The Amateurs: Last Seen

by Sara Shepard

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hanna interjects, but she doesn’t sound so sure.

  Lucas puts his hand on Hanna’s arm. “You don’t remember, but Mona did something awful to you. I was the one who came and saved you.”

  Hanna turns to me. I can see the hurt across her face, the sheer disbelief in what Lucas is saying. In this moment, I do feel kind of bad. I’ve never seen Hanna look as demoralized as she did when that dress ripped. And I’d laughed the loudest out of anyone.

  Hanna’s fingers fiddle with the gold bracelet I gave her as a get-well present at the hospital. But then something seems to click, and Hanna comes to a decision. She moves closer to me in solidarity. Slowly, I watch my best friend’s trust in me return. I feel a tiny jolt of gratitude—even love for the bitch. It’s funny, you know? The people we hate the most are often the ones we love the most, too.

  Hands shaking, Hanna reaches to tie her mask back on. She glances back at Lucas, her lips pinched tight. “You’re just jealous. Mona and I are best friends, and we’ll always be.”

  Damn right, I think, pulling Hanna close and walking away. My heart slows down. I feel like I’ve dodged a bullet. A bullet, I realize, that grazed way too close for comfort.

  AS HANNA AND I saunter toward the roulette wheel, I catch a glimpse of something out a small window in the tent: a tall, lanky cop with short hair lurks around the property. My muscles stiffen. I don’t recognize this guy—it’s not Wilden, the cop who’s been working Ali’s case.

  This is a private event, I want to snap at him. He stops and talks to someone I can’t see. The girl’s profile comes into view as she turns. My stomach drops.

  It’s Emily Fields.

  “Excuse me,” I say through gritted teeth as I push through the wall of masked guests. “Out of my way.” I need to get outside. I need to hear whatever this cop is saying to her.

  It’s cooler outside the tent. My ears are ringing from the loud music, though the sudden silence seems almost louder. I spy the cop and Emily near the parking lot and take a few steps toward them, pretending like I’m nonchalantly studying something on my phone.

  The cop places his hand on Emily’s shoulder. “I need to ask you a few questions. Have you been getting some threatening messages?”

  Emily’s mouth drops open. I want to gasp, too.

  “Wh-why?” Emily asks. She sounds nervous.

  “Your friend Aria Montgomery told us about them this afternoon.”

  I nearly swallow my gum. I wish I could say I heard him wrong, but I know I haven’t. All these weeks, I’ve been so careful to follow each of these girls, studying their every move, their every hesitation, their many slipups. Through my notes to them, I’ve kept them scared, second-guessing, and increasingly paranoid. I’ve distracted them with wild-goose chases and mini dramas. Aria Montgomery was at Hooters this afternoon. I sent her there, cleverly insinuating that Aria’s dad’s girlfriend, Meredith, was an employee. Aria’s so transparent. She wants any dirt she can get on Meredith, no matter how unbelievable the rumor.

  But the police station was right next door. And I guess she was too weak to heed my warnings.

  When I look up again, Emily has stepped away from the officer. “Sorry. I can’t talk right now. I have to take care of something.”

  “It’s okay,” the cop says. “I’ll be here. I have a few other people to find anyway.” And then he walks toward the tent.

  My head swims. My legs feel like wet sponges. I duck into a nearby shrub so the cop doesn’t see me. I have to think. This is bad. I need to undo the damage.

  I spy Emily running toward the club’s main building, a long brick masterpiece with curved slate peaks. She wrenches open the door and slips inside. A good portion of the front of the building is glass, so I have a clear view of her as she hurries down a long corridor. She’s running after Maya St. Germain, the girl who’s now living in the DiLaurentises’ house—a girl who’s figured so elegantly in quite a few of my A notes to Emily, as a matter of fact. I guess there’s trouble in paradise. Maya is making a beeline for the only thing at the end of the hall—the indoor pool.

  I get an idea and turn to my car, which is only a few parking spots from where I’m standing. It’s not my normal car, the bright yellow Hummer hand-me-down from my dad, but a nondescript Honda beater I use when, well, I want to go unnoticed. I’d parked it here earlier because I had a feeling I might need it.

  I pop the trunk and pull out the black bag I’ve filled with A props: fake blood, dolls, stuffed animals, bracelets and T-shirts from Ali’s room, and old MISSING PERSONS signs with Ali’s face on them. When I was younger, I’d grab them whenever I saw them, hoping that if no one saw the signs, no one would look for her. I rummage to the bottom of the bag and locate what I want. I stuff it into a plastic bag from Fresh Fields and start running toward the main building, my high heels wobbling on the freshly mowed grass.

  The hallway of the country club smells like a disconcerting mix of pool chemicals, red wine, and tartar sauce. I creep down the hall and finally catch sight of Emily stepping through the main door to the pool. Beside it, I notice a second door, this one leading to the women’s hot tub and steam room. I slip inside that door and look around. Thankfully, the hot tub is empty—the whole area closes in fifteen minutes. The water burbles calmly. Steam swirls around my face.

  The grocery bag crinkles as I plunge my hand inside and pull out what I’d found: an Ariel doll from The Little Mermaid. According to Ali’s diary, Emily had a major girl crush on Ariel, so the prop seems like a no-brainer. I’ve dressed Ariel in a blue bathing suit that looks just like the one Emily wears for swim team. Weeks ago, I ripped out patches of her long red hair, blackened her eyes, and colored in her lips with a blue marker. She looks dead. Perfect.

  I drop the doll into the hot tub. She makes a pleasant flop, her red hair fanning out around her, her mermaid tail bobbing. Thankfully, she floats. I spin her around so she’s facedown. I stretch out her arms and legs in awkward angles. I make it look like her drowning in this hot tub wasn’t an accident.

  Then I peek through the interior door that connects the hot tub and the pool. Emily and Maya are still talking near the diving boards. Maya is slumped over, tears streaming down her face. Emily stares at a starting block, her chin wobbling. Is this something I need to know about? I open the far door just so, straining to hear their voices. At first, they’re talking about Trista, the girl Emily met in Iowa. But then Emily’s expression shifts, and she looks at Maya with something that’s almost suspicion.

  “Have you been sending me text messages?” she asks, her voice gravelly. “Notes? Have you been spying on me?”

  I raise a bemused eyebrow. This is a turn I didn’t anticipate.

  Maya’s head shoots up. She looks offended. “Why would I spy on you?”

  “I don’t know. But if you are … the police know.”

  Maya starts crying even harder. “I love you. And I thought you loved me.” Letting out a tormented little shriek, she turns for the door and leaves.

  Emily turns, but she doesn’t follow her. The pale golden light plays off her profile, and she looks enviably pretty. In all my spying long before I became A, I watched Emily and Ali the most. Their relationship seemed different than the others. Deeper. They reached for each other’s hands more than the other girls did. They jostled to sit next to each other in the backseat of Ali’s mom’s SUV. When Ali had just Emily over, the two of them spent hours in Ali’s tree house. I watched them carve their initials into the trunk.

  When I found Ali’s diary last summer, I read and reread the passages about how Emily kissed her. Ali talks about how disgusted she felt about it and that it was something she would be able to humiliate Emily with down the road, but I always felt like she wasn’t being totally honest with herself. I saw the way Ali’s face lit up when she opened the door and saw Emily on her porch. I saw how her gaze lingered on Emily as she pulled her T-shirt over her head to go swimming or when she rode away from A
li’s house on her bike. Take it from someone who used to be scared about everything: I know fear and denial when I see it.

  It’s the one thing I feel bad about, actually. Not that I bullied Emily. Not that I outed her at a swim meet. But that I made it sound through my teasing, taunting A messages to Emily that Ali never cared.

  Oh my God, what is wrong with me? It must be the heat in this room. I’m totally losing my grip.

  Emily turns to go, and I realize I’ve been standing here, comatose, for almost a whole minute. I grapple for my phone and compose a text to send to her before I miss my chance. My fingers fly.

  Emmykins: There’s a girl waiting for you in the hot tub. Enjoy! –A

  My phone makes a whooshing sound as the text is sent. A second later, Emily’s phone chimes. It’s always a thrill to see the way her face pales a bit when she sees who the message is from. She licks her lips and turns toward the door to the hot tub, looking uncertain and afraid. I peer around, looking for somewhere to hide—shit. I’ve been standing here, daydreaming, when I should have been planning this out. The room is small. The windows have heavy blinds, but I’m too big to crouch behind them. My heart pounds—she’s coming. Finally, I spy a tiny nook that leads to a little closet. I duck inside, squeezing my body into the tiny space. The closet is filled with hoses, pumps, and brooms, and as I pull the door shut, a dustpan falls from a hook and clatters to the floor. I wince, preparing for the worst—Emily will hear, Emily will find me. But nothing happens.

  The door swishes open. I hear Emily’s footsteps, and then she gasps. I peek out the door—yep, she’s seen Ariel. She steps into the tub and fishes her out, then turns her over. A delicious, muffled scream comes when she reads what I’ve written on the doll’s forehead: a warning that if Emily tells that cop about me, she’ll end up as dead as the poor little mermaid.

  Hey, a girl’s got to drive the point home.

  Emily’s shoulders shake. And then, suddenly, a door slams elsewhere, echoing through the room. She straightens and looks around in terror.

  “Wh-who’s there?” she whispers, her voice trembling.

  Silence. I hold my breath, praying that whoever slammed that door isn’t going to come in here. No one does. The hot tub keeps bubbling.

  Emily’s shoulders drop. She takes a cautious step for the door. As she’s leaving, she looks down at Ariel again and tries desperately to rub out my inky message with her thumb. It doesn’t work. My threats can’t just wash away.

  ONCE I STEAL away from the humid hot tub room, I peek back into the party. The DJ is spinning a mix of hip-hop and pop, and kids are loving it. People are dancing, gossiping, and gambling. Hanna is surrounded by Mason Byers and a bunch of other boys, and Lucas sulks in a corner with Andrew Campbell. Good. I spy Spencer talking to the DJ. I don’t see that cop again, which makes me feel better. But I also don’t see Aria. How could she not be here yet?

  I switch the headset on again. “Anyone see Aria?”

  My three assistants tell me that nope, Aria’s not here, but apparently everyone’s getting hungry—when’s catering getting here? I tell them to handle it themselves, then pull out my second phone and turn on the app that GPS-tracks each of the girls’ devices. I don’t like resorting to this measure—there’s a certain brand of software out there that can detect when I’m spying, and it’s any day now that the girls are going to download it and know everything—but sometimes I don’t have a choice. The little wheel spins, indicating the app is working. Then the answer comes up: Aria’s phone is at a building at Hollis College.

  Huh?

  I run my tongue over my teeth. Aria’s been taking an art class at Hollis all week—something to take her mind off of A. Why she’s there instead of here, I’m not entirely sure—and it certainly doesn’t make my job any easier. But there’s one thing I know: I need to find her, and I need to make her understand that she can’t mess with me. Telling the cops is a big, big no-no.

  Groaning, I climb back into the Honda and zoom out of the parking lot. This had better not take very long.

  The route to Hollis takes me past my very own neighborhood, and while I’m paused at the stop sign, I glance down my pretty, treelined street. My house looms huge and silent, the setting sun slanting over the zillion-car garage. There’s a light on in my parents’ bedroom window. I’m almost positive my mother’s in there, lying in my parents’ California king bed, reading one of her thick hardcover books in utter silence. Back when I was a loser, I used to lie beside her on Friday nights, our legs entwined, the only sounds the pages slowly turning. We’d pass hours like that. I’d get lost in a book and wouldn’t have to think about everything I was missing.

  Now my mom looks at me like I have twelve heads when I talk about shopping or social events or the latest YouTube star. Even though I ask for a certain kind of makeup or pair of jeans for my birthday, she buys me books, books, books instead. It’s like she wants me to be dorky Mona again, like she liked me better that way. That fills me with so much fury every muscle in my stomach clenches tight.

  But as I release the brake to drive on, I get a twinge, too. She’s lying up there all alone. I wonder what she’s reading. I wonder if she’s disappointed in me.

  I pull into the Hollis parking lot. I don’t see Aria’s car anywhere, but she’s got to be here—the tracking app is always accurate. Overhead, gray clouds have gathered; it suddenly looks like it might storm. Holding the hem of my dress, I dart from my car to a side door of the art building, which is mercifully open and unguarded. It’s quiet in the halls and smells like turpentine, dust, and that unidentifiable, ubiquitous school odor that instantly conjures up feelings of homework and dread.

  I tiptoe past the doors and peek into empty art rooms. There are bare easels in one. Another has a series of shelves holding clay bowls and mugs and sculptures waiting to be fired. The next has a huge mural that seems to be the entire layout of Rosewood, every building and landmark painted with surreal, Dalí-esque brushstrokes. The Hollis spire is melting. Downtown Rosewood seems to levitate. The little creeks beneath the covered bridges are filled with forked-tongued dragons.

  I climb the stairs to Aria’s classroom on the third floor. My footsteps ring out on the hard, shiny floor, and thunder rumbles against the window, loud and close. The door creaks as I push it open, and I tense, anticipating seeing Aria on the other side. The room is empty. Something flashes on a shelf by the window. It’s Aria’s phone. She must have forgotten it here.

  I swallow hard. There’s no way Aria would want to be without her phone for very long. But when did she leave it here? Was it before she told the cops? If that’s the case, she had no way to prove she was getting threatening messages from me. My heart lifts. Maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought.

  I feel for the plastic bag I brought in with me containing another prop from the trunk. Working quickly, I tie the prop around the window crank, then step back and admire my work. The Wicked Queen from Snow White dangles from her noose, her eyes blackened and dead like Emily’s Ariel. I write an appropriate message. As I pin it to the queen’s gown, a grin spreads across my face.

  Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the naughtiest of them all?

  You told. So you’re next. –A

  I hear a ding at the end of the hall and freeze. It’s the elevator. I wheel around, wondering what to do. I spy a door on the other side of the room and run for it, but my foot catches on the edge of a carpet, and all of a sudden I’m on the floor. My cheek aches. My shoulder feels bruised. Still, I scramble to my knees. Footsteps ring out down the hall. It’s got to be Aria. Shit, shit, shit.

  I slither toward the door and slip through it with only seconds to spare. It leads to an adjoining classroom, and I shut it tight. A moment later, a light snaps on in the classroom I’ve just left. The back of my neck feels clammy. I try to take even breaths. She almost caught me.

  Lightning crackles, filling the sky, brightening our rooms. All at once, I can see that I’m in a jewelry-maki
ng studio, with pliers and hammers and other metalworking tools spread out across worktables. And then, with a sizzle, the lights go out. Aria shrieks. The building is suddenly and eerily silent except for a faraway fire alarm. I can barely see a few steps in front of me.

  I listen as Aria bumps into a desk. Her breathing is ragged. Thunder booms again, so forceful I’m surprised it doesn’t shake the art projects from the shelves. I wish I could see her face as she notices the queen, but it’s too dark—and I don’t want to risk being seen.

  I feel for the other door and push out of the room and back into the hallway, which is darker than ever. I can hear Aria banging around inside her classroom, probably trying to figure out a way to the exit. All of a sudden, there’s a jingling sound in the opposite direction of Aria’s classroom. I wheel around, my heart in my throat. A girl and a dog stand motionless at the other end of the hall. It seems like the girl is staring straight at me, though I know that’s impossible. Goose bumps rise on my skin all the same.

  I ease up to her. “Jenna?” I whisper.

  Jenna Cavanaugh tenses. “Mona?”

  I grab her arm. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I press my lips together. I can feel her appraising me. I can feel her judgment, too. It’s not like we’re friends anymore. We haven’t been friends in a long, long time.

  “Aria’s in there,” I tell her, gesturing to the art room at the end of the hall.

  “Oh,” Jenna says. And then: “Oh.” Like she suddenly understands why I’m here.

  “Are you going to say you saw me?” I demand.

  Jenna stares down at her guide dog. He waits patiently, his tongue hanging out.

  Finally, she looks up again. Lightning flashes, momentarily illuminating the hallway. I can see my reflection in her dark glasses.

  “I think you’ve made your point,” she says. “I really think you should stop this.”