by Sara Shepard
“Oh my God,” Hanna whispered.
Then she noticed a box and a graph in the bottom right-hand corner. DID THE PRETTY LITTLE LIARS KILL ALISON DILAURENTIS? They’d surveyed a hundred people in Times Square. Almost the whole pie—92 percent—was purple for yes.
“I love your nickname, by the way,” Tara simpered, crossing her legs. “Pretty Little Liars. So cute.”
Everyone crowded around Hanna’s chair to read. She felt powerless to stop them. Ruby gasped. A patient named Julie clucked her tongue. And Iris—well, Iris looked horrified and disgusted. Everyone’s opinions about Hanna were changing instantaneously. From now on, she would be that girl. The psycho everyone thought killed her best friend four years ago.
Dr. Felicia snatched the magazine from Hanna’s lap. “Where did you get this?” she scolded Tara. “You know magazines aren’t allowed.”
Tara cowered, shy and sheepish now that she was in trouble. “Iris always brags that she gets early editions of the magazine snuck in,” she mumbled, peeling away the wrapping on her water bottle. “I just wanted to see a copy for myself.”
Iris rose to her feet, almost knocking over a chrome floor lamp next to her. She strode over to Tara. “I had that issue in my bedroom, you bitch! I hadn’t even read it yet! You went through my stuff!”
“Iris.” Dr. Felicia clapped her hands, trying to regain control. A nurse peered through the little side pane in the GT door, probably trying to decide whether or not she should come to Dr. Felicia’s aid. “Iris, you know your room is locked. No patient can get in.”
“It wasn’t in her bedroom,” Tara cried. She pointed toward the hall. “It was on the window seat near the lobby.”
“That’s impossible!” Iris screamed, whirling around and facing Dr. Felicia again. Her eyes yo-yoed from the magazine in Dr. Felicia’s fist to Hanna’s stricken face. “And you. You tried to come off as so cool, Hanna. But you’re just as messed up as everyone else in here.”
“Pretty Little Liar,” a girl across the room teased.
A huge lump formed in Hanna’s throat. Now all eyes were on her again. She wanted to get up and run out of the room, but it felt like her butt was stitched into the seat. “I’m not a liar,” she said in a small voice.
Iris snorted, looking Hanna up and down disdainfully, as if Hanna had suddenly sprouted a rash of zits all over her face and arms. “Whatever.”
“Girls, stop!” Dr. Felicia pulled Iris by her sleeve. “And, Iris and Tara, you both broke the rules and you’re both in trouble.” She shoved People into her back pocket, then pulled Tara to her feet, grabbed Iris’s arm, and marched both girls out the door. Before they left, Tara turned around and shot Hanna a smirk.
“Iris,” Hanna pleaded to Iris’s receding back, “it’s not what you think!”
Iris turned in the doorway, staring at Hanna blankly, as if she were a stranger. “Sorry, but I don’t talk to freaks.” And then she whirled around and followed Felicia down the hall, leaving Hanna behind.
Chapter 21 The Truth Hurts
A big Greyhound huffed in the parking lot of the Lancaster bus station, its final destination, Philadelphia, emblazoned above the windshield. Emily tentatively climbed aboard, breathing in the smell of new upholstery and heavy-duty bathroom cleaner. Even though she’d only spent a few days with Lucy and her family, the bus seemed jarringly modern, almost monstrous.
Emily had barely said a word to Lucy after Lucy admitted that Wilden had been her dead sister’s old boyfriend. Lucy had repeatedly asked Emily what was wrong, but Emily said she was fine—just tired. What could she say? I know your sister’s old boyfriend. I think he really might have killed Leah. There’s a hole in the back of someone’s yard where he might have dumped her.
Her brain had been on warp speed ever since, circling memory after memory of that horrible time. The day after Ali vanished, after their talk with Mrs. DiLaurentis, Emily and her friends went in opposite directions. Emily had passed right by the big hole where they’d eventually find the body.
The workers, she remembered, had been filling the hole with concrete that very day. All their cars were along the curb next to the DiLaurentises’ lawn. There was one at the end that she’d studied for a second or two, wondering where she’d seen it before. It was an old black sedan, like something out of a sixties or seventies movie. It was the same car that screeched up to the Rosewood Day Lower School curb the day Ali bragged to everyone that she was going to find a piece of the Time Capsule flag. After his fight with Ian, Jason DiLaurentis had yanked open the passenger door to that car and slumped inside. It was the same car that chugged outside the DiLaurentis house the day Emily and the others tried to steal Ali’s flag. And here it was in her memory again, looming at the DiLaurentises’ house the day the concrete covered up that body for three long years. That car belonged to Darren Wilden.
The bus pulled away a few minutes later, the green fields of Lancaster disappearing behind them. There were only four other passengers, so Emily had a row to herself. Spying an outlet near her feet, she leaned down, plugged in her cell phone, and switched it on. The screen glowed with life.
Emily had to do something about what she’d learned, but what? If she called Spencer, Hanna, or Aria, they’d tell her she was crazy for thinking Ali was alive and for following A’s instructions to go to Amish Country. She couldn’t call her parents, either—they thought she was in Boston. And she couldn’t call the police—Wilden was the police.
It was incredible that Wilden had really once been Amish. Emily knew very little about his life, only that he’d been a rebel at Rosewood Day but then had reinvented himself as a cop. It probably wouldn’t take too much effort to find out when Wilden had left the community and started school at Rosewood Day, though, and when he spoke to Emily and the others in the hospital, he’d mentioned that he’d lived with his uncle in high school. According to Lucy, Wilden had convinced Leah, Lucy’s sister, to leave the community as well. Maybe when she refused, he’d gotten angry . . . and made plans to do away with her for good.
Wilden could have talked to Ali about her secret dreams to run away since he and Jason were friends. Wilden might have even promised Ali to help her run away for good, sneaking her out of Rosewood the night she went missing. He dumped a body into the hole in the DiLaurentises’ backyard, making it look like Ali had been killed. But the body in that hole didn’t belong to Ali. It belonged to the girl who broke Wilden’s heart.
Horribly, it all fit. It explained why Leah had never been found. It explained why Ali showed up in the woods last Saturday and why Wilden was dissuading the police force from investigating the possibility that Ali was alive—if they realized it wasn’t her body in that hole, they’d have to figure out whose body it was. It was why Wilden didn’t believe in A and didn’t buy that Ian knew a secret about what happened that night. A had been right all along—there had been a secret. But it wasn’t about Ali’s death. It was about who had been killed in Ali’s place.
Emily stared at the graffiti someone had drawn on the wall of the bus under the window. MIMI LUVS CHRISTOPHER. TINA HAS A FAT ASS. There was even a sketch of two fat butt cheeks next to it. Ali was out there, somewhere, just as she’d always known. But where had she been all this time? It seemed implausible that a seventh grader could survive on her own. or perhaps she’d known someone who’d taken her in. Why hadn’t she contacted Emily to let her know she was okay? Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to contact anyone. Maybe she’d decided to forget her entire life in Rosewood, even her four best friends.
Emily’s phone beeped, signaling three unread texts. She scrolled through her inbox. Two were from her sister Caroline; both subject lines read People Survey. Aria had sent a text too; its subject line said We need to talk.
An old woman at the front of the bus coughed. The bus rolled past a farm, and the cabin temporarily smelled like manure. Emily moved the cursor from text to text, trying to decide which to read first. Just then, her phone pinged again, this time with a
text from an unknown number. Her pulse raced. This had to be from A. And for once, Emily couldn’t wait to know what A had to say. She pressed read immediately.
It was a photo text. The picture was of a bunch of blurry papers fanned out on a table. The top document was titled ALISON DILAURENTIS DISAPPEARANCE: TIMELINE. The paper below it said INTERVIEW, JESSICA DILAURENTIS, JUNE 21, 10:30 P.M. Another paper had a crest of something called the Preserve at Addison-Stevens, with the last name “DiLaurentis” shown. A red stamp on each of the papers said PROPERTY OF ROSEWOOD POLICE DEPARTMENT. EVIDENCE. DO NOT REMOVE.
Emily gasped.
Then, she noticed a final piece of paper peeking out from underneath the others. Emily squinted until her eyes hurt. DNA REPORT, it said. But Emily couldn’t read the results.
“No,” Emily moaned, feeling like she was going to explode. Then, as the bus went over a bone-jarring bump, she noticed an accompanying note with the photo.
Wanna see for yourself? The evidence room is in the back of the Rosewood police station. I’ll leave a door open.—A
Chapter 22 Ali Returns . . . Sort Of
Friday after school, Noel picked Aria up at Byron’s house. As she got in the car, he leaned over and gave her a little kiss on the cheek. Despite the butterflies eating away at Aria’s stomach lining, she felt a thrill run down her spine.
They drove through the winding streets of various neighborhoods, passing the old farmhouses and the township playground that still had a couple of discarded Christmas trees at the far end of the parking lot. Neither Aria nor Noel spoke, though the silence felt comfortable instead of awkward. Aria was grateful not to have to scramble for small talk.
Aria’s phone rang just as they were turning onto Ali’s old street. Private caller, said the screen. Aria answered. “Ms. Montgomery?” chirped a voice. “This is Bethany Richards from Us Weekly!”
“Sorry, not interested,” Aria said quickly, cursing herself for answering.
She was about to hang up the phone when the reporter breathed in sharply. “I just wanted to know if you had a response to the People article.”
“What People article?” Aria snapped. Noel glanced at her worriedly.
“The one with the poll that says ninety-two percent of people surveyed think you and your friends killed Alison DiLaurentis!” The reporter sounded giddy.
“What?” Aria gasped. “It’s not true!” Then she stabbed end and dropped her phone into her bag. Noel gazed at her, an anxious look on his face. “There’s an article in People that says we killed Ali,” she whispered.
Noel’s eyebrows knit together in a v. “Jesus.”
Aria pressed her head to the window, staring vacantly at a passing green sign for the Hollis Arboretum. How on earth could people believe such a crazy thing? Just because of their stupid nickname? Because they hadn’t wanted to answer any of the press’s rude, prying questions?
They pulled up to Ali’s old cul-de-sac. Aria could smell the singed remains from the fire even through the rolled-up windows. The trees were twisted and black, like decomposed limbs, and the Hastingses’ windmill was now a pulpy, incinerated carcass. But the worst thing was the Hastingses’ barn. Half of it had collapsed, nothing more than a bunch of dark, ruined planks on the ground. The old porch glider, once painted antique white, was now a dirty, rusted color, hanging creakily by one hinge. It swayed gently, as if a ghost were lazily swinging back and forth.
Noel drew his bottom lip into his mouth, eyeing the barn. “It’s like the House of Usher.”
Aria gawked at him, amazed. Noel shrugged. “You know. The Poe story where the crazy guy buries his sister in that old, ruined, scary house? And for a while he feels really unsettled and even crazier, and it’s because it turns out she’s not really dead?”
“I can’t believe you know that story,” Aria said, pleased.
Noel looked hurt. “I’m in AP English, same as you. I do read from time to time.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Aria said quickly, although she wondered if she kind of did.
They parked in front of the DiLaurentises’ house and got out. The new owners, the St. Germains, had moved back in after the Ali media circus had died down, but they didn’t look to be home, which was a relief. Even better, there wasn’t a single news van parked at the curb. Then Aria spied Spencer at her mailbox, a stack of envelopes in her hand. Spencer saw Aria at the exact same time. Her eyes shifted from Aria to Noel, looking a little confused. “what are you guys doing here?” she blurted.
“Hey.” Aria walked over, skirting around a large, round hedge. Her nerves jumped and crackled. “Did you hear that people think we killed Ali?”
Spencer made a sour face. “Yeah.”
“We need some real answers.” Aria gestured toward Ali’s old backyard, which was still haphazardly surrounded by yellow police tape. “I know you think the Ali ghost thing is crazy, but a medium is going to perform a seance where she died. Do you want to watch?”
Spencer took a step away. “No!”
“But what if she actually contacts Ali? Don’t you want to know what really happened?”
Spencer straightened the envelopes in her hands until they all faced the same direction. “That stuff isn’t real, Aria. And you shouldn’t be hanging around that hole. The press will have a field day!”
A gust of wind whipped across Aria’s face, and she drew her coat tighter around her. “We’re not doing anything wrong. We’ll just be standing there.”
Spencer slammed the door to the mailbox hard and turned away. “Well, count me out.”
“Fine,” Aria said indignantly, whirling around. As she stormed back to Noel, she peeked over her shoulder. Spencer was still standing by her mailbox, looking conflicted and sad. Aria wished Spencer would let her guard down and believe in what couldn’t be explained. This was Ali they were talking about. But after a moment, Spencer threw her shoulders back and headed for the front door.
Noel was waiting by the Ali shrine on the curb. As usual, it was crowded with flowers and candles and impersonal notes that said things like We’ll Miss You and Rest in Peace. “Should we go back there?” he asked.
Aria nodded numbly, pressing her wool scarf to her nose—the burnt smell from the fire was making her eyes water. Silently, they walked across the stiff, frosty yard to the back of Ali’s property. Even though it was only a little past 4 P.M., the sky was already growing dark. It was strangely foggy, and thick mist swirled around Ali’s old back deck. A crow cawed from deep inside the woods.
Crack. Aria jumped in fright. When she turned, a woman was suddenly right behind her, breathing down her neck. She had flyaway salt-and-pepper hair, bulging eyes, and sallow, papery skin. Her teeth were yellowish and rotting, and her fingernails were at least an inch long. She looked like a corpse who’d just climbed out of a coffin.
“I’m Esmeralda,” the woman said in a thin, low voice.
Aria was too terrified to speak. Noel stepped forward. “This is Aria.” The woman touched Aria’s hand. Her fingers were ice-cold and nothing but bones.
Esmeralda glanced toward the taped-off hole. “Come. She’s been waiting to talk to you.”
The lump in Aria’s throat tripled in size. They shuffled closer to the hole. The air felt cooler there. The wind had died down to an eerie standstill, and the mist was even thicker. It was like the hole was in the eye of a storm, a portal to a different dimension. This can’t be happening, she thought, trying to stay calm. Ali isn’t here. It isn’t possible. I’m just getting caught up in the moment.
“Now . . .” Esmeralda took Aria’s hand and led her to the edge of the hole. “Look down. We need to reach her together.”
Aria began to tremble. She’d never looked into the half-dug hole before. When she glanced helplessly at Noel, who was a few paces behind them, he nodded faintly, nudging his chin toward the hole. Taking a deep breath, she craned her neck and looked down. Her heart hammered. Her skin felt cold. The inside of the hole was dark and filled wit
h clumps of dirt and cracked pieces of cement. A couple of pieces of police tape had fallen to the bottom, about nine feet down. Though Ali’s body had long since been removed, Aria could see a matted-down indentation where something heavy had lain for a long, long time.
She shut her eyes. Ali had been down there for years, covered up by cement, slowly deteriorating into the soil. Her skin had fallen off her bones. Her beautiful face had rotted. In life, Ali was captivating, someone you couldn’t help but stare at, but in death, she’d been silent, invisible. For years, she’d hid in her own backyard. She’d taken with her the secret of what had really happened.
Aria reached for Noel’s hand. He quickly curled his fingers around hers and squeezed.
Esmeralda remained at the edge of the hole for a long time, inhaling deep, guttural breaths, rolling her neck around, rocking back and forth on her heels. Then she started to writhe. It seemed like something was infiltrating her body, slipping in through her skin and getting comfortable. Aria’s breath caught in her throat. Noel didn’t move, awestruck. when Aria’s gaze broke from Esmeralda for a moment, she noticed a light on in Spencer’s bedroom window next door. Spencer was standing at the window, staring at them.
Finally, Esmeralda raised her head. Astonishingly, she somehow appeared younger, and there was a whisper of a smirk on her face. “Hey,” Esmeralda said in a completely different voice.
Aria gasped. Noel flinched too. It was Ali’s voice.
“So you wanted to talk to me?” Esmeralda-as-Ali said, sounding bored. “You only get one question, so make it good.”
A dog howled in the distance. A door slammed across the street, and when Aria turned, she thought she saw Jenna Cavanaugh gliding past the bay window in her living room. And Aria even thought she could smell a hint of vanilla soap wafting out from the bottom of the hole. Could Ali be right here, staring at her through this woman’s eyes? And what was Aria supposed to ask her? There were so many secrets Ali had kept from them—about her tryst with Ian, the problems with her brother, the truth about blinding Jenna, and the possibility that Ali wasn’t as happy as everyone thought. But really, one question stood out cleanly from the others.