Pretty Little Liars #11: Stunning

by Sara Shepard

  The Cliffs wasn’t the kind of place a classy, middle-aged woman would have stayed, but Spencer phoned a few resorts near The Cliffs, identifying herself as Gayle’s personal assistant and asking when Gayle had vacationed there. None of the reservations associates had any record of Gayle staying with them—ever. She’d fanned out her search, calling resorts ten, fifteen, even fifty miles away, but as far as Spencer could tell, Gayle had never even been to Jamaica.

  So how could Gayle know about what they’d done to Tabitha? How would she have gotten that photo of Emily and Tabitha or of Tabitha lying twisted and broken on the sand? Had Gayle gone to Jamaica under a fake name? Was she working with someone else? Had she hired a PI, like Aria had suggested?

  Furthermore, even if Gayle was A, the issue of Tabitha was still puzzling. Why had she acted so Ali-like at The Cliffs? Had she and Ali been friends when they were at The Preserve, and had she been trying to get revenge for Ali’s death? Or was it all an awful coincidence?

  Before she knew it, she’d arrived at the address Harper had given her. It was a large, Gothic-style brick house with gorgeous leaded-glass windows, manicured bushes, and an American flag protruding from the front porch. Spencer walked up the stone path and rang the front doorbell, which let out a few impressive bongs to the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. There were footsteps, and then the door flung open. Harper appeared, looking fresh-faced in a purple top with dolman sleeves, skinny jeans, and leather ankle boots. A navy cashmere blanket was draped around her shoulders.

  “Welcome!” she cried. “You made it!”

  She ushered Spencer inside. The foyer was drafty and smelled like a mixture of leather and jasmine perfume. Blond-wood beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and stained-glass windows decorated the walls. Spencer could just picture past Pulitzer Prize winners standing by the roaring fire or sitting in the wing chairs, having important discussions.

  “This is amazing,” she gushed.

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” Harper said nonchalantly. “I have to apologize in advance, though. My bedroom upstairs is really drafty and kind of small.”

  “I don’t mind,” Spencer said quickly. She’d sleep in the Ivy broom closet if she had to.

  Harper took Spencer’s hand. “Let me introduce you to the others.”

  She led Spencer through a long hallway lit by chrome and glass lamps to a larger, more modern room in the back of the house. A wall of windows faced the woods behind the property. Another boasted a flat-screen TV, bookshelves, and a large papier-mâché statue of the Princeton tiger mascot. Blanket-swaddled girls lounged on suede couches, tapping their iPads and laptops, reading books, or, in one blond girl’s case, playing an acoustic guitar. Spencer was almost positive the Asian girl fiddling with her phone had won the Golden Orchid a few years ago. The girl in bottle-green jeans by the window was a dead ringer for Jessie Pratt, the girl who’d gotten her memoir about living in Africa with her grandparents published at sixteen.

  “Guys, this is Spencer Hastings,” Harper said, and everyone looked up. She pointed at the girls around the room. “Spencer, this is Joanna, Marilyn, Jade, Callie, Willow, Quinn, and Jessie.” So it was Jessie Pratt. Everyone waved happily. “Spencer is an early admit,” Harper went on. “I met her at the dinner I hosted, and I think she’s a natural for us.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Quinn set aside her acoustic guitar and shook Spencer’s hand. Her fingernails were painted a preppy pink. “Any friend of Harper’s is a friend of ours.”

  “I like your guitar,” Spencer said, nodding at it. “It’s a Martin, right?”

  Quinn raised her perfectly plucked blond eyebrows. “You know guitars?”

  Spencer shrugged. Her dad was into guitars, and she used to go to some of the vintage expos with him, searching for new ones to add to his collection.

  “How do you like that?” Jessie Pratt said, pointing to the book Spencer was carrying. It was a copy of V. by Thomas Pynchon.

  “Oh, it’s great,” Spencer said, even though she didn’t really get the gist of the story. The writer barely used any punctuation.

  “We’d better get going.” Harper grabbed a sweater from the back of one of the couches.

  “Going where?” Spencer asked.

  Harper gave her a cryptic smile. “A party at this guy Daniel’s house. You’ll love him.”

  “Awesome.” Spencer dropped her duffel by the front door, waited as Harper, Jessie, and Quinn put on their coats and gathered their purses, and followed them into the cold night. They trudged down the snowy sidewalks, careful not to slip on patches of ice. The moon was out, and aside from a few cars swishing down the main avenue, the world was very quiet and still. Spencer eyed a hulking SUV parked at the curb, its motor running, but couldn’t see its driver through the tinted glass.

  They turned up the walkway of a big, Dutch-style mansion on the corner. Bass thundered from inside, and shadows passed in front of the brightly lit windows. There were a bunch of cars parked in the driveway, and more kids were making their way up the front lawn. The front door was open, and a handsome guy with thick eyebrows and longish chestnut-colored hair stood in the foyer, the official welcoming committee.

  “Greetings, ladies,” he said in a smarmy voice, sipping from a plastic cup.

  “Hey, Daniel,” Harper gave him an air kiss. “This is Spencer. She’s going to be a freshman next fall.”

  “Ah, new blood.” Daniel looked Spencer up and down. “I approve.”

  Spencer followed Harper into the house. The living room was packed, and a 50 Cent track blared loudly. The guys were drinking Scotch; the girls were in dresses and heels and wore diamond studs in their ears. In the corner, people were sitting around a hookah, bluish smoke wafting around their heads.

  When someone grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him, Spencer figured it was a hot guy—there were so many of them to choose from. But then she looked at the guy’s droopy eyes, dirty dreadlocks, crooked smile, and tie-dyed Grateful Dead 1986 Tour T-shirt.

  “Spencer, right?” The guy’s smile stretched wide. “You missed an amazing time the other night. The Occupy Philly rally rocked.”

  Spencer squinted at him. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Reefer.” The guy raised his arms in a ta-da! gesture. “From the Princeton dinner last week. Remember?”

  Spencer blinked. “What are you doing here?” she barked.

  Reefer looked around the room. “Well, a professor invited me to lunch. And then I met Daniel in the dining hall, and he told me about tonight’s shindig.”

  It was the most preposterous thing Spencer had ever heard. “A professor invited you here?”

  “Yeah, Professor Dinkins,” Reefer said, shrugging. “He’s in the quantum physics department. That’s what I’m majoring in next year.”

  Quantum physics? Spencer stared again at Reefer’s dirty jeans and beat-up hemp shoes. He didn’t even look capable of using a washing machine. And was it normal for professors to invite incoming freshmen to tour the campus? No one from the faculty had invited Spencer to visit. Did it mean she wasn’t special?

  “There you are.” Harper grabbed Spencer’s arm. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Wanna keep me company outside?”

  “Please,” Spencer said, relieved.

  “You can ask Reefer if he wants to come, too,” Harper stage-whispered.

  Spencer glanced over her shoulder at Reefer. Luckily, he was now talking to Daniel and paying no attention to either of them. Maybe Daniel would realize how much of a dork Reefer was and ask him to leave.

  “Uh, I think he’s busy,” Spencer said, turning back to Harper. “Let’s go.”

  Harper kicked open the back door and led Spencer across a brick patio to a small gazebo. Several kids were sitting around a fire pit, drinking wine. A couple was making out near the hedges. Harper settled down on a bench, pulled a cigarette from her jacket pocket, and lit it. Smelly smoke swirled around her head. “Want some?”

  It took Spencer a few
seconds for her to realize it was a joint. “Um, that’s okay. Pot makes me sleepy.”

  “Come on.” Harper inhaled hard. “This stuff is amazing. It gives you the best high.”

  Snap. A twig broke in the woods. A whooshing sound filled the air, and then soft, feathery whispers. Spencer looked around nervously. After what had happened last summer with Kelsey, the last thing she wanted was to get caught with drugs.

  “Do you really think you should do that?” Spencer said, eyeing the joint. “I mean, couldn’t you get in trouble?”

  Harper flicked a bit of ash off the tip. “Who’s going to tell on me?”

  There was another snap. Spencer gazed into the dark woods, feeling more and more nervous. “Um, my drink’s running low,” she mumbled, holding up her empty cup.

  She ran into the house, feeling relieved as soon as she returned to the overheated room. Refilling her cup with lemon-infused vodka, she strutted onto the dance floor. Quinn and Jessie invited her into their dancing circle, and she let three songs go by without thinking, trying to lose herself in the music. A junior boy named Sam cut in, dipping Spencer dramatically. The vodka zoomed through her veins, fiery and potent.

  When she saw the flashing lights reflecting across the window, she thought someone had been pulled over on the street outside the house. But then, two uniformed cops opened the front door and poked their heads inside. Most of the guests hid their drinks behind their backs. The music stopped dead.

  “What’s going on in here?” One of the officers shone a flashlight into the room.

  Everyone scattered. Doors slammed. The other cop raised his megaphone to him mouth. “We’re looking for Harper Essex-Pembroke,” his muffled voice boomed. “Miss Essex-Pembroke? Are you here?”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd. At that very moment, Harper appeared at the back door, her hair mussed, and a startled look on her pale face. “I-I’m Harper. What’s the problem?”

  The cop stepped toward her and grabbed her arm. “We got an anonymous tip that you’re in possession of marijuana, with the intent to sell.”

  Harper’s mouth dropped. “W-what?”

  “That’s a serious offense.” The corner of the cop’s mouth turned down.

  Everyone watched as Harper was escorted through the room. Quinn shook her head in horror. “How the hell did the cops find out Harper had weed?”

  As if she’d heard Quinn’s question, Harper turned around and glared at Spencer. “Nice job,” she hissed. “You ruined this party for everyone—and yourself.”

  Spencer’s eyes bulged. “I didn’t say anything!”

  Harper just gave her an incredulous look as the cops escorted her out the door. Jessie and Quinn gaped at Spencer. “You told?” Quinn exclaimed.

  “Of course not!” Spencer said.

  Jessie’s brown eyes were wide. “But you were outside with her, weren’t you? None of us would tell.”

  “It wasn’t me!” Spencer exclaimed. “I swear!”

  But her words fell on deaf ears. Within seconds, everyone else at the party was looking at her suspiciously. Spencer slipped out of the room, her face burning. What the hell had just happened? How was she suddenly to blame?

  Bzz.

  She pulled out her phone. One new text from Anonymous. She looked around at the towering trees and the silent stars. It was so quiet out, yet she felt distinctly like someone was lurking close, trying hard to keep from laughing. Taking a deep breath, she looked at her phone’s screen.

  Just be happy I didn’t call the cops about YOUR secrets. —A

  16

  RUNNING FOR HER LIFE

  “Looking good, everyone!” Hanna called to the crowds thundering down Rosewood’s main drag in the annual Rosewood Hospital 10k race. It was Saturday morning, and a steady rain was falling. Hanna’s hair looked like crap and her makeup was smudged, but she’d promised her dad she’d hand out Tom Marin buttons and treats.

  “Have a banana!” she said to a skinny older man who was puffing along in a see-through rain slicker, passing him a banana with a VOTE FOR TOM MARIN sticker on the peel. “Vote for Tom Marin!” She handed water cups printed with TOM MARIN to two chubby middle-aged women who were walking the race, huddling together under an umbrella. “Go, go, go!”

  Kate, who was standing next to her with the hood of her anorak cinched tight, chuckled playfully. “I don’t think your cheering is going to get them to move any faster.”

  “Probably not,” Hanna giggled as the middle-aged women’s portly butts disappeared around the bend.

  “Why aren’t you running this?” Kate pushed a half-peeled banana at a whippet-thin woman with iPod headphones in her ears. “I remember Mom making me cheer for you last year.”

  Hanna shrugged. Last year, she ran the race with Mike—and beat him by a couple of seconds. They’d celebrated with a big bowl of pasta at Spaghetti Heaven afterwards and were so inspired by their times that they’d registered for a few more races, which they’d run this summer. But Hanna hadn’t gone running once since she and Mike broke up.

  She gave Kate a sidelong glance. “Actually, the better question is why aren’t you running?” Kate had been a champion on her cross-country team at her old school in Annapolis. Isabel never shut up about it.

  Kate fingered her chestnut ponytail. “Because Naomi and Riley registered first. The race isn’t big enough for all of us.”

  Hanna poured more water into cups, just to do something with her hands. “So you guys are still fighting?”

  “Yeah.” Kate clapped loudly for the passing runners. “The fight’s just with Naomi. Not Riley.”

  Hanna gave Kate a strange look, hoping she’d elaborate. Was the fight still over her? Was Kate pro-Hanna, or anti-Hanna? But then Kate’s phone rang, and she took refuge under the awning of the coffee shop behind them to answer the call. Hanna watched more people stream past. There were kids from Hollis College, their T-shirts plastered to their chests. There were gung-ho über-runner types in racing singlets and track shoes. Suddenly, two familiar figures appeared around the bend. Mike’s blue-black hair was matted against his head, and he wore a white long-sleeved T-shirt, baggy black running shorts, and neon-yellow Nikes. His right hand was firmly entwined with Colleen’s. They were wearing matching outfits—only Colleen’s white tee was now see-through from the rain. It hurt to see that the Mike-and-Hanna hobby was now a Mike-and-Colleen hobby.

  Hanna tried to duck behind the water table, but then Colleen spied her and broke into a huge smile. Shit. They trotted over, breathing hard. “Omigod, Hanna, it’s so sweet that you’re handing out water!” Colleen gushed, accepting a cup, gulping it down, and grabbing another. “Thank you!”

  “Drink the whole gallon, why don’t you!” Hanna said under her breath, wanting to stuff the paper cup down her throat. Then she turned to Mike and offered him a cup of water, too. “Having a good time?” she said in the sweetest voice she could muster, as if there were no hard feelings.

  “Yeah.” Mike downed the water, then selected a banana from the tray. “This race rocks. I’m loving seeing so many girls’ butts in wet spandex.”

  “Mike,” Colleen scolded, her eyebrows furrowing. Mike hung his head in apology, and Colleen rolled her eyes before jogging to a nearby trash can to toss in her empty water cup. Hanna raised an eyebrow. Colleen didn’t put up with Mike’s sex jokes? How did they even have a conversation?

  Mike looked at Hanna with curiosity. “I’m surprised you’re not running this year.”

  Hanna shrugged. “Nope, dad-duty calls.” She showed him the VOTE FOR TOM MARIN button she’d pinned on her jacket. “I remember last year, though. After we finished, we dove into the bushes and made out, still wearing our medals.”

  Mike’s lips twitched. “Uh, yeah . . .”

  Hanna checked on Colleen. She was talking to one of the other Tom Marin volunteers by the trash can. “And then there was the 10k on the Marwyn Trail this summer, where it was so hot we went skinny-dipping in that pond halfway th
rough. Remember how that old lady almost caught us?”

  Mike’s cheeks got redder. “Hanna, I’m not sure—”

  “We should have done it that day, don’t you think?” Hanna interrupted.

  Mike’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He might have been uncomfortable, but he definitely didn’t look disgusted. Maybe he did want to have sex with her, after all.

  Hanna wiped a droplet of water off Mike’s cheek. “You know, my dad’s having a campaign party tomorrow night,” she murmured into his ear. “You should come.”

  Mike’s lips parted again. There was an intrigued sparkle in his eyes, and Hanna could tell he was considering saying yes. Then a hand gripped his arm. “Hey, my two favorite people! What are we talking about?” Colleen asked.

  Mike blinked hard, then stood up straighter. “Mr. Marin’s campaign party,” he mumbled.

  Colleen’s eyes lit up. “Omigod! Mike and I are so excited for that!”

  Hanna glared at Mike, but he was pointedly avoiding her gaze. “Colleen got a really pretty dress,” he muttered.

  “Yes,” Colleen swooned. “It was from the bebe store at the King James. Do you know that place, Hanna?”

  Hanna snorted. “Yeah. Only sluts shop there.”

  Colleen’s face crumpled. Mike’s eyebrows shot up, and then he grabbed his girlfriend’s hand and pulled her into the crowd of runners. “That wasn’t very nice,” he said over his shoulder. And then he was gone.

  What. The. Hell? As Hanna contemplated throwing cut-up bananas at the backs of their heads, a taunting giggle lilted through the air, and the hair on the back of her neck rose.

  Ping. She glanced down at her phone, which was tucked in her jacket pocket. One new text. Disturbingly, it was from a jumble of nonsensical letters and numbers.

  Think Colleen is as innocent as she seems? Think again. Everyone has secrets . . . even her. —A

  Hanna stared at the text for a long time. What the hell was A talking about?