, vaguely remembering telling Wren that during one of their torrid make-out fests when she’d snuck into the city to be with him in the beginning of junior year. Well, that was the old Spencer. “Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand and dragging him to the line of horses and buggies on the square.
After Wren handed over forty bucks to a man in a top hat, tails, and Benjamin Franklin–style wire-rimmed glasses, the two of them climbed into the backseat of the carriage and snuggled under the provided flannel blanket, which smelled a teensy bit like manure. Spencer looked at Wren and smiled. “Isn’t this fun?”
“Sure,” Wren said. “Then again, anything’s fun with you.”
He pulled her closer, and Spencer sighed happily. The whole night, they’d found excuses to touch each other—playful little hand grabs, feet brushes under the table, a knee squeeze. She leaned in to kiss him, but suddenly Wren placed his hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her back.
“Whoa, Spencer,” he said, his British accent especially lilting. “We don’t have to rush things. Can we be serious for a minute?”
She cocked her head. “We’ve been serious all night.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We’ve been spontaneous all night. Which is, forgive me for saying this, not exactly the type-A Spencer Hastings I know. You’ve seemed . . . speedy. Like we’re rushing from activity to activity so you don’t have to think about anything.”
“No, I haven’t,” Spencer answered automatically, though Wren was pretty much right on the mark.
His gaze fell to the leather bag he was carrying. “I have something for you.”
He pushed a brown-paper–wrapped object into her hands. Spencer frowned and opened it. Inside was a copy of Nelson Mandela’s memoir from prison.
“What’s this for?” she asked, looking up at him.
Wren’s Adam’s apple wobbled. “I thought it might help if . . . you know. If you do have to go to prison. If justice isn’t done. You are allowed to bring books into prison. I mean, the guard will check through it, but it’s clean.”
Spencer riffled the pages between her fingers. “Oh. Well, thank you.”
Wren cleared his throat. “You’ve hardly talked about the trial with me—or what might happen. But I want you to know that you can.”
Spencer was grateful that the horse-drawn carriage was passing through a particularly dark section of the square so Wren couldn’t see her conflicted expression. “I’m trying not to think about the trial,” she admitted.
“I know,” he said gently. “But maybe you should think about it. And we should think about how we can see each other. I’ll visit you, you know—if it comes to that. And we can have phone calls, and—”
Spencer crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to talk about any of that.”
Wren frowned. “I’m going to be there for you, Spencer. This isn’t some random little fling for me. The more I talk to you, the more I spend time with you—I know it’s crazy, but well, I’m crazy about you, Spencer. I want to try this out, for real. See where it leads.”
A lump formed in her throat. I’m crazy about you. The thing was, she realized, she wanted to try this out, too.
But she knew exactly where it would lead. She was disappearing the next day. Cutting off all ties. She suddenly understood what Angela had meant, when she said that some people chose prison over disappearing because they couldn’t let go of their families and loved ones. If she disappeared, everyone in her life would essentially be dead.
But she couldn’t think about that now. She turned to Wren and shook her finger. “You’re ruining the romantic moment. Now let’s sit back, lo
ok at the stars, and breathe in the horse poop, shall we?”
Wren’s eyes shone under a passing street lamp. He looked so dissatisfied. “Is this because of what happened to us before? Is that why you’re not letting me in?”
I’m not letting you in because I can’t let you in! Spencer wanted to shout. She wanted to tear at her hair and punch the sky and scream until her lungs were raw. This was so unfair. She’d finally found a guy she liked, and now she had to say good-bye.
Suddenly Spencer was crying, her head in her hands, her body shaking with silent sobs.
“Hey, hey,” Wren murmured, rubbing her back. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Spencer managed, between sobs. She almost laughed at the situation she was in. Of all the times during the entire trial that she could have broken down into a snotty mess, it had to be on her last night, while she was on a carriage ride with Wren.
Wren leaned forward and spoke to the driver, and the carriage stopped. “I live just a few blocks away,” Wren said. “And you need some tea. Just tea,” he added, before she could say anything else. Spencer sniffed, and nodded.
Wren turned to Spencer and offered his hand, and the two of them climbed off the carriage. Then he led her to his apartment building. They were silent as they strode through the lobby and to the elevator, but as soon as they got into Wren’s apartment—a place that came back to her immediately from being there almost two years ago, with its cramped walls and beige-colored fridge and small TV wedged into the corner—Wren wrapped his arms around Spencer and pulled her into a hug. Her eyes still burned with tears, but she wasn’t hysterical anymore. She glanced in the mirror and saw that her makeup was running and her face was red. Strangely, she didn’t care.
“What kind of tea, chamomile or peppermint?” Wren asked, his brown eyes warm. “Or maybe hot chocolate instead?”
“Actually,” Spencer heard herself ask, as she sank onto the couch. “Can you just sit here with me for a second?”
