by Sara Shepard
But the office was empty. The nurse was gone . . . and Kelsey was, too.
Chapter 38
SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
“Visiting hours are over,” a nurse in crisp medical scrubs said, poking her head into the visitation room. “If you want to schedule another appointment for tomorrow, you’re welcome to come between noon and two P.M.”
Emily bit the inside of her cheek. They had school tomorrow. “Is there any way we could call Kelsey?” she asked. “We have a quick question for her. It’s important.”
The woman fingered the badge that hung from her jacket. “I’m sorry, but phone calls are verboten for the patients. We want them concentrating on the work they do inside here, not dealing with anything from the outside world. But like I said, if you’d like to visit again . . .” She opened the door that led to the hall that eventually emptied into the lobby.
There was nothing to do but comply. Emily followed Spencer, Hanna, and Aria through the hall, her mind swarming. Kelsey’s letter to Spencer was puzzling, and her letter to Emily was downright heartbreaking. Had Kelsey really not seen what they’d done to Tabitha . . . or was that just another one of her A mind games? If she didn’t know, what did Kelsey mean at the quarry when she’d said Emily was a terrible person? Maybe it simply was because Emily had kept the secret of what Spencer had done to her. Kelsey had trusted Emily, after all.
“So what do we do?” Emily whispered. “Visit her on another day?”
“I guess so,” Spencer said. “If she’ll see us.”
The girls walked slowly through the corridor, which was lit with harsh overhead fluorescent lights and lined with tightly shut doors. “Look,” Aria hissed, stopping at a small alcove that held a water fountain. On the inside wall were dozens of scrawled names in different-colored pens. PETRA. ULYSSES. JENNIFER. JUSTIN.
“That was my roommate,” Hanna whispered, pointing to the large IRIS in pink marker. “The one I thought was A.”
Then Emily spied something in the corner, a signature so hauntingly familiar she felt her knees go wobbly. COURTNEY, it said, in silvery bubble letters. It was the same handwriting that was on the sixth-grade mural where everyone had to stamp their handprints and write a few adjectives about themselves. It was very similar handwriting, too, to the real Courtney, the girl Emily had always known as Ali. Emily pictured Her Ali writing her name at the top of a vocab quiz, the e in DiLaurentis just as loopy as this e in Courtney, the letters slanted slightly forward in the same way. Courtney had wanted to be just like Ali down to the last detail—and she had been.
The other girls followed Emily’s gaze. “So she really was here,” Spencer said quietly.
Hanna nodded. “Seeing it makes it so real.”
Emily glanced at the signature once more, then looked down the Preserve’s joyless, spic-and-span hallway. What must it have been like for Real Ali here with no one believing she was who she said she was for close to four long, miserable years? Ali must have burned with hatred for her sister for making the switch. She must have seethed with rage at Emily, Aria, Spencer, and Hanna for being at the wrong place at the right time, too. While inside these walls, she’d plotted her return, orchestrated her sister’s murder, laid out her plans as A, and even masterminded the Poconos fire.
And, if Emily’s gut feeling was right, she was still out there. Alive.
Emily turned to her three old best friends, wondering if she should tell them the secret she’d kept for over a year now. If they were going to start off on the right foot and really be close again, it had to come out sometime, right?
But then Hanna sighed and pushed out the exit door at the end of the corridor. Spencer followed, then Aria. Emily took one last look at the inside of the facility. A faint, high-pitched giggle echoed in her ears. She jumped, whirling around. But, of course, no one was there.
The girls walked across the lawn toward the parking lot. A gardener was on his hands and knees, cleaning out dried grass from one of the flower beds. A Pennsylvania state flag flapped on a pole, making a snapping noise in the wind. For the first time in a while, as they all walked quietly in a line, Emily didn’t feel awkward around her old friends. Instead, she felt comfortable. She cleared her throat. “Maybe we could hang out a little later this week,” she said softly. “Get coffee or something.”
Aria looked up. “I’d like that.”
“Me too,” Hanna said. Spencer smiled and bumped Emily’s hip. A warm sense of satisfaction fell over Emily like a thick blanket. At least one good thing had come out of this. She hadn’t realized how desperately she’d missed her old friends.
They passed a wrought-iron bench by the flagpole. It must have been newly installed; the cement base looked freshly poured. A shiny copper plaque lay in front of the bench, a bouquet of lilies next to it. Emily glanced at the plaque idly, her eyes sweeping over the letters but not really taking them in. Then, she stopped short and read them again. “You guys.”
The other girls, now a few paces ahead, doubled back. Emily pointed at the sign on the ground.
Everyone stared at the newly chiseled letters. THIS BENCH IS DEDICATED TO TABITHA CLARK, FORMER PRESERVE AT ADDISON-STEVENS PATIENT. REST IN PEACE. Her birth and death years were inscribed below the message. They were the same years as Real Ali’s.
“Oh my God,” Spencer whispered. Aria clapped her hand over her mouth. Hanna took a wheeling step backward.
“Tabitha was here?” Spencer said.
“Why didn’t this ever come up in the news articles?” Aria shook her head.
Emily looked around at the others, making a chilling connection. “Do you think she knew . . . Ali?”
Everyone exchanged a horrified glance. The wind kicked up, brushing a smattering of dead, dry leaves across Tabitha’s name. Then Aria’s cell phone let out a beep. Seconds later, Spencer’s phone, tucked deep in her bag, chimed. Hanna’s phone made a snake-hiss sound, and Emily’s phone buzzed in her pocket, making her jump.
Emily knew who the note was from without having to look. She gazed at her friends, confused. “You guys, Kelsey can’t make calls from inside the Preserve. She has no cell phone.”
“So . . .” Hanna stared at the phone. “Who wrote this?”
With shaking hands, Emily pressed READ. And then she shut her eyes, realizing this wasn’t over. Not even close.
Dig all you want, bitches. But you’ll NEVER find me. —A
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT . . .
These pretty little liars just can’t help but be bad, and I can’t help but torture them. They call that a symbiotic relationship, right? Spencer would know—unless she was high during that class? Whoopsies!
Just when poor widdle Emily thought she’d made a new bestie, Kelsey went and nearly killed her. Still have a thing for bad girls, Em? Hanna thought she was Juliet in a star-crossed love. How romantic. Maybe she should have listened when I warned her how that one ended up. And Aria—oh, Aria. She fell into some old, bad habits. Those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Fingers crossed she never learns her lesson.
I’d say these ladies need a vacation, but given what they did on their last getaway, that’s probably not the best idea. And besides, watching the drama unfold is like a holiday for moi!
Until next time, bitches.
Mwah!
—A
Acknowledgments
I can’t believe I’m writing the acknowledgments for Pretty Little Liars #10. I’m beyond lucky that the series has continued on for this long—and that I work with so many amazing editors, brainstormers, and all-around brilliant people who help make the series as compelling and interesting as it is. It’s the same cast of characters as always, but I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Lanie Davis, Sara Shandler, Josh Bank, Les Morgenstein, and Kristin Marang at Alloy Entertainment for being supportive, reliable, smart, and savvy during this whole process. You guys make all of this so much easier, and I’m thrilled we’re still partners after all these years.
; Thanks also to the people to whom I’ve dedicated this book—Farrin Jacobs, Kari Sutherland, Christina Colangelo, and Marisa Russell at HarperTeen. Farrin and Kari are amazing editors with incredible insight that turn these books from good to great. Christina has been my digital guru—she’s the mastermind behind the many Twitter contests! And Marisa put together a great tour for me this summer, where I got to meet so many of my wonderful readers. I feel so safe and nurtured with you guys, and I’m very excited for the future!
Thanks also to Andy McNicol and Jennifer Walsh at William Morris, to the awesome TV people who continue to produce nail-biting episodes of Pretty Little Liars, including Marlene King, Oliver Goldstick, Lisa Cochran-Neilan, all of the fantastic writers, directors, producers, and crew, and of course Lucy, Shay, Ashley, Troian . . . and Sasha! Let’s not forget the ingénue who plays Ali! Thanks to Andrew Zaeh, who endured recording all those gifts at the baby shower, and to Colleen McGarry for being all-around wonderful—and finding my husband the best cupcakes ever. While we’re on the subject, much love to my husband, Joel, and to my parents, Shep and Mindy, and to Ali, who, may I remind everyone, is nothing like the Ali in the books . . . either of them.
I forgot to thank Mia Rusila in Twisted for all her help with Finnish translation, so since Klaudia’s still in the mix, I’d like to give her a shout-out here. Thanks to all the fans I met this summer on tour, all the fans I speak to on Twitter, and everyone else who is inspired by the books or the TV show. All of you make writing worthwhile. Keep it up, and promise me to keep your secrets safe from A!
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