by Sara Shepard
I dig my nails into my palm. People always underestimate Jenna—despite the fact that she can’t see, very little gets past her. A few days after her stepbrother, Toby, killed himself, she came to my door and let herself in the moment I opened it.
I still remember the fury on her face as she stood in the foyer. The undeniable knowing. I don’t know how she figured out what I was doing to Ali’s old friends—she never offered an explanation. I didn’t bother to apologize for Toby’s death, either. I knew what he did to Jenna. I knew she was afraid of him. And technically, his suicide wasn’t my fault.
Weeks ago, when Jenna and I stood face-to-face, ex-friends with a hell of a lot of past between us, she said, You’d better be careful. You’re playing with fire. And then she grabbed her dog’s leash and left again.
“I’ll stop when I’m ready,” I say to Jenna now, straightening my spine. “And I’m not ready yet. Do you have a problem with that?”
Jenna breathes in. She’s about to say something, but then a voice rings out from inside the classroom. “Who’s there?” Aria cries, her voice small and brittle.
I stiffen. Jenna pulls up on her dog’s leash.
“Hello?” Aria says. “Who’s there?”
Another clap of thunder sounds. I lean into Jenna, close enough to smell her lavender shampoo. “Do you have a problem with that?” I repeat.
Jenna trembles a little. “No,” she whispers.
“Good.” And then I’m gone.
THE STORM HAS ended by the time I get back to the country club. Inside the tent, Mason Byers has taken his shirt off. A few other boys follow suit, and suddenly, there are a bunch of juniors acting like male strippers. I laugh at them like everyone else, but inside, I’m rattled. This evening has been intense, and it’s nowhere near over. It feels like there’s a cloud hanging over me, like something foreboding is about to happen. Is that just because of the cop? The power outage? Seeing Jenna?
I need a drink.
I find Spencer and grab her arm. “Hey, sweetie. You have a sec? I have a surprise.”
I pull her through the crowd until we’re alone. A waiter appears with a tray containing two flutes full of champagne. I pluck one and indicate for Spencer to take the other.
“It’s real champagne,” I whisper. “I wanted to propose a toast to thank you for planning this fantastic party with me … and also for being there. About … you know. Those notes.”
“Of course,” Spencer says faintly, her bright smile dimming. It sets my heart thrumming. She’d tell me if a cop confronted her about A, right? So does this mean she hasn’t told him anything yet?
But I can’t let on that I even know about the cop. So I sip and lean back on the couch. “This party is really awesome,” I tell her. “We should start a party-planning business together.”
Spencer chuckles. “And we’ll flash country club boys on the side.”
“Of course!” I whoop, feeling a true whoosh of pleasure. It’s been fun to hang out with Spencer, actually—like I’m finally getting my wish.
Spencer takes a sip, but she still looks distracted. A fast song starts, and kids run to the dance floor. I leap up, too, gesturing for Spencer to follow. She shakes her head, then heads outside.
I dance for only a few moments before following her—if that cop’s still out there, I need to know he isn’t going to corner her. Spencer heads to the bathroom trailer next to the tent. Moments later, another girl pushes through the ladies’ room door, too. It’s Melissa Hastings, Spencer’s sister.
Oh. Maybe that’s why Spencer’s acting so frazzled. All this week, I’ve sent her notes hinting that Melissa might be responsible for Ali’s murder. It isn’t true, but I’d rather Spencer be focused on figuring out Ali’s killer—and tearing apart her family—than unraveling the truth about my identity.
I creep into the trailer and hide in the third stall. Spencer and Melissa are standing by the sinks, which are around the corner. “What?” I hear Spencer say. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Her voice echoes off the trailer’s hard walls.
“Why did you lie to me again?” Melissa snaps back.
There’s a long pause, and then Spencer goes, “Lie?”
And then Melissa’s talking about how her boyfriend, Ian Thomas, snuck into Spencer’s hotel room in New York last night—seems Spencer and Ian have trouble staying away from one another. This strikes me as hilarious, because Spencer should know better than to cross crazy Melissa. I also feel a little protective of Spencer, because Ian Thomas? Yikes.
“We didn’t do anything,” Spencer protests. “I swear.”
Melissa scoffs. “I thought we had an understanding. I guess not.” Then, all at once, the bathroom door bangs open. Melissa stomps out. Spencer’s shoes remain planted by the sink.
Slowly, I push out of the stall. Our eyes meet in the mirror. If Spencer’s surprised to see me, she doesn’t show it.
“Was that your sister?” I whisper.
Spencer looks away and bites her lip.
I grab her wrists. “Are you okay?”
Spencer shrugs, then says she needs a moment to compose herself. I nod and step out of the trailer to wait. Kids pass by me in clumps. A junior couple makes out against a giant oak. I scan the greens for that skinny cop, but I still don’t see him. The squad car is still here, though, parked in its same spot, the serious lettering of Rosewood PD emblazoned across the doors.
Moments later, the bathroom door opens, and Spencer hobbles onto the landing. Her skin is pale, and her face is slack. She’s holding a crumpled piece of paper in her trembling hands.
I cock my head, my nerves snapping. “What’s that?”
Spencer hands it to me. On the front is a photo of Ali and Ian Thomas at the People’s Light playhouse. Ali’s head is tilted just so, her smile just a teensy bit snarky. Scrawled over her face are the words You’re dead, bitch. Before I can process this, Spencer turns it over and shows me the back. Written in spiky lettering is this: Better watch your back … or you’ll be a dead bitch too. –A. The handwriting is familiar, but I don’t know why.
The blood freezes in my veins. I didn’t write this.
I didn’t write this!
My thoughts are flying so quickly I can’t hold on to them. I didn’t write this A note. Which means someone else did, which means someone else is aware that A exists—someone other than the girls. Right? It would have to be someone other than the girls. They wouldn’t dare send A notes to each other.
But that means someone else is trying to scare Spencer—or frame Melissa—or both. And I’m pissed, too, because A is my jam. Who the hell is infringing on my plan? And is this supposed to be some message for me, too? All of a sudden, I have a pretty good theory of who it might be—Ali’s true killer. The answer in the back of Ali’s diary, the answer I’ve known all along.
“Wh-where did you find this?” I ask Spencer, my fear and surprise for once completely genuine.
“In my bag,” Spencer whispers. “A must have put it there. I swear it wasn’t there a minute ago.”
I run my hands over my cheeks and look around. The tent is stuffed with kids. The parking lot is full of cars. Is his one of them?
Spencer takes a shaky breath. “A is here,” she says. “At this party.”
“Clearly,” I say with an odd little shiver, wondering when he was able to slip around Spencer unnoticed and push a note into her purse. Is this how the girls have felt the whole time? Watched? Hunted?
But suddenly, I realize something. This is actually wonderful. If Poseur A wants to send notes, too, then let him take all the blame. His fingerprints must be all over that photo. The cops could do a handwriting analysis on the A note. Then I’ll anonymously send them that last page from Ali’s diary, and I’ll get off scot-free.
I snatch the note from Spencer and hold it in my steady hands. “We need to tell the police. Now.”
I storm toward the parking lot, looking for the cop who was here earlier. Except that’s t
he thing. His cruiser isn’t there anymore.
Funny how you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.
BACK INSIDE THE tent, we round up the other girls except for Aria, who still hasn’t made it to the party. “Look,” Spencer says to Emily and Hanna, showing them the scrawl over Ali’s picture and the A note. “We need to go to the police.”
I listen as she says she thinks Ali’s killer is Melissa, my heart thrumming, my brain spinning. Her theory is all wrong, though I understand why she thinks it—I sent her down that garden path. Also, the handwriting on the photo resembles Melissa’s—but then, a murderer is probably good at forgery, too, right?
To be honest, who Spencer suspects doesn’t matter so much right now: The cops will do all sorts of forensic testing on this note, and they’ll get to the right conclusion. I wish I could just tell the truth, but there’s no way I can. I’m not supposed to know that sort of inside information. I’d have to admit that I have Ali’s diary … which would open a whole Pandora’s box of lies.
As the DJ plays a new song by Beyoncé, Spencer taps Officer Wilden’s contact on her phone. Wilden doesn’t pick up. She breathes out, frustrated. “I’m just going to go down to the station,” she says, but then makes a face. “Shit. My parents drove me here.”
“I’ll take you,” I say quickly. I need to steer this conversation and make sure it goes exactly as I need it to.
The parking lot is empty of people. Night has fallen, but the sky is cloudy, all the stars hidden. This time, we take my yellow Hummer, which is parked at the back of the lot and takes us forever to get to. We’re quiet as we climb in. Spencer fiddles with a loose thread on her dress. As we pull away, I take a final look at the party crowd, wondering where my copycat is—and how he knew what I was up to. It bothers me that he slipped an A note into Spencer’s bag without me seeing. I’m the one who’s supposed to do the manipulating. I’m the one who’s supposed to hold all the cards.
As we pass the riding academy, Spencer falters, saying she isn’t sure she can turn Melissa in, but I manage to talk her out of it, saying it’s for our own good. Then I take a turn in the road, counting the minutes until we pull into the police station and this is off my plate. All of a sudden, Spencer’s phone dings.
“Maybe that’s Wilden,” she murmurs.
She looks down at her screen but doesn’t say anything. Her tongue runs slowly over her lips. She swallows audibly. After a moment, she starts typing. Almost instantaneously, her phone pings again. She doesn’t tell me who this text is from, either.
“Was it Wilden?” I ask.
Spencer slowly shakes her head. Her eyes dart all over the place. “Um, no … it was … it was my mom.”
Bells suddenly go off in my brain. I know these girls pretty well by now. Hours and hours of spying gets you an inside look at what someone’s all about. So I know, for instance, when they’re lying. Each has a little tell, a tiny quirk they don’t even know they’re doing. Spencer’s tell is that the cadence of her voice changes. Normally, she talks smoothly and quickly, just like the confident debate team girl who nails a rebuttal and cross-examination. But when she’s lying, her words come out slowly, almost laboriously, like she’s lost twenty IQ points. And that’s what she’s doing right now.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
Her phone keeps pinging. Again, again, again. She reads the messages but doesn’t say a word. I try to keep my laughter light and guileless. “You’re certainly popular. What’s going on?”
“Um, nothing.”
I feel the smile melt from my lips. Shit, shit, shit. Something is really wrong. Is this what I think it is? Does she know?
“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” I ask, a slight edge to my voice I can’t control. “What, is it a secret? Am I not good enough to know?”
Spencer flinches, and suddenly, I’m certain. She’s moved away from me like she’s scared of me. And that can only mean one thing.
Hanna remembered.
My heart drops. No. No. How could Hanna have remembered? Amnesia is supposed to be permanent! This isn’t how this is supposed to go! Spencer and I are supposed to go to the police station and blame someone else.
Plan B, I think. Plan B, plan B, plan B.
I gun the engine just a tiny bit. I also reach over and hit the lock button for the doors. The blood drains from Spencer’s face as I take a hard left onto a two-lane country road—away from the police station. Away from civilization entirely. And all of a sudden, I can see clearly how it’s going to end.
“Wh-where are we going?” she whispers.
“You were never one for patience. But this time, you’ll just have to wait and see.”
Spencer squashes up against the door, and I can see tears in her eyes. I don’t like seeing her afraid, but I don’t know what else I can do—it’s every girl for herself at this point. I take another turn down an even narrower road.
“Why are we turning down Brainard Road?” Spencer asks. “This isn’t the way to the police station.”
I snort. Why the hell would we go to the police station anymore?
“Are we going to the stream?” Spencer asks next.
“Maybe.”
“Well, I just love the stream,” Spencer says.
There’s something bright and friendly about her voice. Too friendly, considering what I know she knows. I turn to her, suddenly suspicious. And then I see it: Her phone is facedown, covered by her palm, but the screen is glowing. On.
I grab it out from under her. Spencer shrieks and grabs for it back, but I hold it away from her. There’s a call in progress. The name on her screen is Detective Wilden.
Hot, fiery anger courses through me—I almost feel betrayed. I glare at her, and she cowers back. “You’ve made a terrible mistake,” I hiss. And then I throw her phone out the window.
Guess it’s time to be the bad guy.
BRAINARD ROAD IS bumpy and full of dilapidated barns, spring-houses, and Quaker churches. I was going to take Spencer to the creek and talk things out with her, but now that she’s contacted Wilden, it’s game over. I decide to go to the Floating Man Quarry instead. There’s no way he’ll be able to track us there.
“So, I guess Hanna remembered, huh?” I say through gritted teeth.
Spencer faintly nods. She looks so small in the seat. So fragile.
We pull under a copse of trees, and I cut the engine. The air smells like earth and grass. I can hear the water rushing far, far below. Spencer’s breath is ragged. She lets out a few small whimpers.
“She shouldn’t have remembered,” I sigh, settling back in my seat. “She knew remembering would put all of you in danger.”
Spencer covers her face with her hands like she’s hoping she’ll disappear. I can tell she wants to know why I’ve done all this, and so I tell her. It feels good to tell, actually—explain about how furious I was at what the girls did to Jenna, how humiliated I felt by Ali every single day, and how I’d carried out my revenge, starting with Ali’s diary on that curb.
“It’s like she wanted it to fall into enemy hands,” I say. “Ali wrote down every horrible thing you did. How you guys tortured Jenna Cavanaugh, that Emily kissed Ali in the tree house, that you kissed your sister’s boyfriend. It was so easy to just become her.” I toss my hair in the way Ali used to. “It was so fun watching you guys go crazy. The whole thing was elegantly done—almost like a couture dress. Don’t you think?”
I chuckle and touch her arm. Spencer lets out an eep and recoils.
I sniff. “You look so freaked-out right now, like I’m going to hurt you. It doesn’t have to be that way, though.”
Spencer’s eyes are wide. “Be … what way?”
And then I lay out a plan that has just come to me—a plan I love. I tell her how happy I feel that the two of us have begun to bond. I tell her that, as A, I’d helped her instead of hurt her. “Setting Melissa up as Ali’s killer, I mean. It’s so perfect. Isn’t it what yo
u always wanted? With your sister in jail and out of your life, you’ll look so perfect in comparison!”
A muscle in Spencer’s cheek twitches. “But … Ali was secretly seeing Ian Thomas. Melissa had a motive to kill her.”
“Did she?” I smile mysteriously.
Spencer blinks. “Are you saying she didn’t do it?”
I think about the photo of Ali and Ian that’s now in my bag. I can crumple it up. Ruin the evidence. If Melissa taking the fall will keep Spencer on my side, then I’m all for it.
I shrug. “Who cares? If you want, we can put your sister in jail … and then we can both be A,” I go on, praying that Spencer will love this scheme as much as I do. “Spencer, you’re just as conniving as Ali was. And you’re prettier, smarter, and richer. You should’ve been the leader of the group—and I’m giving you the chance. You’ll be perfect.”
Spencer stares at me. “Me, be A?”
“Yes! Isn’t that a great idea?”
“With you?”
I grin harder.
Spencer’s eyes cut away. “B-but you hurt my friends.”
I scoff. “Are you sure they’re your friends?” I tell her about how I set her up to be Ali’s killer before Melissa … and how Aria took the bait. She even told Wilden the morning after Hanna’s accident … but he didn’t buy it. I pull out every tactic I can think of to pit her against the other girls and realize I’m the only crew she should be part of.
“If Melissa didn’t kill Ali, does that mean you did?” Spencer asks.
I shut my eyes, annoyed that she’s veered off topic. “Don’t be stupid. Of course not.”
“So who did?”
I take a breath. “Ian Thomas.”
Spencer looks skeptical. Then she laughs. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s true. It was in her diary. The night of your sleepover, Ali arranged to have this secret meeting with him. She planned to give him an ultimatum that either he break up with Melissa or it was over between them. She probably pushed him to his breaking point. Just like she always pushed people to their breaking points.”