by Sara Shepard
“Who killed you?” she finally asked in a quiet, quaking whisper.
Esmeralda wrinkled her nose, like this was the stupidest question in the world. “Are you sure you want to know?”
Aria leaned forward. “Yes.”
The medium lowered her head. “I’m afraid to say it out loud,” she blurted, still in Ali’s voice. “I’ll have to write it down.”
“Okay,” Aria said quickly.
“And then you have to leave,” Esmeralda-as-Ali said. “I don’t want you here anymore.”
“Sure,” Aria wheezed. “Anything.”
Esmeralda reached into her purse and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and a ballpoint pen. Scribbling quickly, she folded the note and handed it to Aria. “Now go,” she growled.
Aria backed away from the hole, nearly tripping as she went. She didn’t even feel her legs as she sprinted to Noel’s car. Noel was right behind her, pulling her to him and holding her close. For a moment, they both were too overwhelmed to speak. Aria stared at the Ali Shrine again. A single candle flame illuminated Ali’s school picture from seventh grade. Ali’s wide, toothy smile and unblinking eyes suddenly made her look possessed.
She thought about the story Noel had mentioned—“The Fall of the House of Usher.” Just like the sister in the story who had been entombed in that old house, Ali’s body had been trapped under the concrete for three long years. Were souls released from their earthly vessels as soon as a person died . . . or much later? Had Ali’s soul escaped that hole just after Ali took her last breath . . . or only after the workers excavated her rotted corpse from the ground?
The slip of paper Esmeralda had given her was still in Aria’s palm. She began to slowly unfold it. “Do you need a minute alone?” Noel asked softly.
Aria swallowed hard. “It’s okay.” She needed him here. She was too afraid to look at the note by herself.
The paper crinkled as she spread it out. The letters were round and bubbly—Ali’s handwriting. Slowly, Aria read the words. There were only three, and they chilled her to her very core:
Ali killed Ali.
Chapter 23 All in the Family
About an hour later, Spencer sat at her desk in her bedroom, staring out the big bay window. The back porch lights threw an eerie glow over the ruined barn and the twisted, hideous forest. All the snow had melted, leaving a film of muck over the ground. A bunch of tree surgeons had hacked away at the brambles with chain saws, leaving a big pile of dead timber on the lawn. A cleanup crew had ransacked the barn today, depositing the remaining furniture near the patio. The round rug where Spencer and the others had sat the night Ali hypnotized them was propped against the steps of the deck. It had once been white, but it was now burnt-marshmallow brown.
Aria and Noel were no longer gathered around the hole. Spencer had watched them from the window; the whole thing with the medium had taken only about ten minutes. Though she was curious about what Aria had discovered with Madame Psychic Friend, she felt too stubborn to ask. The medium looked suspiciously like the woman who hung out on the Hollis College green, claiming she could speak to trees. Spencer hoped the press wouldn’t get wind of what Aria was doing—it would just make them look crazier.
“Hey, Spence.”
She jumped. Her father stood in her doorway, still in a dark pin-striped suit from work.
“Want to look at windmill Web sites with me?” he asked. Her parents had decided to replace the fire-damaged windmill with a new one that would help to power the house.
“Um . . .” Spencer felt a twinge of regret. When had her dad last asked her to take part in a family decision?
Yet she couldn’t even look at him. The letter she’d found on his hard drive scrolled through her mind like the CNN news ticker. Dear Jessica, I’m sorry things got cut short. . . . I can’t wait to be alone with you again. Xx, Peter. It wasn’t hard to draw awful conclusions. She kept imagining her father and Mrs. DiLaurentis sitting on the beige wraparound sofa in Ali’s living room—the very same couch Spencer, Ali, and the others sat on when they watched American Idol—nuzzling noses in the same way some PDA-obsessed couples did in the hallways of Rosewood Day.
“I have homework,” she lied, the grilled chicken salad she’d had for lunch churning in her stomach.
Her dad looked disappointed. “Okay, maybe later then.” He turned and padded down the stairs.
Spencer let out a pent-up breath. She needed to talk to someone about this. The secret was too weighty and overwhelming to handle alone. She pulled out her phone and dialed Melissa’s number. It rang and rang.
“It’s Spencer,” she said shakily after the voice mail beep. “I need to talk to you about something with Mom and Dad. Call me back.”
She pressed the end button with despair. Where’s Mom? Melissa had bleated to their dad the night Ali went missing. We need to find her. According to their father’s letter to Ali’s mom, the two of them had met up that same night. What if Spencer’s mom caught them together and that was why she never wanted to talk about that night again?
The realization hit her again. Her dad . . . and Ali’s mom. She shuddered. It was unthinkable.
The woods were eerily still. A flutter to her right caught her eye, and she turned. There was a flash of yellow at Ali’s old bedroom window. Then a light flipped on. Maya, the girl who lived there now, crossed the room and plopped down on the bed.
Spencer’s phone buzzed, and she let out a bleat of surprise. But instead of a return call from Melissa, an IM had appeared on her screen. Is this Spencer?
She stared at the sender’s screen name in disbelief. USCMidfielderRoxx. It was Ian.
Before Spencer could decide what to do, another message flashed on Spencer’s screen. I got your IM name from Melissa. Is it okay that I’m I Ming you?
Spencer’s head felt scrambled. So Ian and Melissa had been in contact.
I’m not sure I want to talk to you, she rapidly typed. You were wrong about Jason and Wilden. And then someone tried to kill us.
He wrote back immediately. I feel terrible that that happened. But everything I told you is true. Wilden and Jason hated me. They were coming to mess with me that night. Maybe they didn’t hurt Ali... but they ARE hiding something.
Spencer let out a low groan. How do I know YOU didn’t kill Ali and are now trying to set us up to take the fall? The police hate us now. All of Rosewood does.
I’m so sorry about that, Spencer, Ian wrote. But I didn’t kill Ali, I swear. You have to believe me.
The curtains in Maya’s window fluttered again. Spencer squeezed her phone with her fingers. She couldn’t put Ian at the scene the moment Ali disappeared anymore. And neither could Melissa.
Then something occurred to her. Ian had been with Melissa the night Ali vanished—and the night Melissa and their dad fought. He might know something about what happened.
I have a question about something else, she typed quickly. Do you remember Melissa fighting with my dad the night Ali died? She met him at the door and was yelling at him about something. Did she say anything to you about it?
The cursor flashed. Spencer drummed her fingers on her Tiffany desk blotter, impatient. Twenty long seconds passed before Ian responded. I think this is something you should talk about with your parents.
Spencer bit down hard on her lip. I can’t, she hammered on the keyboard. If you know something, say it.
There was another long pause. A couple of crows fluttered out from the burnt woods, settling on a far-off telephone pole. Spencer’s gaze wandered over to the ruined, crumbled barn, to the taped-off hole in the DiLaurentises’ backyard. Her nerves felt snappy and raw. In one sweeping glance, she could see everywhere Ali traveled in her last few hours alive.
Finally, a new message appeared. Melissa and I were sleeping in the den, Ian wrote. I remember her getting up that night and talking to your dad. When she came back, she was really upset. She said she was pretty sure your dad was having an affair with Ali’s mom. She also
said that your mom had just found out. “I’m afraid she’s going to do something stupid,” she said.
Something stupid like what? Spencer shot back, her heart pounding.
I don’t know.
“God,” Spencer said out loud. Where had her mom caught them? Were Mrs. DiLaurentis and her father in the DiLaurentises’ kitchen, tempting fate in plain sight?
Spencer pressed her fingers to her temple. The day after Ali disappeared, Ali’s mom had sat the girls down and asked if Ali told them about overhearing something in the house—she thought she saw Ali in the doorway. What if Ali caught their parents too? Maybe Ali entered her house through the back door, padded down the corridor to the kitchen, and came upon them . . . together. If Spencer walked in on a scene like that, she knew just what she’d do—turn around and march right back out again.
Maybe that was what Ali did too. And then whatever happened to her . . . happened.
Spencer’s phone pinged again. And, Spence, I hate to tell you this—but I already knew about the affair before she told me. I saw your dad and Ali’s mom together two weeks before that night. I accidentally told Ali about it, too. I didn’t mean to, but she knew I was keeping something from her. She forced it out of me.
Spencer held the phone at arm’s length. Ali knew? “Jesus,” she whispered.
Another IM popped up. I never told you why Jason was coming to mess with me that night Ali went missing. I hoped I wouldn’t have to. But it’s because I told Ali about the affair. She took it really hard, and Jason thought I’d told her just to be cruel. He and Wilden hated me for a lot of things, but that was the final straw.
Before Spencer had a chance to process what he said, more words appeared. And there’s something else I always thought was weird. Have you noticed how similar you, Melissa, and Ali all look? Maybe that’s why I liked all of you.
Spencer frowned, feeling dizzy. Ian’s implication trickled into her brain and began to fester. It was weird how Ali had looked absolutely nothing like her dad. She hadn’t inherited his flyaway, frizzy hair or his beakish, hooked nose. Then again, Ali hadn’t inherited her mother’s long, pointy nose, either, like Jason had, but instead had been blessed with a petite button one with a tiny bit of an upturn at the tip. It looked a lot like Spencer’s father’s nose, come to think of it. And, even scarier, like her own.
She thought about what her parents had told her in the hospital: that although Olivia had carried Spencer, she was the product of her dad and her mom. If what Ian suggested was true, it would mean that Spencer and Ali were . . . related. Sisters.
And then Spencer remembered something else.
She jumped to her feet and wheeled around, gazing unfocusedly into her room. Then she ran down to her dad’s office. Thankfully, it was empty. She pulled the Yale yearbook off the wall and held it upside down. The blurry Polaroid photo fell to the Oriental rug. Spencer picked it up and stared at it.
The lines were blurry, but the heart-shaped face and corn-silk blond hair were unmistakable. Spencer should have known immediately. The picture wasn’t of Olivia. It was of Jessica DiLaurentis—a very pregnant Jessica DiLaurentis.
Shaking, Spencer turned it over and looked at the date that was written on the back. June 2, almost seventeen years ago. It was a few weeks before Ali was born.
She clutched her stomach, holding in a nauseated heave. If her mother had known about the affair, it explained why she hated Ali. It had probably driven her crazy, knowing that the physical embodiment of her failed marriage was living next door to them—and worse, that she was the girl who everyone loved. The girl who got whoever and whatever she wanted.
In fact, if Spencer’s mother’s suspicions were confirmed on that spooky night that seventh grade ended, she might have been pushed right over the edge. It could have made her do something unthinkable and unplanned, something she needed to desperately cover up.
Let’s never talk about that night again, her mother had said. And the day after the seventh-grade sleepover, just after Mrs. DiLaurentis got done questioning the girls, Spencer came upon her mother sitting at the kitchen table, so distracted she didn’t even hear Spencer call her name. Because she was so guilt-addled, maybe. So horrified at what she’d just done to her daughters’ half sister.
“Oh my God,” Spencer croaked. “No.” “No what?”
Spencer spun around fast. Her mother stood in the doorway of the office, dressed in a black silk dress and silver Givenchy heels.
A thin squeak escaped from the back of Spencer’s throat. Then her mother’s eyes moved from the Yale yearbook that was sitting open on the desk to the Polaroid photo in Spencer’s hand. Spencer immediately shoved it in her pocket, but a cloudy look came over her mother’s face. Swiftly, she crossed the room and touched Spencer’s arm. Her hands were ice-cold. When Spencer looked into her mother’s narrowed eyes, she felt a flicker of fear.
“Get your coat, Spence,” Mrs. Hastings said, her voice eerily calm. “We’re going for a ride.”
Chapter 24 Another Breakthrough at the Preserve
Hanna opened her eyes and found herself in a small hospital room. The walls were pea green. Next to her was a big bouquet of flowers and near the door was a smiley-faced GET WELL SOON balloon with accordion arms and legs. Oddly, it was the same balloon her father had given her after Mona hit Hanna with her SUV. And come to think of it, the walls of that room had been this same greenish color, too. When she tilted her neck to the right, she saw a pale silver clutch sitting on the pillow next to her. When had she last used that? And then she remembered: the night of Mona’s Sweet Seventeen party. The night of her accident.
She gasped and jolted up, noticing for the first time the clunky cast on her arm. Had she traveled back in time? Or had she never left the room in the first place? Had the past few months been nothing but a horrible nightmare? Then a familiar figure loomed over her.
“Hi, Hanna,” Ali lilted. She looked taller and older, her face more angular, her hair a slightly darker blond. There was a smudge of soot on her cheek, as if she’d just emerged from the fiery woods.
Hanna blinked. “Am I dead?”
Ali giggled. “No, silly.” Then she cocked her head, listening for something in the distance. “I have to go soon. But listen, okay? She knows more than you think.”
“What?” Hanna cried, struggling to sit up.
An entranced look came over Ali’s face. “We were best friends once,” she said. “But you can’t trust her.”
“Who? Tara?” she blurted, perplexed.
Ali sighed. “She wants to hurt you.”
Hanna struggled to pull her arms out from under the sheets. “What do you mean? Who wants to hurt me?”
“She wants to hurt you like she already hurt me.” Tears rolled down Ali’s cheeks, first salty and clear, then thick and bloody. One plopped square in the middle of Hanna’s cheek. It felt hot and sizzling, like acid seeping through her skin.
Hanna shot up, breathing hard. She felt her cheek, but it no longer stung. The walls around her were pale blue. Moonlight streamed through the big picture window. There were no flowers on her nightstand or balloons in the corner. The bed next to her was empty, the sheets pulled tight. The little shoe-a-day calendar on Iris’s side of the room was still turned to Friday. Hanna must have fallen asleep.
Iris hadn’t yet returned to their shared bedroom after the dreadful GT incident. Hanna wondered if she was still in another part of the facility, enduring her punishment for sneaking magazines in. Hanna had been too ashamed to go to the cafe for lunch, not wanting to give Tara the satisfaction that she’d taken away Hanna’s only friend. The only people she’d seen were Betsy, the nurse who administered meds; Dr. Foster, who apologized to Hanna for her peers’ behavior; and George, one of the janitors who had come to clean out Iris’s People magazines, tossing them into a big gray Dumpster.
It was so silent in the room that Hanna could hear the tinny, high-pitched ringing of the fluorescent bulb in her bedside lamp. Her d
ream had felt so real, like Ali had just been there. She knows more thanyou think,, Ali said. She wants to hurt you like she already hurt me. She had to be talking about Tara and what she did in GT. For an ugly, chubby loser, Tara was much shrewder than Hanna thought.
A key turned in the lock and the door creaked open. “Oh.” Iris’s face soured when she saw Hanna. “Hi.”
“Where have you been?” Hanna gasped, sitting up fast. “Are you okay?”
“I’m golden,” Iris said blandly. She walked over to the mirror and began to inspect her pores.
“I didn’t know I was going to get you in trouble,” Hanna gushed. “I’m so sorry Felicia took away your magazines.”
Iris’s eyes met Hanna’s in the mirror. Her face was etched with disappointment. “It’s not about the magazines, Hanna. I told you everything about me, but I had to find out everything about you from some stupid magazine. Tara knew before I did.”
Hanna swung her legs over the bed. “I’m sorry.”
Iris crossed her arms over her chest. “Sorry doesn’t cut it. I thought you were normal. And you’re not.”
Hanna pressed her thumbs into her eye sockets. “So some shit happened to me,” she blurted. “You heard some of it in group.” She launched into an explanation about the night Ali went missing, her makeover, A, and how Mona had tried to kill her. “Everyone around me is crazy, but I’m normal, I swear.” Hanna dropped her hands in her lap and looked at Iris’s eyes in the mirror. “I wanted to tell you, but I just don’t know who to trust anymore.”