Unbelievable pll-4

by Sara Shepard

  Hanna. She’d called Spencer late last night, just after Spencer had recalled her long-suppressed memory of shoving Ali in the woods the night Ali disappeared. Hanna had told Spencer she’d found out something important, and that they had to meet at the Rosewood Day swings. Spencer had pulled up to the parking lot just as Hanna’s body flew into the air. She’d maneuvered her car to the side of the road, then run out on foot into the trees, shocked by what she saw. “Call an ambulance!” Aria was shrieking. Emily was sobbing with fear. Hanna remained immobile. Spencer had never witnessed anything so terrifying in her entire life.

  Seconds later, Spencer’s Sidekick had pinged with a text from A. Still shrouded in the woods, Spencer saw Emily and Aria pull out their phones as well, and her stomach flipped as she realized they must have all received the same creepy message: She knew too much. Had A figured out whatever it was that Hanna had discovered—something that A must have been trying to hide—and hit Hanna to shut her up? That had to be it, but it was hard for Spencer to truly believe it had actually happened. It was just so diabolical.

  But maybe Spencer was just as diabolical. Just hours before Hanna’s accident, she’d shoved her sister, Melissa, down the stairs. And she’d finally remembered what had happened the night Ali went missing, recovered those lost ten minutes she’d suppressed for so long. She’d pushed Ali to the ground—maybe even hard enough to kill her. Spencer didn’t know what had happened next, but it seemed like A did. A had sent Spencer a text only a couple days ago, hinting that Ali’s murderer was right in front of her. Spencer had received the text just as she was looking in the mirror…at herself.

  Spencer hadn’t run into the parking lot to join her friends. Instead, she’d sped home, in desperate need to think all this through. Could she have killed Ali? Did she have it in her? But after an entire sleepless night, she just couldn’t compare what she had done to Melissa and Ali to what A had done to Hanna. Yes, Spencer lost her temper, yes, Spencer could be pushed to the limit, but deep down, she just didn’t think she could kill.

  Why, then, was A so convinced Spencer was the culprit? Was it possible A was wrong…or lying? But A knew about Spencer’s seventh-grade kiss with Ian Thomas, her illicit affair with Wren, Melissa’s college boyfriend, and that the five of them had blinded Jenna Cavanaugh—all things that were true. A had so much ammo on them, it was hardly necessary to start making stuff up.

  Suddenly, as Spencer wiped the sweat off her face, something hit her, sending her heart sinking to her feet. She could think of a very good reason why A might have lied and suggested that Spencer killed Ali. Perhaps A had secrets, too. Perhaps A needed a scapegoat.

  “Spencer?” Her mother’s voice floated up. “Can you come downstairs?”

  Spencer jumped and peeked at her reflection in her vanity mirror. Her eyes looked puffy and bloodshot, her lips were chapped, and her hair had leaves stuck in it from hiding in the woods last night. She couldn’t handle a family meeting right now.

  The first floor smelled of fresh-brewed Nicaraguan Segovia coffee, Fresh Fields Danishes, and the fresh-cut calla lilies their housekeeper, Candace, bought every morning. Spencer’s father stood at the granite-topped island, decked out in his black spandex bike pants and U.S. Postal Service bike jersey. Perhaps that was a good sign—they couldn’t be too angry if her dad had gone for his regular 5 A.M. bike ride.

  On the kitchen table was a copy of the Sunday Philadelphia Sentinel. At first Spencer thought it was there because it had news of Hanna’s accident. But then she saw her own face staring back at her from the paper’s front page. She wore a sleek black suit and was giving the camera a confident smirk. Move Over, Trumps! the headline said. Golden Orchid Essay Contest Nominee Spencer Hastings Is Coming!

  Spencer’s stomach heaved. She’d forgotten. The paper was on everyone’s doorsteps right now.

  A figure emerged from the pantry. Spencer stepped back in fear. There was Melissa, glaring at her, clutching a box of Raisin Bran so tightly Spencer thought she might crush it. There was a tiny scratch on her sister’s left cheek, a Band-Aid over her right eyebrow, a yellow hospital bracelet still around her left wrist, and a pink cast on her right wrist, clearly a souvenir of yesterday’s fight with Spencer.

  Spencer lowered her eyes, feeling a whole mess of guilty feelings. Yesterday, A had sent Melissa the first few sentences of her old AP economics paper, the very one Spencer had pilfered from Melissa’s computer hard drive and disguised as her own AP economics homework. The same essay Spencer’s econ teacher, Mr. McAdam, had nominated for a Golden Orchid essay award, the most prestigious high school–level award in the country. Melissa had figured out what Spencer had done, and although Spencer had begged for forgiveness, Melissa had said horrible things to her—things way worse than Spencer thought she deserved. The fight had ended when Spencer, enraged by Melissa’s words, had accidentally shoved her sister down the stairs.

  “So, girls.” Mrs. Hastings set her coffee cup on the table and gestured for Melissa to sit. “Your father and I have made some big decisions.”

  Spencer braced for what was coming. They were going to turn Spencer in for plagiarizing. She wouldn’t get into college. She’d have to go to trade school. She’d end up working as a telemarketer at QVC, taking orders for ab rollers and fake diamonds, and Melissa would get off scot-free, just like she always did. Somehow, her sister always found a way to come out on top.

  “First off, we don’t want you girls to see Dr. Evans anymore.” Mrs. Hastings laced her fingers together. “She’s done more harm than good. Understood?”

  Melissa nodded silently, but Spencer scrunched up her nose in confusion. Dr. Evans, Spencer and Melissa’s shrink, was one of the few people who didn’t try to kiss Melissa’s ass. Spencer began to protest but noticed the warning looks on both her parents’ faces. “Okay,” she mumbled, feeling a bit hopeless.

  “Second of all.” Mr. Hastings tapped the Sentinel, squashing his thumb over Spencer’s face. “Plagiarizing Melissa’s paper was very wrong, Spencer.”

  “I know,” Spencer said quickly, terrified to look anywhere in Melissa’s direction.

  “But after some careful thought, we’ve decided that we don’t want to go public with it. This family’s been through too much already. So, Spencer, you’ll continue to compete for the Golden Orchid. We will tell no one about this.”

  “What?” Melissa slammed her coffee cup down on the table.

  “That’s what we’ve decided,” Mrs. Hastings said tightly, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “And we also expect Spencer to win.”

  “To win?” Spencer repeated, shocked.

  “You’re rewarding her?” Melissa shrieked.

  “Enough.” Mr. Hastings used the tone of voice he typically reserved for underlings at his law practice when they dared call him at home.

  “Third thing,” Mrs. Hastings said. “You girls are going to bond.”

  Her mother pulled two snapshots out of her cardigan pocket. The first was of Spencer and Melissa at four and nine years old, respectively, lying on a hammock at their grandmother’s beach house in Stone Harbor, New Jersey. The second photo was of them in the same beach house’s playroom, a few years later. Melissa wore a magician’s hat and cape, and Spencer had on her Tommy Hilfiger stars-and-stripes ruffled bikini. On her feet were the black motorcycle boots she’d worn until they’d gotten so small that they cut off all the circulation to her toes. The sisters were performing a magic show for their parents; Melissa was the magician, and Spencer was her lovely assistant.

  “I found these this morning.” Mrs. Hastings passed the photos to Melissa, who glanced at them quickly and passed them back. “Remember how you girls used to be such good friends? You were always babbling in the backseat of the car. You never wanted to go anywhere without each other.”

  “That was ten years ago, Mom,” Melissa said wearily.

  Mrs. Hastings stared at the photo of Spencer and Melissa on the hammock. “You used to love Nana’
s beach house. You used to be friends at Nana’s beach house. So we’ve decided to take a trip to Stone Harbor today. Nana isn’t there, but we have keys. So pack up your things.”

  Spencer’s parents were nodding feverishly, their faces hopeful.

  “That’s just stupid,” Spencer and Melissa said together. Spencer glanced at her sister, astounded they’d thought the same thing.

  Mrs. Hastings left the photo on the counter and carried her mug to the sink. “We’re doing it, and that’s final.”

  Melissa rose from the table, holding her wrist at an awkward angle. She glanced at Spencer, and for a moment, her eyes softened. Spencer gave her a tiny smile. Perhaps they’d connected just then, finding common ground in hating their parents’ naive plan. Perhaps Melissa could forgive Spencer for shoving her down the stairs and stealing her paper. If she did, Spencer would forgive Melissa for saying their parents didn’t love her.

  Spencer looked down at the photo and thought of the magic shows she and Melissa used to perform. After their friendship had splintered, Spencer had thought that if she muttered some of her and Melissa’s old magic words, they’d be best friends again. If only it were that easy.

  When she looked up again, Melissa’s expression had shifted. She narrowed her eyes and turned away. “Bitch,” she said over her shoulder as she sashayed down the hall.

  Spencer curled her hands into fists, all of her anger gushing back in. It would take a whole lot more than magic for them to get along. It would take a miracle.

  3 EMILY’S OWN AMERICAN GOTHIC

  Late Sunday afternoon, Emily Fields followed an old lady with a walker onto the moving sidewalk of the Des Moines International Airport, dragging her ratty blue swim duffel behind her. The bag was stuffed with all her worldly goods—her clothes, shoes, her two favorite stuffed walruses, her journal, her iPod, and various carefully folded notes from Alison DiLaurentis that she couldn’t bear to part with. When the plane was over Chicago, she realized she’d forgotten underwear. But then, that was what she got for packing frantically this morning. She’d only gotten three hours of sleep, shell-shocked from seeing Hanna’s body fly up into the air when that SUV hit her.

  Emily arrived in the main terminal and ducked into the first bathroom she could find, squeezing around a very large woman in too-tight jeans. She stared at her bleary-eyed reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her parents had really done it. They’d really sent her here, to Addams, Iowa, to live with her aunt Helene and her uncle Allen. It was all because A had outed Emily to the entire school, and all because Emily’s mother had caught her hugging Maya St. Germain, the girl she loved, at Mona Vanderwaal’s party last night. Emily had known the deal—she’d promised to do the “gay-away” Tree Tops program to rid herself of her feelings for Maya or it was good-bye, Rosewood. But when she discovered that even her Tree Tops counselor, Becka, couldn’t resist her true urges, all bets were off.

  The Des Moines airport was small, boasting only a couple of restaurants, a bookshop, and a store that sold colorful Vera Bradley bags. When Emily reached the baggage claim area, she looked around uncertainly. All she remembered about her aunt and uncle was their super-strictness. They avoided anything that might trigger sexual impulses—even certain foods. As she scanned the crowd, Emily half-expected to see the stern, long-faced farmer and his plain, bitter wife from the American Gothic painting standing near the baggage carousel.

  “Emily.”

  She whirled around. Helene and Allen Weaver were leaning against a Smarte Carte machine, their hands clasped at their waists. Allen’s tucked-in mustard-yellow golf shirt prominently displayed his massive gut. Helene’s short gray hair looked shellacked. Neither was smiling.

  “Did you check any luggage?” Allen asked gruffly.

  “Uh, no,” Emily said politely, wondering if she should go in for a hug. Weren’t aunts and uncles usually happy to see their nieces? Allen and Helene just looked annoyed.

  “Well, then, let’s go,” Helene said. “It’s about two hours to Addams.”

  Their car was an old, wood-paneled station wagon. The inside smelled like fake pine-tree air freshener, a smell that always made Emily think of long, cross-country drives with her grumpy grandparents. Allen drove at least fifteen miles under the speed limit—even a frail old woman squinting over her steering wheel passed them. Neither her aunt nor her uncle said a word the whole drive—not to Emily, and not to each other. It was so quiet, Emily could hear the sound of her heart breaking into seven million tiny pieces.

  “Iowa sure is pretty,” Emily commented loudly, gesturing to the endless flat land all around her. She’d never seen a place so desolate—there weren’t even any rest stops. Allen made a small grunt. Helene pursed her lips even tighter. If she’d pursed any harder, she’d have swallowed her lips altogether.

  Emily’s cell phone, cool and smooth in her jacket pocket, felt like one of the last bridges to civilization. She brought it out and stared at the screen. No new messages, not even from Maya. She’d sent Aria a text before she left, asking how Hanna was doing, but Aria hadn’t responded. The newest text in her inbox was the one A had sent last night—She knew too much. Had A really hit Hanna? And what about the things Aria had told her before Hanna’s accident—could Spencer be Ali’s killer? Tears dotted Emily’s eyes. This was definitely the wrong time to be so far from Rosewood.

  Suddenly, Allen took a sharp right off the road, veering onto a bumpy dirt path. The car wobbled over the uneven ground, crossing over several cattle guards and passing a few rickety-looking houses. Dogs ran up and down the length of the path, barking viciously at the vehicle. Finally, they pulled onto yet another dirt road and came to a gate. Helene got out and unlocked it, and Allen drove the car through. A two-story, white-shingled house loomed ahead. It was spare and modest, sort of reminiscent of the Amish houses in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, that Emily and her parents used to stop at to buy authentic shoofly pie.

  “Here we are,” Helene said blandly.

  “It’s beautiful,” Emily said, trying to sound upbeat as she got out of the car.

  Like the other houses they’d passed, the Weavers’ property was surrounded by a chain-link fence, and there were dogs, chickens, ducks, and goats everywhere. One brave goat attached to the cattle guard by a long chain trotted right up to Emily. He butted her with his dirty-looking horns, and she screamed.

  Helene looked at her sternly as the goat waddled away. “Don’t scream like that. The chickens don’t like it.”

  Perfect. The chickens’ needs took precedence to Emily’s. She pointed to the goat. “Why is he chained like that?”

  “She,” Helene corrected her. “She’s been a bad girl, that’s why.”

  Emily bit her lip nervously as Helene led her into a tiny kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the fifties. Emily immediately missed her mom’s cheery kitchen, with its chicken collectibles, year-round Christmas towels, and refrigerator magnets shaped like Philadelphia monuments. Helene’s fridge was bare and magnet-free and smelled like rotting vegetables. When they walked into a small living room, Helene pointed to a girl about Emily’s age sitting on a vomit-colored chair and reading Jane Eyre. “You remember Abby?”

  Emily’s cousin Abby wore a pale khaki jumper that came to her knees and a demure eyelet blouse. She’d pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck, and she wore no makeup. In her tight LOVE AN ANIMAL, HUG A SWIMMER tee, ripped Abercrombie jeans, tinted moisturizer, and cherry-flavored lip gloss, Emily felt like a whore.

  “Hello, Emily,” Abby said primly.

  “Abby was nice enough to offer to share her room with you,” Helene said. “It’s just up the stairs. We’ll show you.”

  There were four bedrooms upstairs. The first was Helene and Allen’s, and the second was for John and Matt, the seventeen-year-old twins. “And that one’s for Sarah, Elizabeth, and baby Karen,” Helene said, gesturing to a room that Emily had mistaken for a broom closet.

  Emily gaped. She hadn’t
heard of any of those cousins. “How old are they?”

  “Well, Karen’s six months, Sarah is two, and Elizabeth is four. They’re at their grandmother’s right now.”

  Emily tried to hide a smile. For people who shunned sex, they certainly had a lot of offspring.

  Helene led Emily into an almost-empty room and pointed to a twin cot in the corner. Abby settled down on her own bed, folding her hands in her lap. Emily couldn’t believe the room had been lived in—the only furniture was the two beds, a plain dresser, a small round rug, and a bookshelf with hardly any books on it. At home, her room was plastered with posters and pictures; her desk was strewn with perfume bottles, cutouts from magazines, CDs, and books. Then again, the last time Emily was here, Abby had told her she was planning to become a nun, so perhaps no-frills living was part of her nunnish training. Emily glanced out the big picture window at the end of the room and saw the Weavers’ enormous field, which included a large stable and a silo. Her two older boy cousins, John and Matt, were lugging bales of hay out of the stable and onto the bed of a pickup truck. There was nothing on the horizon. At all.

  “So, how far away is your school?” Emily asked Abby.

  Abby’s face lit up. “My mom didn’t tell you? We’re homeschooled.”

  “Ohh…” Emily’s will to live slowly seeped out the sweat glands in her feet.

  “I’ll give you the class schedule tomorrow.” Helene plunked a few grayish towels onto Emily’s bed. “You’ll have to take some exams to see where I place you.”

  “I’m a junior in high school,” Emily offered. “I’m in some AP classes.”

  “We’ll see where I place you.” Helene gave her a hard look.