by Sara Shepard
Brett would love to answer that last question—would anyone believe the story? Who knew the old fashioned scion Vera Grady, one of the very first women he killed—and the woman he claimed to be his grandma to Seneca and the others—was paranoid about banks? It wasn’t even why Brett killed her—he’d been working as a bagger at a high-end grocery down the street from her in Greenwich, and she was bitchy to him every time she came in, and he’d snapped one day, still so wounded and touchy from the agony of Elizabeth. But he considered it a lovely little perk.
He’d found money stashed all over the house. A safe with an easily crackable code contained over one hundred thousand dollars in crisp hundreds. Not even her housekeeper, Esmerelda, knew about Vera’s little nest egg, because the press didn’t report anything missing. It also helped that Brett had left everything else in that safe—a lot of gaudy jewelry, some deeds to some properties, an old, sappy love letter—untouched.
Clicking out of Google, he leaned back in the chair and cracked his knuckles. Now on to the real reason he surfed the internet. He looked right and left, making sure Joseph, the head librarian who acted like he was a force to be reckoned with, still had his nose stuck in a Le Carré novel. He did. Smiling, Brett typed in the link to Case Not Closed.
The site came up quickly. Brett signed in under the new handle he’d created, JCoin—a little twist on BMoney, get it?—and watched as the screen loaded. It was comforting how the old, badly designed homepage never changed. Neither did the losers who weighed in on the cases.
He clicked on a tab, then found himself staring at Helena Kelly’s name. Case Closed, read a red stamp over the thread. He clicked to Collette Frazier next; Seneca must feel so good that her mommy got a shiny new Case Closed sticker, too. The thread was still open, though, and he clicked on the thread, scrolling all the way to the bottom. Some of the regulars had weighed in after Brett had been arrested—and the press had made public that he’d been posting on CNC as BMoney for years. HE’S NOT ONE OF US, some bitch named MizMaizie wrote in all caps, peppering the post with skull emojis and a GIF of a burly dude pounding his fist into his palm. I hope that guy rots in hell.
Sigh, Brett thought. You couldn’t please everyone, could you?
His gaze drifted to the little message window in the corner. There was no number superimposed over the image, meaning he’d received no new messages—no one knew who JCoin was, and no one cared. He hadn’t weighed in on any cases yet. He was dying to, though. There was a girl in Arkansas who’d been found in a barn, slashed from throat to belly button. There was a set of twins who vanished from their Texas home and cleaned out their parents’ doomsday prepper’s stash of gold bullion in the basement. There was a missing little girl in Phoenix, a murdered college student in New York, a brand-new housewife found dead in her trailer in Michigan and her husband nowhere to be found. Every day, dreadful things rolled onto this site, too many cases, too much work for the cops, deaths and disappearances that got shoved in a closet and forgotten about because there were just too many of them in the world.
Of course he wanted to dive into one of them. And hell, maybe he could be helpful. An insider’s perspective, if you will. But it was kind of lonely to solve cases by yourself. What Brett really wanted was a team.
He opened a new message window and hovered the mouse over the recipient line. Going for it, he typed in TheMighty. Her name autofilled in the space, which meant her handle was still active on the site. Brett felt a little tingle in his bones. That was a good start.
I miss you, pal, he typed. And then, because he was afraid to write anything more that might give him away, he pressed the little blue send button. The message disappeared into the ether; Brett imagined it scrambling up, zooming through electronic tunnels, only reshaping once it reached Seneca Frazier’s inbox. It was a pleasure to shut his eyes and fantasize the first moments she read the note. Would she instantly know who it was, or would it take her a moment? Would she be afraid … or maybe a little bit thrilled? And most of all, would she write back?
Brett hoped she would. He really did. The world was much more fun when they were playing the game.
TURN THE PAGE FOR A PEEK INSIDE THE DEVIOUS MIND
OF EVERYONE’S FAVORITE VILLAIN, MONA VANDERWAAL!
I WISH I could say I’m humble. The sort of girl who fades into the shadows after pulling off something amazing and says, Oh, you know. We all worked hard. But forget that, people. You don’t get far in life by sharing the spotlight. I’ve been kicked around too much already—life owes me. Nope, I want all the credit. I want to go down in freaking history. And you know what? I think it might just happen.
It’s Friday night, and I’m at the Rosewood Country Club, where the welcome-back masquerade party I’m throwing for my longtime bestie, Hanna Marin, is about to start. It’s a typical Mona Vanderwaal party. You know, where a huge party tent is transformed into a casino swanky enough that supermodels and high rollers would beg to play here. There are faux-marble walls and velvet banquettes. I called in professional card dealers from Atlantic City. A fleet of hot waiters roams about with canapés. I even rigged a Cleopatra-style platform for Hanna to ride in on for her big entrance. Basically, Vanity Fair and Us Weekly should be photographing this thing instead of the lame-ass Main Line society blog … and I’m the mastermind behind all of it.
I hear a crackle on my headset. “Okay, Hanna’s in position.” It’s a sophomore loser whose name I can’t remember; I chose her from a list of minions who begged to help out with the party. Little do these girls know they’ll be helping out with a few other details tonight, too. Namely, spying.
“Great,” I say into the microphone. “DJ, let’s get some entrance music for my girl.”
The opening notes of classic hip-hop swell from the DJ booth. The tasseled platform, held aloft by a team of muscled models, parades into the tent. Hanna, her banged-up face concealed with a satin mask, sits atop the thing, waving like a queen. Welcome back, Hanna! reads a banner over the entrance. Before I hung it up, I had everyone at school add personalized messages, cheesy things like We were so worried about you! and So happy you’re okay! Girls Hanna never even spoke to signed that thing like they were her soul sisters—but, hey, when a girl is mowed down by a car in a dark parking lot, everyone’s going to rally around her. Naturally, I added my own message, a long note about how I was so thankful that all that had happened to my bestie in the hit-and-run was a mild case of amnesia. It felt a little disingenuous writing it—because, well, yours truly was the one who was driving the car that fateful night. I had to do it, though. She’d figured out I was A. She knew too much.
Not that Hanna remembers that.
“Woot!” Hanna cries under the mask. Everyone from Rosewood Day cheers. I plaster a fake smile on my face until my cheeks hurt. Enjoy it for now, bitch, I think as the guys bobble Hanna’s platform even higher. Because it’s all going to be over soon. And this time, I’m going to leave you with a lot more than just bruises.
Let the party begin!
I’M REALLY NOT one for sob stories. I don’t want you to pity me. Yes, I, Mona Vanderwaal, used to be a girl I don’t like thinking about anymore, a girl with qualities I’m so far removed from I’m not going to bore you by talking about them. And I just happened to live on the same street as Alison DiLaurentis, one of the cruelest girls I’ve ever met, a girl who took great pleasure in making my life miserable. But whatevs, right?
Others might wallow in this sad past. They might make anti-bullying proclamations on their Facebook pages or start a charity, and they’d definitely slouch through high school as a weird, nichey nerd. But I never wanted to be that girl. When Ali and her little crew—Spencer Hastings, Hanna Marin, Emily Fields, and Aria Montgomery—teased, taunted, laughed, and humiliated me, I might have run away with my tail between my legs, but I was pissed.
I didn’t have anything to do with Ali’s disappearance the very last day of seventh grade. Still, the day the news broke, I shut myself inside m
y bedroom and stared at myself in the mirror. There was a wide, freaked-out smile on my face. I laughed silently for what felt like hours. The universe had finally listened to me. It was a miracle.
My parents were glued to the TV that whole weekend, horrified that the most magnetic, beautiful girl in all of Rosewood had disappeared from our street. They joined the search parties. They went to charity events in Ali’s honor. But can you guess what I was doing? Crossing my fingers and toes. Throwing coins into fountains. Coming up with every superstitious way to wish for that bitch to be gone for good.
Once eighth grade began, a light switch came on, and all of a sudden, my social life improved. With Ali still missing, I realized I could scoop up one of her adrift friends and start a new clique. That’s right: My first instinct was to befriend those bitches, not to ruin them. What can I say? I idolized them. I wanted to be them. Fun fact: My first choice was Spencer Hastings. We were in the same honors classes together—not that she ever noticed me—and our houses were across from each other. I spent every day staring at the large, stately gates that surrounded the Hastings property. Spencer, in all her preppy, purebred Rosewood-ness, felt right.
But Spencer ignored me same as ever. Guess we don’t always get what we want.
Hanna, the group’s weakest and most insecure, ended up a great second choice, though. Together, she and I got hot. Straightened our hair. Discovered self-tanning. Basically, we became swans. Kids I’d known since kindergarten thought I was a new girl, I looked so different, and with Hanna at my side, I had instant entrée into popularity. You’d think I’d be satisfied with that.
Oh, people. All that glitters … well, sometimes it turns green the moment you put it on your finger.
The thing is, even after Hanna and I started sharing sushi bento boxes for lunch and shopping out of each other’s closets, there were still these moments when I’d look over at her and think, I can’t believe you. Let’s face it: Hanna might not have been the one dishing out the insults, but she’d stood there like a tree stump and let Ali tease me again and again and again. She never stuck up for me. She never looked conflicted about what Ali was doing. And you know what? After we became close, Hanna never apologized about it. I kept waiting for this big mushy moment between us … but it never came.
So after years of friendship, I started to get bitter. I started to think about Ali’s whole posse, actually, and what they were up to now that Ali was gone. They didn’t really seem damaged by any of it. They didn’t have a clue what it felt like to be teased the way they’d teased me—and they probably never would.
I wanted to give them a little education.
Cue the DiLaurentis family finally moving out of their house. Cue them dumping all sorts of shit on their curb for the garbagemen. Cue nosy me noticing their garbage, which included framed boy-band posters from Ali’s room, which her family had kept like a shrine for four long years. It might sound sort of perverse, but I really wanted those posters. I wanted something from the girl who made my life hell hanging in my bedroom. As a reminder, maybe. As a weird sort of vision board.
What I found beneath those boy-band posters, of course, was far more valuable: a diary full of dirt on Ali’s best friends. It turned me into a whole new person: A.
Yep. I want credit for that, too.
“DO YOU LOVE the party?” I cry to Hanna, whom I’ve found in the crowd. I wrap my arms around her and give her a huge hug.
“Naturally,” Hanna swoons.
Spencer, who helped me plan this shindig, waltzes up behind us. I sling my arm around her, my gaze still on Hanna. I can tell Hanna’s pleased that Spencer and I have grown closer. On my end, it was a calculated move. I also told the girls I’ve received a few A notes, faking a few coming to my phone. I need the girls to think I’m a victim, just like them, and whoever A is—whoever hit Hanna with their car—it’s someone who hates me, too. Because the more these bitches trust me, the less they’ll suspect me—and the more they’ll tell me about what they think they know.
More than that? It feels a little delicious to finally be part of their inner circle. This week, when we were all together at Spencer’s, I pictured this just being … life. I saw myself as their leader—their Ali. Maybe I could drop being A, I thought. Maybe we could all just be a squad.
But for me, grudges die hard. And also, once you get a taste of being A, it’s kind of hard to stop.
I feel someone eyeing me and swivel around, releasing Spencer. It’s Lucas Beattie, this creeper dork from our school. He sidles up to Hanna and whispers something in her ear, and Hanna gives me a nervous glance. I have no clue what that’s about, but before I can ask, Lucas has whisked Hanna away into the shadows.
I straighten up, annoyed. Where the hell did they go so fast?
I turn on the headset. “Can someone give me an ID on Hanna?”
There’s a crackle. “I don’t see her,” a voice calls.
I bite my lip hard. Why did Lucas steal her away so quickly? I think about how he’d accompanied Hanna to my Sweet Seventeen party last week—after the party ended, I mowed her down with my car. But Lucas couldn’t know about that—he wasn’t even there when it happened. Right?
Stop, I tell myself. You’re being paranoid. Then I remember the other moving parts of this evening, everything else I need to keep track of. I stand on tiptoes and scan the crowd. “What about Aria Montgomery?” I say into the headset.
Another fuzz of static. “Not here yet. Why do you need her?”
Mind your own damn business, I want to tell the voice. “Because she’s one of Hanna’s closest friends, obviously. Just let me know when she arrives, okay?”
I sign off, then spy Eric Kahn, Noel’s older brother, by a little pillow-swathed nook in the corner. He’s holding a silver flask, which looks inviting. “Hey,” I say, slipping onto the couch next to him. “Mind if I have some of that?”
“Be my guest,” Eric says, passing it over.
The whiskey burns my chest as I swallow it down. Eric leans over and starts whispering compliments about my dress. He’s cute and totally my type, but for some reason, I’m feeling nostalgic and bitter about my past tonight. I have this photographic memory of Eric sitting with a few friends, including Ali, on a big rock outside Ali’s house in sixth grade. Eric looked up and saw me lurking, like the socially awkward girl I used to be, on my porch across the street. Then Ali noticed him watching, her eyes gleaming nastily. What, Eric? Do you have a crush on her? she’d said. Eric’s face had reddened. No way! Barf!
I bet Eric doesn’t remember that at all. Or, rather, I bet he doesn’t remember he was making fun of me. Funny how that works.
Hanna emerges from the shadows. I perk up and wave her over. She flops down between us. Eric offers her some whiskey, too, and Hanna takes a pull.
“Thank God you got away from Loser Lucas,” I say, playfully poking her arm. “Why has he been hanging around you so much, anyway?”
There’s a pregnant pause. Hanna bleats out a squeaky laugh. “Actually, Lucas says I shouldn’t trust you. He says there’s something you’re not telling me.”
My heart thuds. My throat goes dry. No. Surely Lucas hasn’t figured out my endgame. He’s clever, but I’m smarter. I need tell Hanna something here, something that has nothing to do with A, but something that explains what Lucas is talking about. And then, brilliantly, I’ve got it—and it’s not even a lie.
I clear my throat and lean closer. “Look. There is something I never told you. Lucas and I dated the summer between seventh and eighth grade. But then I dumped him. I don’t think he’s ever gotten over it.” I push my mask off my face so she can see my embarrassment. “Lucas is a loser, Han. I didn’t want you to think I was a loser, too.” Though that’s exactly what you used to think. You had no trouble laughing about me with Ali. But I don’t say that part. I never say that part.
Hanna’s expression morphs into one of confusion. “So, wait. Lucas was trying to be my friend and saying nasty things about
you to get back at you for dumping him?”
I nod. “He’s the one you shouldn’t trust.”
Hanna thinks this over, then shoots to her feet. She squares her shoulders and marches toward Lucas, who is grabbing a soda from a metal bucket. Shit. I leap up and try to pull her back, but Hanna ignores me. Lucas looks up as she approaches. He even offers her his Sprite.
Hanna waves the soda away. “Mona told me the truth. You guys used to date.”
Lucas’s smile vanishes. He looks at me, one eyebrow raised aggressively. A girl has two choices in this moment: wilt and come up with some bullshit about how Hanna misunderstood what I meant, or freaking own it. So I stand taller. Stare him down. That’s right, I tell him with my gaze. You don’t scare me.
“Hanna doesn’t like boys who lie,” I say, shooting him an icy smile.
Lucas crosses his arms over his chest. “But I suppose she likes girls who lie?”
“I’m not lying about anything, Lucas,” I say, making sure my voice doesn’t crack. Could he be talking about the car accident? Could he know?
“So then you told Hanna what really happened at your party?” Lucas asks.
I blink. The party. That’s what he means. Okay, so I humiliated Hanna at my Sweet Seventeen party, first disinviting her, then laughing hysterically when her dress practically ripped off her body in front of a huge crowd of people—and clearly it’s another thing her amnesia wiped away, because Hanna looks totally clueless. It was an A stunt, obviously. I was punishing Hanna for all the time she’d been spending with her old besties instead of me.