by Sara Shepard
The chair creaked as she sat back. Did she really need to open these? Did she really need to know?
Downstairs, she heard the KitchenAid mixer start to whir. A siren whooped. Spencer massaged her temples. But what if the secret had something to do with Ali?
The temptation too great, Spencer clicked on the first file. It opened quickly, and Spencer leaned forward, too anxious to take a full breath.
Dear Jessica, I’m sorry things got cut short at your house tonight. I can give you all the time you need, but I can’t wait to be alone with you again.
Much love, Peter
Spencer felt sick. Jessica? Why was her dad writing to someone named Jessica, telling her that he wanted to be with her?
She clicked on the next document. It was another letter. Dear Jessica, it said again. Per our discussion, I think I can help. Please take this. Xx, Peter
Below was a screen grab of a bank wire transfer. A row of zeroes swam before Spencer’s eyes. It was a huge sum, much more than had been in Spencer’s college savings account. Then she spied the account names in the bottom corner of the document. The wire had come from a credit line belonging to Peter Hastings, and it had gone into an account called the Alison DiLaurentis Recovery Fund. The beneficiary collecting the funds was Jessica DiLaurentis.
Jessica DiLaurentis. Of course. Ali’s mom.
Spencer stared at the screen for a long time. Dear Jessica. Much Love. Xx. All that money. The Alison DiLaurentis Recovery Fund. She cycled back to the first letter again. I’m sorry things got cut short tonight. I can’t wait to be alone with you again. She right-clicked on the document to check when it was last modified. The date read: June 20, three and a half years ago.
“What the hell?” she whispered.
There was a lot about that sticky, awful summer that Spencer had tried her hardest to forget, but she would always, always remember June 20 for as long as she lived. It was the day seventh grade ended. The night of their seventh-grade sleepover.
The night Ali died.
Chapter 19 Secrets don’t Stay Buried for Long
Lucy tucked the final corner of the top sheet under the bed mattress and stood up straight. “Ready to go?” she asked.
“Yep,” Emily said sadly. It was Friday morning, and she was about to leave to catch her bus back to Rosewood. Lucy was walking Emily only to the highway, not the bus station. Though it was acceptable for Amish people to ride buses, Emily didn’t want Lucy to know she was going to Philadelphia and not Ohio, where she said she was from. After everything Lucy had entrusted her with, Emily didn’t want to admit that she wasn’t really Amish. Then again, part of her wondered if Lucy had already guessed and just wasn’t asking. Maybe it was better just not to broach the subject at all.
Emily took a final look around the house. She’d already said good-bye to Lucy’s parents, who asked her countless times if she couldn’t stay one more day for the wedding. She’d petted the cows and horses one last time, realizing she’d miss them. She’d miss other things about here, too—the quiet nights, the smell of freshly made cheese, the random moos from the cows. And everyone in this community smiled and said hello to her, even though she was a stranger. That didn’t happen in Rosewood.
Emily and Lucy pushed out the door, shivering in the sudden, bracing cold. The smell of freshly baked loaves of bread was in the air, all for the wedding celebration that would take place tomorrow. It seemed like every Amish family in the community was preparing for the wedding. Men were brushing the horses for the procession. Women were hanging flowers on Mary’s family’s door, and obedient Amish children were clearing litter from the surrounding farmyard.
Lucy whistled under her breath, her arms swinging loosely at her sides. Since their conversation about Leah, Lucy had seemed much lighter, like a huge camping backpack had been lifted off her shoulders. Emily, on the other hand, felt leaden and weak, as if the hope that Ali was alive had kept her energetic all this time.
They passed the church, a squat, nondescript building without any religious symbols on it whatsoever. A few horses were tied to posts, their snorting breath visible in the frosty air. The graveyard was in the back of the church, cordoned off by a wrought-iron gate. Then Lucy stopped, considering. “Do you mind if we stop in there for a sec?” She fiddled nervously with her wool gloves. “I want to see Leah, I think.”
Emily checked her watch. Her bus wasn’t for another hour. “Sure.”
The gate squeaked as Lucy pushed it open. Their shoes swished against the dead, dry grass. Lined up were gray, simple graves for babies, old men, and an entire family named Stevenson. Emily squeezed her eyes shut, trying to let reality sink in. All of these people were dead . . . and so was Ali.
Ali is dead. Emily tried to let it fill her body. She thought not about the horrible parts of Ali’s death, like her heart beating for the last time, her lungs filling with their very last breath, her bones turning to dust. Instead, she thought about Ali’s thrilling, decadent afterlife. It was probably filled with beautiful beaches, perfect, cloudless days, and shrimp cocktail and red velvet cake—Ali’s favorite foods. Every guy there had a crush on her and every girl wanted to be her, even Princess Diana and Audrey Hepburn. She was still fabulous Alison DiLaurentis, ruling heaven just as she ruled earth.
“I’ll miss you so much, Ali,” Emily mouthed quietly, the wind carrying the words away. She took a few deep breaths, waiting to see if she felt any different, any cleaner. But her heart still thrummed and her head continued to ache. It felt like a vital, special part of her had been ripped clean out.
She opened her eyes and saw Lucy staring at her from a few rows over. “Everything okay?”
Emily struggled to nod, stepping around a few crooked headstones. Dry weeds jutted haphazardly around many of them. “Is that Leah’s grave?”
“Yes,” Lucy said, running her fingers along the top of the stone.
Emily walked over, and looked down. Leah’s gravestone was gray marble, the inscription plain. Leah Zook. Emily blinked at the dates on the stone. Leah had died June 19, almost four years ago. Whoa. Ali had gone missing the very next day, on June 20.
Then, Emily noticed an eight-pointed star above Leah’s name. A spark ignited in her brain; she’d seen that pattern recently. “What’s that for?” She pointed at it.
Lucy’s face clouded. “My parents really wanted it on the headstone. It’s the symbol of our community. But I didn’t want it there. It reminds me of him.”
A crow landed on one of the headstones, flapping its inky wings. The wind gusted, making the cemetery gate hinges creak. “Who’s ‘him’?” Emily asked.
Lucy looked off in the distance at a lone, spindly tree in the middle of the field. “Leah’s boyfriend.”
“Th-the one she used to fight with?” Emily stammered. The crow lifted from the tree and flapped away. “The one you didn’t like?”
Lucy nodded. “When he left on rumspringa, he got a tattoo of that on his arm.”
Emily stared hard at the headstone, a horrible thought congealing in her mind. She looked again at the date on Leah’s headstone. June 19. The day before Ali went missing, the very same year.
All at once, a memory unfurled before her, exact and clear, of a man sitting in a hospital room, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the overhead lights bright and hot. There was that star tattoo, black and obvious on the inside of his wrist. There was a connection here. There was a reason A had sent Emily to Lancaster. Because someone had been here before her. Someone she knew.
She raised her eyes to Lucy and gripped her shoulders. “What was your sister’s boyfriend’s name?” she asked urgently.
Lucy took a deep breath, as if mustering up the strength to say a name she hadn’t dared in a long, long time. “His name was Darren Wilden.”
Chapter 20 Minefields, Indeed
Hanna stood at the bathroom mirror, slathering on another coat of Bliss lip gloss and fluffing her auburn hair with a round brush. After a moment, Iris breezed in
beside her, shooting Hanna a smile. “Hey, bitch,” she said.
“What up, ho?” Hanna said in return. It had become their morning routine.
Even though they’d stayed up almost all night, writing love letters to Mike and Oliver, Iris’s boyfriend from home, and picking apart stars’ bodies in the pages of People, neither of them looked too much the worse for wear. As usual, Iris’s pale blond hair hung in flawless waves down her back. Hanna’s eyelashes looked extra long thanks to the Dior mascara she’d borrowed from Iris’s bottomless makeup stash. Just because it was Group Therapy Friday didn’t mean they had to look like pathetic slobs.
As they exited their room, Tara, Ruby, and Alexis followed, obviously spying. “Hey, Hanna, can I talk to you for a sec?” Tara simpered.
Iris whipped around. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Can’t Hanna speak for herself?” Tara demanded. “Or have you brainwashed her, too?”
They had reached the window seats that looked out onto the gardens behind the facility. A few pink-patterned boxes of Kleenex sat next to the window seats; apparently, this was a prime spot for girls to sit and cry. Hanna sneered at Tara, who was obviously seething with jealousy and rejection and was trying to pit Hanna and Iris against each other. Not that Hanna believed a word of it. Puh-lease. “We’re trying to have a private conversation,” Hanna snapped. “No freaks allowed.”
“You can’t get rid of us that easily,” Tara spat. “We have GT today too.”
The GT room was just ahead through a large oak door. Hanna rolled her eyes and whirled around. Unfortunately, Tara was right—all the girls on the floor had GT this morning.
Hanna didn’t understand GT at all. Private, one-on-one therapy she could handle—she’d met with her therapist, Dr. Foster, again yesterday, but all they’d talked about were the facials the Preserve offered, how she’d started dating Mike Montgomery just before she checked in, and the benefits of her insta-friendship with Iris. She hadn’t mentioned Mona or A once, and there was no way she was going to spill any of her secrets to Tara and her gang of trolls.
Iris looked over, noticing Hanna’s sullen expression. “GT is okay,” she assured her. “Just sit there and shrug. Or say you have your period and don’t feel like talking.”
Dr. Roderick—or “Dr. Felicia,” as she liked everyone to call her—was the polished, chirpy, whirlwind of a woman in charge of GT. Now she poked her head out into the hall and grinned broadly. “Come in, come in!” she singsonged.
The girls filed in. Cushy leather chairs and ottomans were arranged in a circle in the center of the room. A small fountain burbled away in the corner, and there was a large line of bottled waters and sodas on a mahogany sideboard. There were more boxes of Kleenex on the tables, and a big, mesh bin near the door held those foam fun noodles Hanna, Ali, and the others used to play with in Spencer’s pool. A bunch of bongo drums, wooden flutes, and tambourines were stacked on shelves in the corner. Were they going to start a band ?
After all the girls sat down, Dr. Felicia shut the door and sat too. “So,” she said, cracking open an enormous leather-bound day planner. “Today, after we talk about how our weeks have gone, we’re going to play Minefield.”
Everyone made varying grunts and groans. Hanna looked at Iris. “What’s that?”
“It’s a trust exercise,” Iris explained, rolling her eyes. “She scatters this stuff around the room, and it’s supposed to represent bombs and landmines. One person is blindfolded, and her partner leads her around the mines so she doesn’t get hurt.”
Hanna made a face. This was what her dad was paying a thousand dollars a day for?
Dr. Felicia clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, let’s talk about how we’re doing. Who wants to start?”
No one spoke. Hanna scratched her leg, her mind on whether she would get a French manicure today or a hot oil hair treatment. A slender, dark-haired girl across the room named Paige chewed her fingernails.
Dr. Felicia cupped her hands around her knees, sighing wearily. Then her gaze locked on Hanna. “Hanna!” she chirped. “Welcome to the group. Everyone, this is Hanna’s first time here. Let’s all make her feel safe and accepted.”
Hanna curled her toes inside her black Proenza Schouler ankle boots. “Thanks,” she mumbled into her chest. The burbling fountain roared in her ears. It kind of made her have to pee.
“Do you like it here?” Dr. Felicia’s voice swooped up and down. She was one of those people who never blinked but always smiled. It made her seem like a deranged cheerleader on Ritalin.
“It’s great,” Hanna said. “Really, um, fun so far.”
The doctor frowned. “Well, fun is good, but is there anything you’d like to discuss with the group?”
“Not really,” Hanna snapped.
Dr. Felicia pursed her lips, looking disappointed.
“Hanna’s my roommate, and she seems fine,” Iris jumped in. “She and I talk tons—I think this place is doing wonders for her. I mean, at least she doesn’t pull out her hair like Ruby.”
At that, everyone turned to Ruby, who indeed was grasping her hair in mid-yank. Hanna shot Iris a grateful smile, appreciative that she’d diverted Felicia’s attention elsewhere.
But after Dr. Felicia asked Ruby a few questions, she turned back to Hanna. “So, Hanna, would you like to tell us why you’re here? You’d be amazed at how much talking helps.”
Hanna jiggled her foot. Maybe if she sat here silent for long enough, Felicia would move on to someone else. Then she heard someone across the room take a breath.
“Hanna has normal, run-of-the-mill problems,” Tara said in a high-pitched, scathing voice. “She has eating issues, like every perfect girl does. Her daddy doesn’t love her anymore, but she’s trying not to think about it. And oh, she had a bitchy ex-best friend. Blah, blah, blah, nothing worth talking about.”
Satisfied, Tara leaned back, crossed her arms over her chest, and shot Hanna a look that said, You asked for it.
Iris sniffed. “Wow, Tara, good for you. You spied on us. You have ears. And what ugly little rat ears they are.”
“Now,” Dr. Felicia warned.
Hanna didn’t want to give Tara the satisfaction either, but as she reviewed Tara’s words, the blood drained from her face. Something Tara had just said was very, very wrong.
“H-how did you know about my best friend?” she stammered. Mona’s face swam into her mind, her eyes fiery with rage as she gunned the engine of her SUV.
Tara blinked, caught off guard.
“It’s obvious,” Iris jumped in acidly. “She had her ear pressed to our door all night.”
Hanna’s heart beat faster and faster. A salt truck roared by outside. The sound of its plow blade scraping against the pavement made her wince. She looked at Iris. “But I never said anything about my bitch ex-best friend. Do you remember me saying anything about her?”
Iris scratched her chin. “Well, no. But I was tired, so maybe I’d fallen asleep by then.”
Hanna ran her hand over her forehead. What the hell was happening? She’d taken an extra dose of Valium last night to help her sleep; had it made her blurt out stuff about Mona? Her mind felt like a dark, endless tunnel.
“Maybe you didn’t want to talk about this friend, Hanna,” Dr. Felicia rushed in. She rose to her feet and walked to the windows. “But sometimes our minds and bodies have a way of pushing our problems out nevertheless.”
Hanna glared at her. “I don’t just blurt shit out. I don’t have Tourette’s. I’m not a moron.”
“You don’t need to get worked up,” Dr. Felicia said gently.
“I’m not getting worked up!” Hanna roared, her voice echoing off the walls.
Felicia backed off, her eyes round. A tense ripple swept through the other girls. Megan coughed, “Psycho,” into her hand. Pinpricks danced across Hanna’s skin.
Dr. Felicia returned to her chair and riffled her notebook pages. “Well. Let’s move on.” She turned
a page in her notebook. “Uh . . . Gina. Have you spoken to your mom this week? How did that go?”
But as Dr. Felicia asked the other girls about how their weeks had been, Hanna’s mind wouldn’t quiet down. It was like there was a tiny splinter in her brain that desperately needed to be dislodged. When she shut her eyes, she was in the Rosewood Day parking lot again, Mona’s car barreling toward her. No, she shouted to herself. She couldn’t go down this path, not here, not ever again. She forced her eyes open. The fun noodles in the corner blurred and wobbled. The girls’ faces warped and stretched, like she was looking at them through a fun house mirror.
Unable to stand it any longer, Hanna pointed a shaking finger at Tara. “You have to tell me how you know about Mona.”
Silence fell. Tara’s pimply brow crinkled. “Excuse me?”
“Did A tell you about her?” Hanna asked.
Tara shook her head slowly. “A who?”
Dr. Felicia stood up, crossed the room, and touched Hanna’s arm. “You seem confused, honey. Maybe you should go back to your room and rest.”
But Hanna didn’t move. Tara matched her stare for a while, then rolled her eyes and shrugged. “I have no idea who Mona is. I thought your bitchy best friend was Alison.”
Hanna’s throat shunted closed. She sank back into her seat.
Iris perked up. “Alison? Isn’t that the girl whose flag you have? Why is she an ex-best friend?”
Hanna barely heard her. She stared at Tara. “How do you know about Alison?” she whispered.
Begrudgingly, Tara reached into her grubby canvas bag. “From this.” She tossed a copy of People Hanna had never seen before across the room. It skidded to a stop next to Hanna’s chair. “I was going to tell you about this before GT. But you were too cool to talk to me.”
Hanna snatched the magazine and opened to a marked page. Splashed out across the spread was the headline A Week of Secrets and Lies. Beneath it was a picture of Hanna, Spencer, Aria, and Emily, running from the fire in the woods. The caption said The Pretty Little Liars, followed by each of their names.