Vicious

by Sara Shepard

  No. It was that several inmates had come up to Spencer in the past twenty-four hours and mentioned how they worshipped at the high church of Alison DiLaurentis. How they’d claimed she’d spoken to them, told them about Spencer and the others—and who knew? Maybe Ali had. Whatever the case, these women were most definitely Ali’s minions, and they’d threatened Spencer that soon, they would get their revenge.

  Which meant . . . what? They were going to kick her ass? Kill her?

  She scrubbed vigorously, ignoring Meyers-Lopez’s hateful stare. It made perfect sense. Not only had Ali constructed a foolproof plan to get them convicted—Spencer was pretty sure Ali had paid off some of the jurors—but she’d also planted some Ali Cats inside the prison to make sure the next few decades of Spencer’s life were miserable. And were the Ali Cats communicating with Ali, too, on the outside? Could that, in some way, prove Ali was alive? Yeah, right, she thought as the dirty water lapped against the bottom of the sink. She’d never be able to prove it. Ali and her minions were way smarter than that.

  She took the sponge into one of the stalls. The door banged shortly after, and when Spencer emerged from the stall, the bathroom was empty. She smiled, feeling like she’d won a tiny victory. Meyers-Lopez must have gotten tired of Spencer and left.

  She walked over to the bucket, but when she plunged the sponge into the water, her fingers hit something slimy and firm. She wheeled back. Something black floated on top of the water. Then she noticed a tiny paw, a whisker, a snout. Spencer screamed. It was a dead rat.

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” she said, staring at her outstretched hand. She’d just touched a dead rat. She’d just touched a dead rat. She was probably going to get the plague. From somewhere in the hall, she swore she could hear Meyers-Lopez laughing.

  “Hastings?”

  Spencer whipped around. Burroughs, the guard who’d showed them in yesterday, now stood in the doorway. For a moment, Spencer thought she was going to blame her for the dead rat. “I need you to come with me,” the guard grumbled.

  “F-for what?” Spencer dared to ask.

  The lines in Burroughs’s forehead furrowed even deeper. “Your lawyer’s here, okay? And he wants to talk to you.”

  Spencer stared at her. Her lawyer? What could Rubens possibly have to say? Was he ready to appeal already?

  “Well, come on!” Burroughs bellowed.

  Head down, Spencer hurried out of the bathroom to Burroughs’s side. They walked down a series of hallways until they got to the rooms where prisoners met with their attorneys. Burroughs unlocked the last door on the right and pushed it open. Rubens was standing, facing the barred window. Aria and Hanna were sitting at the table, looking just about as shell-shocked as Spencer was.

  Spencer gazed between all of them. “What’s going on?” she asked, feeling circumspect.

  Rubens’s expression was hard to read. He clasped his hands together. “You girls are coming with me.”

  Spencer frowned. “Where?”

  “To the courthouse.”

  Hanna looked worried. “Why?”

  Rubens glanced back and forth worriedly. A couple of inmates loitered outside, trying to look busy. “I can’t get into it here,” he said cagily. “You just need to come, okay? Now.”

  A series of guards shoved them down the hallway past the cafeteria and to the double doors that led to the outside. Spencer huddled close to her friends, thrilled to see them again, even if it was for something so mysterious. “What do you think is happening?” she whispered.

  “Maybe we’re being moved,” Aria said. Her expression darkened. “God, I bet that’s it. We’re being moved to somewhere even worse.”

  Hanna swallowed hard. “There can’t be anywhere worse than this. They have me working in the cafeteria with this woman who has already decided she hates me. She trapped me in the walk-in refrigerator twice.” She looked around, as though the woman was listening. “And then, when I came out? She made fun of my cold, pointy nipples. She made everyone in the kitchen look at them.”

  Aria squeezed Hanna’s hand. “I’m in laundry, and I think one of the other girls replaced the water in my bottle with bleach yesterday. Thank God I didn’t drink it.”

  Spencer swallowed hard, thinking about her experience with the rat. “Did those women mention Ali?”

  Aria’s eyes widened. “The girl I met in orientation did.”

  “The kitchen bitch didn’t, but I think my cellmate knows about Ali,” Hanna whispered. She glanced back at the prison doors. “She looks totally normal, and she’s new like us, but she has an A tattoo on the inside of her wrist and she already knew my name.”

  Aria’s eyes widened. “I might have met the same girl. She’s definitely an Ali Cat.”

  Hanna shut her eyes and moaned. “Did you know she’s a knitter? She can legally have knitting needles in her bunk. I was so afraid last night that I was going to . . .” She made a stabbing motion with her arm.

  Burroughs wheeled around and glared at them. “No talking!”

  They were outdoors by then. The sun on Spencer’s face felt delicious, but she couldn’t relish it for very long because the guards were shoving them into a waiting van. Hanna and Aria tumbled in after her, and the same guy who’d escorted them to the prison manned the front seat. Rubens climbed into the passenger side. Spencer stared at the back of his head, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. What was so important that they were being led back to the courthouse? Was the jury going to sentence them to immediate death?

  After a long, almost intolerable silence, the courthouse appeared on the hill. The van rattled into the parking lot and pulled up to the curb. Spencer peered out the window. “Why are there press people here?” she asked.

  The lawyer jumped out of his seat and slid open the doors. “Let’s go,” he said roughly.

  Hanna climbed out, almost tripping over her ankle chains. “Are we going to be ambushed with something? You have an obligation to tell us, you know.”

  “Y-yeah,” Aria said shakily. “If this is bad, you have to let us know now.”

  But the reporters had already descended upon Rubens and were bombarding him with questions. “What’s going on in there?” they shouted. “Why was everyone called back to court?” “What’s happened?”

  “No comment, no comment,” Rubens said, gripping Spencer’s hand hard and pulling her up the steps. The other girls followed. Spencer was acutely aware of all the flashes going off, getting pictures of her in her orange jumpsuit and messy hair and, most likely, filthy-sweaty-grimy face. But she was far too curious about what was happening inside to worry. Guards whisked her through the metal detector, and soon enough she was standing just outside the courtroom.

  Rubens stood in front of them, his hand on the doorknob. There was a jittery expression on his face, but Spencer couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. “Okay, ladies,” he said breathlessly. “Brace yourselves.”

  “For what?” Hanna squeaked.

  The door swung open, and several people who were already in the courtroom, including the judge, swiveled around and clapped eyes on them. Then Hanna gasped. Aria made a small breathy sound that was a cross between a hiccup and a sob. A tall, familiar girl stood at the front of the courtroom. It was a girl Spencer had thought she’d never see again. A girl she’d thought about far too many times, who’d appeared in far too many dreams, who’d haunted her endlessly since she vanished.

  “E-Emily?” Spencer managed to say, shakily pointing at the girl at the front of the courtroom. She looked at Rubens.

  He smiled. “I just got the call an hour ago. She was escorted here this morning.”

  Spencer looked again. Tears filled Emily’s eyes. She broke into a wide, careful smile. “H-hey,” she said. And it was, indeed, Emily’s voice. Emily’s everything.

  She was alive.

  28

  BACK ON DUNE STREET

  One week, two days earlier

  Cape May, NJ

  “Do you sme
ll that?” Emily said excitedly, gesturing into the garage of the closed-up beach house that belonged to Betty Maxwell, Nick’s grandmother.

  She watched as her friends stuck their heads into the garage and sniffed. “Is that . . . vanilla?” Aria finally said.

  Emily nodded, feeling like she was going to burst. “We should call the police. This is proof she’s still alive!”

  But her friends just shifted, looking uncomfortable. Spencer peered back into the empty house. “Em, that’s not enough to get the police here.” She sighed. “Besides, she’s not here now.”

  Emily couldn’t believe it. Okay, okay, Ali wasn’t here now—but it was still an amazing lead, right?

  They all just shrugged and looked at her like she was nuts. And maybe she was nuts—the Ali voice in her head was cackling so loudly Emily could barely think straight. She couldn’t believe that, once again, Ali had gotten the best of them. It was yet another slap in the face.

  Emily tried to tell herself this was the end. But she couldn’t just let it go so easily.

  Emily heard her friends say they should stay here for the day, catch some rays, have a nice dinner. She felt herself nod along only because fighting would worry them more. But as they walked away, she felt detached from her body—from the whole scene, really. Her entire mind, her whole being was back in that house. There had to be a bigger clue there, something they’d missed.

  She had to find it.

  As they headed to the beach, Emily mentally reviewed the places in the house they’d searched. There was nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the bedrooms, nothing in the closets. But what about that vanilla-stinky garage? They’d only poked their heads in. Sure, the place had looked empty . . . but maybe it wasn’t.

  It haunted her as they played in the waves and listened to music through Spencer’s iPod speakers. It plagued her as they changed for dinner. It needled her as they ate fresh seafood and ordered margaritas and tried to act upbeat. Her friends kept trying to pull her into the conversation, but she could only reply with stiff, one-word answers. We have to go back, she wanted to tell them. Something is there. I just know it.

  But she knew her friends wouldn’t go back to that house. They’d already taken a huge risk breaking in this afternoon. They were taking a huge risk even being there. No. If she wanted to satisfy her hunch, she would have to do it alone.

  They tumbled into their shared hotel room that night and turned on the TV to Comedy Central. Emily bided her time, watching as each of her friends had settled into bed, Spencer turning on the AC, Hanna pulling her eye mask over her face. After a while, the room grew silent, and someone turned down the TV volume. Emily waited an extra half hour to make sure they were all asleep, then crept out of the hotel room, key in hand.

  The walk to Betty Maxwell’s house took fifteen minutes, her flip-flops smacking loudly on the sidewalk in the quiet night. It had to be about two in the morning, and Emily worried a cop car might stop her, wondering what she was doing out so late. But luck was on her side. She didn’t see any cars at all.

  The beach house was eerier after dark, the walls creaking, strange shadows skittering in the corners, an odd clanking sound coming from somewhere in the back. Armed with a flashlight, Emily headed straight to the garage. It still smelled strongly of vanilla—of Ali. She stepped into the dark, small space, leftover sand gritting under her flip-flops. Hands shaking, she felt around the metal shelves along the garage walls, desperate to find something other than dust bunnies. Her fingers grazed spider webs. She pressed against the cinder-block walls, hoping for a loose brick that was concealing something secret. In the corner of the garage was an industrial-looking tool chest; she opened it and felt to the very back, but there was nothing inside.

  Then she saw the trash can.

  It was just a normal blue trash can with Cape May’s city logo on the front, but Emily heard warning bells go off in her mind. She scampered over to it, lifted the plastic lid, and shone the flashlight inside. There were no bags in there, and the bottom was dark. But then the light caught the edge of something crusted along the bottom. Emily reached as far down as she could, unpeeling the piece of paper from the plastic. She pulled it out, barely able to breathe. It was an envelope smeared with dried oil. It should have smelled like trash, but it, too, smelled like vanilla.

  She ran back inside, placed it on the kitchen island, and shone her flashlight over it. There was no addressee, just Betty Maxwell’s house number and the Cape May ZIP code. In the corner, though, was a return address. Someone had written, Day, 8901 Hyacinth Drive, Cocoa Beach, FL.

  Emily turned the envelope over. It had already been opened; whatever was inside had been removed. The vanilla smell was so strong it made her dizzy. Had Ali received this? Who was Day? The name seemed significant, for some reason, but Emily couldn’t recall why.

  She was so wrapped up in thought that she barely remembered the walk back to the hotel. This was definitely, definitely a clue. Should she tell the others? Or would they reprimand her for going back, then shoot her down? They wouldn’t actually believe it was anything, would they?

  Certainly not that the envelope was worth traveling to Cocoa Beach, Florida to follow up on. But Emily just . . . felt something, a premonition stronger than any she’d ever had. She needed to see what this was. She had to go there. It would mean abandoning her friends—and the trial. But as much as she hated to do that, she knew this was probably their last shot. She would just have to go without them.

  She didn’t want anyone knowing about it, though—not her friends, not her family, not the cops. She couldn’t afford to be looking over her shoulder the whole time. And she didn’t want Ali to see her coming. How could she manage that?

  She slipped back into the hotel room and took her place next to Hanna on the bed, her mind churning. And then, all at once, it came to her. It was so easy: Ali had already done it, after all. She’d faked her murder, and everyone believed it. If Emily faked her suicide, everyone would believe it, too.

  She lay awake the rest of the night, planning the logistics. She would use the hurricane—everyone would think that it had killed her, but she knew she was a good enough swimmer to get through. At 5 AM, when she scrawled a note to Spencer, Aria, and Hanna, she knew what they’d believe. After all, she’d been legitimately distraught for weeks. She might as well capitalize on that now.

  She pinned a Ziploc bag full of cash to her swim bottoms, walked down to the beach, and stepped into the waves. As she got deeper, the current was trickier to navigate than she’d originally thought, but she tried to stay calm and trust her swimming skills. She saw her friends rush to the shore, their faces masks of horror. Emily pretended to struggle, simultaneously feeling guilty for what she was putting them through but also confident in her decision that this was the only way no one would come looking for her.

  What she didn’t bank on was Spencer walking into the waves after her. “No!” Emily screamed, thrusting her arms over her head. She watched as the ocean pulled Spencer under again and again. “Stop struggling!” By the time the rescue teams arrived, Emily feared the worst. Several EMTs dragged Spencer’s limp body onto the beach. Emily watched as the rescuers crowded around her and her friends stood in shock. But then, Spencer’s body bucked, and she coughed and rolled to her side. Everyone seemed to relax a little. The rescuers loaded her onto a stretcher and carried her up the beach.

  The coast guard helicopters swooped overhead, still searching. Emily ducked under, choking up salt, feeling the jellyfish stings, thrashing her legs through the waves. She let the current carry her farther out, terrified the whole time. A jetty was to her left; all she had to do was get out of the riptide and then swim underwater toward it.

  But the waves crashed at her right and left. Several times she was pushed under for so long she was sure her lungs would give out. She surfaced, gasping, again and again, only to be pulled under once more. Her back hit the bottom roughly. Her elbow smashed against an outcropping of rocks. She c
aught sight of blood on her skin, terrified it might draw sharks. The waves rolled in again and again, showing no sign of slowing. A single image of Ali’s hideous, angry, menacing face blazed in her mind, pushing her forward. She was doing this to find her. She was doing this to end the nightmare.

  There was a break in the tumult, and Emily bobbed to the surface, breathing hard. The helicopters were farther down the beach, searching a different spot. She breathed and paddled hard toward the jetty, which wasn’t far at all. She almost cried when she reached it, clinging to it and letting her legs bang against the posts. After a lot of breaths, she hefted herself up onto the wooden deck. Mercifully, there was no one on shore to see her, and the cuts on her legs from the jetty weren’t that bad. After a while, shivering and weak, she staggered onto the cold, windswept beach and took refuge under a lifeguard stand. Her fingers touched something soft, and she unearthed a red Under Armour sweatshirt someone had left behind. She squealed with delight, pulling it on quickly and immediately feeling comforted by the warm, soft cotton. Then she patted her swim bottoms—the Ziploc was still pinned securely. Both things together felt like a wonderful boon. Maybe this really was going to work.

  Once Emily regained her strength, she started up the walkway and headed into town. Thank goodness this was a beach town and walking into places in only a sweatshirt and a bathing suit was commonplace—when she walked into Wawa, no one paid any notice to her strange attire. Katy Perry’s “Roar” was playing loudly over the speakers, which nicely drowned out Emily’s pounding heart. She kept her head down and her eyes averted as she canvassed the aisles, selecting a giant-size iced tea, several soft pretzels, flip-flops, and a pair of gym shorts with a Cape May logo from among the small clothing section.

  She pretended she had a hangover as she handed the bills to the man at the counter so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact. Once outside, she pulled on the shorts quickly and stuffed the pretzels into her mouth, desperately ravenous. It was still so early in the morning, the sky a dull gray. There weren’t many cars in the parking lot. Across the street, the town’s famous pancake house was closed, maybe because of the storm. One helicopter circled the sky, perhaps still looking for her . . . and here she was, eating a pretzel, drinking iced tea, fine.