Pretty Little Liars #13: Crushed
Page 11
She checked over her shoulder. Everyone else was intently staring at their own screens, oblivious to her. The IM blinked at her, waiting. I’m here, too, she typed back. I like your site. You’ve done a lot of research.
Thanks, Chase answered, adding a smiley emoticon. So what’s your name?
Spencer hesitated. I don’t want to say yet. I’m trying to think of a nickname.
Are you a guy or a girl?
Girl, Spencer wrote, feeling a little like she was filling out a dating profile.
How about Britney Spears? The reply came right away.
Spencer moved back from the screen and smirked. She’s not your favorite singer, is she?
Hell no, Chase wrote back. It was just the first thing that popped into my head.
Okay, Britney Spears it is, Spencer typed.
So you’re interested in the Alison case? he asked.
Spencer swallowed hard. Sort of. Isn’t everyone?
It’s definitely a weird story, a new message read. There’s something not right about the whole thing. I just don’t know what it is yet.
Are you actively investigating what happened? Spencer asked.
Just as a hobby, Chase wrote. Since the investigation is still open, the cops asked me to keep the details secret so they can catch the real killer. But when I find out everything, I’m putting it up there anyway.
I thought the investigation was closed, Spencer wrote. Ali killed her sister. Didn’t she?
Yes, but there are some loose ends, Chase replied. Like if Ali survived the fire. And the police are still gathering evidence that Ali and Ali alone killed Jenna Cavanaugh and Ian Thomas.
Did you know Alison? Spencer asked.
Nope, but a similar thing happened to me, which is why I’m interested.
What do you mean?
There was a pause, then the screen flashed again. I was stalked. I went to an all-boys’ boarding school, and I had a psycho roommate. He became obsessed with me. He tried to kill me. His parents had a lot of money, though, and they kept the story out of the news.
Spencer sat back. Whoa. I’m so sorry. Were you hurt?
A long beat went by. I don’t like talking about it.
So did that mean his stalker did hurt him . . . or didn’t? Suddenly, Spencer was curious as hell. She clicked on the ABOUT US link of the website again, but it was just that stupid cat video.
Still, Spencer instantly sympathized with him. She certainly knew what it was like to be tormented. Are you still having a hard time with it? she asked. Do people always look at you like you’re . . . contagious, or something?
Totally, Chase wrote back. I’ve definitely lost some friends because of it. But I do a lot of stuff to take my mind off things. Besides being an amateur PI, I’m into snowboarding and guitar. And it might sound nerdy, but I do sandcastle-building competitions in the summer.
I was in one of those! Spencer wrote. She and Melissa entered a competition when they were summering at their nana’s place in Longboat Key, Florida. It was practically the only thing Spencer had beaten her sister at. I got fourth!
Nice—I’ve won a couple, Chase wrote. Everyone thinks it’s dorky—they say I should be playing beach volleyball or something. An eye-rolling emoticon popped up on the screen. But it’s a hobby I’ve been into since I was a kid. I still really like it.
Are you out of high school? Spencer asked.
Yep, graduated last June, Chase wrote. I’m working at a bio lab in Center City for a year before I start college. We research cancer meds.
So you’re smart, Spencer wrote, adding a smiley.
You seem pretty smart, too, Chase wrote. You in college?
Princeton, Spencer replied. She left out the part about not actually going there yet.
Whoa, smart squared, was Chase’s reply. If we got together, the combined IQ in the room would be out of control.
Spencer giggled. Was he cyber-flirting?
The screen flashed again. But enough about me, Miss Spears—how are you connected to Alison?
Spencer hesitated. She wasn’t sure how much she should tell him. She’d never seen him, after all. And even though he said the cops didn’t want him to post anything about the case, what if he exposed her anyway? I’m just a concerned individual who knows a lot, she finally answered. That’s all I can say right now. And I have reason to believe she’s alive, too.
Chase replied quickly. Her bones would have been in the rubble, right? They would have found jewelry or teeth. But there was nothing. I think she got out of the house before it exploded.
Definitely, Spencer wrote, wishing she could tell him that Emily had left the door open for Ali to escape. But the police said that sometimes bones get ground up so finely that it’s hard to distinguish them from ash.
Maybe, Chase wrote back. But it seems convenient—I still think she made it out.
And did what? Spencer typed. The house was on fire. Even if she managed to slip outside, wouldn’t she have been hurt? Did she go to a hospital?
Chase’s answer was instantaneous, like he’d anticipated the question. I doubt it. I think she got a private nurse to take care of her. I also think she has at least one friend helping her out. Someone who was waiting for her in the woods that night the house exploded. Someone who took her away to get her the care she needed.
A man behind Spencer grunted, but when she turned, he was staring at his screen. She turned back to her own computer, shivering at Chase’s response. Someone else in the woods that night. It made perfect sense, especially given their theory that Ali had a helper.
Do you think she had help killing Ian Thomas and Jenna Cavanaugh, too? she typed.
Absolutely, Chase wrote. I’ve found out some intel about a private nurse, too. I doubt Alison’s nurse went through an employer or medical supplier, so even the supplies she got for Alison would have had to have been bought through regular drugstores. I have a friend who works for CVS who was able to get into the database of a bunch of stores in the area. There’s one in Center City that has regular orders of massive amounts of gauze and bandages and wound-cleaning supplies. He also got me video surveillance of the person picking up the supplies.
Spencer leapt on the keys. Who is she?
A friend from a hospital IDed her as Barbara Rogers. She’s in her mid-fifties, but I haven’t been able to figure out much more about her, Chase answered. One more thing: There’s also the issue of drugs. Ali wouldn’t be using a prescription, so someone would have to be getting it illegally. There was a pharma theft not long ago at the William Atlantic Burn Clinic in Rosewood.
Spencer gasped so loudly that a pale, skinny woman with dishwater-blond hair two consoles down gave her a strange look. This was all connecting in terrible ways.
She checked her watch and realized that it was getting late—she should probably get home. She signed off with Chase, making him promise that they would talk again.
As she stood, a tinkling laugh drifted through the air. Spencer shot up, but the other patrons were still staring at their screens. The pierced barista puttered behind the counter. A girl in a FedEx uniform worked a crossword puzzle at a table.
Spencer pulled out her cell phone, but she hadn’t received any texts. She gazed out the window at the train tracks again. For a split second, a ghostly image stared back at her from inside the station house. Her heart stopped. Ali?
The train rushed past. Spencer didn’t blink the whole time, waiting for a glimpse of that station window again. But when she finally got another look, the face was gone.
14
Hanna’s the Coolest
That afternoon, Hanna and Mike lounged on the couch at her father’s house, watching an episode of Parks and Recreation on DVR. She had her hands in the pockets of Mike’s hooded sweatshirt, and Mike wound his socked feet around Hanna’s bare ones. Mr. Marin sat behind the glass doors of his office, talking to someone about his senatorial campaign.
The doorbell rang, and she and Mike looked at each oth
er and frowned. Hanna padded to it and peered through the glass. Standing on the other side was Chassey Bledsoe, looking perfectly put-together in a silk dress and brown boots and holding a bakery box in her hands. Hanna frowned down at her stained University of Pennsylvania yoga pants.
“Uh . . . hi?” she asked as she opened the door.
“Hey, Hanna!” Chassey smiled. “I was in the neighborhood, and I just wanted to say I’m really honored to run against you for queen.”
Hanna stared at the box she was holding. Through the clear plastic top, she could see twenty iced cupcakes all lined up. Each of them bore the words VOTE CHASSEY FOR QUEEN!
“Oh!” Chassey noticed her looking and opened the lid. “Would you like one? I’ve been passing them around to potential voters.”
Hanna snorted. “They probably have shingles germs all over them.”
Chassey looked confused. “I don’t have shingles.”
Hanna cocked her head. “Then why were you out of school for a month?”
Chassey blinked. “My mom was doing some work in LA, so I went with her and got a tutor. I went to a lot of amazing spas, too—I bet you would have loved them, Hanna.”
Now Hanna really didn’t feel sorry for Chassey. She took a cupcake, trilled that it was nice to see Chassey, and then shut the door in Chassey’s face. She turned around and handed Mike the cupcake—she certainly wasn’t going to eat it. “That was lame.”
Mike peeled off the wrapper and took a big bite. “She’s really working hard to get votes. I thought you’d be more into it, too.”
Hanna pushed a lock of hair over her shoulder. “I guess I’ve been busy.”
Mike shoved another piece of cupcake in his mouth. “With what?”
“Honestly?” Hanna flung herself back on the couch. “I refuse to campaign against Chassey. If I don’t win on my own good looks and popularity, I don’t deserve to win at all.”
Mike stared at her, chewing. She knew how stupid it sounded. But what could she say? Hey, Mike, some psycho stranger who might actually be your best friend, Noel, told me that if I campaigned, he’d tell the FBI we killed a girl.
Mike sat down and picked up the remote. “So how was the salon yesterday?”
Hanna blinked at him, struggling to shift gears. “What?”
“You know, your practice hair appointment for prom?”
Right. Hanna had forgotten about that lie. “Uh, it was good.”
Mike leaned in and sniffed her head. “You don’t smell all fruity, like you usually do when you come home from the salon.”
“That’s because I washed my hair this morning. Duh.” Hanna moved her head away. Then she checked her watch and jumped up. “Shit. I need to go.” Her burn clinic shift started in a half hour.
“Where now?” Mike complained.
Hanna’s mind scrambled for an answer, but it was irritatingly blank. She grabbed her purse and walked out the front door. “I’ve got to do something for my mom. I’ll see you.”
Mike followed her to her car. He could tell she was lying—she just knew it. She licked her lips, about to tell him the truth—or some approximation of it. But as she turned the ignition in the Prius, a news report blared.
The search for the thieves of a priceless practice painting of Van Gogh’s The Starry Night has been reopened, a reporter intoned, a keyboard click-clacking in the background. At first, authorities thought there was only one thief, but now there is new evidence that the criminal might not have acted alone. The story, the newscaster went on to say, was particularly pertinent in this area because Baron Brennan, from whom the painting had been stolen, had been a prominent contributor to the Philadelphia Art Museum.
Hanna’s stomach flipped over. What if the new evidence had been a phone call from A? How long until A gave names?
She gazed at Mike, then shut her mouth tight. Yes, she was lying to him. But it was for his own good.
The burn clinic lobby was quiet when Hanna walked in fifteen minutes later. Sean jumped up from his office chair and strode across the floor to meet her. Hanna couldn’t help but notice how middle-aged he looked in khakis and a checked shirt. Even her father didn’t dress like such a dork.
“Kelly’s not here today,” he said, worry lines present on his brow. “She said you did a great job on the bedpans, though—do you think you could handle the chores on your own?”
“Sure.” Hanna shrugged.
“Great.” Sean looked relieved. “Thanks so much.”
He patted her arm and returned to his office. Hanna heard a ping behind her and turned, but the lobby was still empty. She trudged into the women’s staff room, unlocked her locker, and changed into the pink scrubs she’d claimed. She liked them because they had an extra-big pocket in the front—perfect to fit a cell phone.
Then she grabbed the mop bucket and some bedpans out of the supply closet. Before she got started, she headed down the corridor to Graham’s bed. She might as well check on him before making her rounds.
The partition had been partly pushed back. Graham’s eyes were fluttering, and guttural, animal-like sounds escaped from between his lips. A nurse stood over him, replacing one of his IVs. She looked up sternly when she sensed Hanna’s presence, but her face softened when she saw her volunteer scrubs.
“Has he woken up?” Hanna asked.
“Not yet,” the nurse murmured. “But I’m hopeful that he will soon.”
Hanna’s hand accidentally brushed against Graham’s foot under the sheet, and she pulled it away fast—it was cold and rubbery, like a corpse’s. “Do patients ever speak when they’re in comas? Like, say names or anything?”
“Not usually.” The nurse clipped the new IV bag to the pole. Then she squinted at Hanna. “What did you say your name was again?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Hanna said quickly, ducking out from behind the curtain.
She stared down the hall, which was packed with cots of burn victims sporting various bandages and slings. There was barely a space for a wheelchair to fit through. The place smelled like pee and Clorox, and every few seconds, someone let out a moan.
“It’s tough, huh?” a female voice said.
Hanna whirled around. Burn patients lay to the right and left. Then, someone whose whole face was covered in bandages weakly raised an arm. “Hey,” the patient croaked.
“H-hey,” Hanna said uneasily, not wanting to get too close.
“He a friend of yours?”
The patient, who had holes cut in the gauze so she could see out, pointed toward Graham. Hanna coughed awkwardly. “Sort of.”
“He was really bad when he came in,” the girl whispered. “Nothing like perfect me, of course.” She waved her hands over her body, magician’s assistant–style, then laughed.
Hanna wasn’t sure whether she could join in on the joke. She glanced at a drainage bag leading out of the girl’s groin, then looked away.
“It’s okay. I hate looking at it, too.” The girl pushed the bag under the covers. “The doctors told me some bullshit about it being a magical fairy pouch or something. Like I’m freaking seven years old. Believe me, the only fairies I ever see are when they give me Percocet.”
This time Hanna did laugh. “I’ve never seen fairies when I’ve taken Percocet,” she said wistfully, “but it sounds awesome.”
“Maybe that’s because you don’t have a Percocet button that feeds it straight into your vein whenever you want it.” The girl held up a little button attached to a cord that lay next to her on the bed. “Didn’t you know they’re the number one accessory for this spring?”
“I read about it in Vogue!” Hanna chuckled. “Is that button a Chanel?”
“Of course,” the girl said in a haughty voice. “I had to get on a waiting list for it, but only the best for me.”
“Obviously,” Hanna said, giggling.
“And did you see? Miu Miu socks!” The girl stuck her feet out from under the blanket. Sure enough, the cashmere socks had the Miu Miu logo embroidere
d on the toes.
“Where’d you get those?” Hanna asked, impressed. They looked cozy and decadent.
“The hot male nurse gave them to me. You know, the one with the shaved head?”
Hanna’s eyes boggled. She was sure the girl was talking about the guy she’d nearly spilled the bedpan over yesterday. “Really?”
The girl snorted out a laugh. “I wish. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he? The days he gives me the sponge bath are the best.”
“You are so lucky!” Hanna squealed, then clapped her mouth shut. Had she just said a burn victim was lucky?
A bell rang out in the corridor, and then a voice came over the PA paging one of the doctors. “What’s your name?” the girl asked. “I’ve never seen you before—and I would remember you. You’re the coolest volunteer we’ve ever had.”
“Thanks,” Hanna said softly. “I’m Hanna.”
“I’m Kyla Kennedy. Maybe when I bust out of here, we can hang for real.”
Hanna raised an eyebrow. “Bust out of here?”
“Oh yeah.” Kyla’s tone was playful. “I have a whole black-ops mission in mind. I’m going to break out when no one’s watching and take the world by storm.”
She reached out her bandaged hand. Hanna tentatively shook it, then peeked at Kyla’s face again. She could see long lashes beneath the gauze, but she couldn’t even tell what color her eyes were. Yet she loved that Kyla said she was cool. After a moment, she realized that she thought Kyla was cool, too.
“Hanna?” Sean appeared at the end of the corridor. “There’s a spill in the next hall over. Can you take care of it?”
Hanna sighed heavily. “I’d better go,” she said to Kyla.
“No worries,” Kyla said. Her bandaged hand clunked against Hanna’s wrist. “See you again, hopefully?”
“Definitely,” Hanna said.
She was a few paces away when Kyla called out her name again. Hanna turned around. Kyla was sitting up halfway in bed, pointing wildly at the shaved-head, hot-body male nurse. She pretended to smack his butt as he passed. Hanna laughed so loud that an old lady lying on a cot down the hall squealed and jumped. Hanna and Kyla exchanged a meaningful glance—well, as meaningful as Hanna could give Kyla under all that gauze. And then they started laughing even harder.