by Sara Shepard
“Okay,” Spencer croaked. “Where?”
“At the Rosewood Day Elementary swings. Our place. Get there as fast as you can.”
Spencer looked around. She could hoist up her window and shimmy down the face of her house—it would be practically as easy as climbing the rock wall at her gym.
“All right,” she whispered. “I’ll be right there.”
36 IT WILL ALL BE OVER
Hanna’s hands were shaking so badly, she could barely drive. The road to the Rosewood Day Elementary School swings seemed darker and spookier than usual. She swerved, thinking she saw something darting out in front of her car, but when she glanced in her rearview mirror, there was nothing. Barely any cars passed her going the other direction, but all of a sudden, as she was cresting a hill not far from Rosewood Day, a car pulled out behind her. Its headlights felt hot against the back of Hanna’s head.
Calm down, she thought. It’s not following you.
Her brain whirled. She knew who A was. But…how? How was it possible that A knew so much about Hanna…things A couldn’t possibly know? Perhaps the text had been a mistake. Perhaps A had gotten hold of someone else’s cell phone to throw Hanna off the trail.
Hanna was too shocked to think about it carefully. The only thought that cycled in a continuous loop in her brain was: This makes no sense. This makes no sense.
She glanced in her rearview mirror. The car was still there. She took a deep breath and eyed her phone, considering calling someone. Officer Wilden? Would he come down here on such short notice? He was a cop—he’d have to. She reached for her phone, when the car behind her flashed its brights. Should she pull over? Should she stop?
Hanna’s finger was poised over her cell, ready to dial 911. And then, suddenly, the car veered around Hanna and passed her on the left. It was a nondescript car—maybe a Toyota—and Hanna couldn’t see the driver inside. The car moved back into her lane, then sped off into the distance. Within seconds, its taillights vanished.
The Rosewood Day Elementary playground’s parking lot was wide and deep, separated by a bunch of little landscaped islands, which were full of nearly bare trees, spiny grass, and piles of crisp leaves that gave off that signature leaf-pile smell. Beyond the lot were the jungle gym and climbing dome. They were illuminated by a single fluorescent light, which made them look like skeletons. Hanna slid into a space at the southeast corner of the lot—it was the closest to the park information booth and a police call box. Just being near something that said Police made her feel better. The others weren’t here yet, so she watched the entrance for any cars.
It was nearly 3 A.M. Hanna shivered in Lucas’s sweatshirt. She felt goose bumps form on her bare legs. She’d read once that at 3 A.M., people were in their deepest stages of REM sleep—it was the closest they would come every day to being dead. Which meant that right now, she couldn’t rely on too many of Rosewood’s inhabitants to help her. They were all corpses. And it was so quiet, she could hear the car’s engine winding down and her slow, please-stay-calm breathing. Hanna opened her car door and stood outside it on the yellow line that marked her parking space. It was like her magic circle. Inside it, she was safe.
They’ll be here soon, she told herself. In a few minutes, this would all be over. Not that Hanna had any idea what was going to happen. She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
A light appeared at the school’s entrance and Hanna’s heart lifted. An SUV’s headlights slid across the trees and turned slowly into the parking lot. Hanna squinted. Was that them? “Hello?” she called softly.
The SUV hugged the north end of the parking lot, passing the high school art building and the student lot and the hockey fields. Hanna started waving her arms. It had to be Emily and Aria. But the car’s windows were tinted.
“Hello?” she yelled again. She got no answer. Then she saw another car turn into the lot and drive slowly toward her. Aria’s head was hanging out the passenger window. Sweet, refreshing relief flooded Hanna’s body. She waved and started toward them. First she walked, then she jogged. Then sprinted.
She was in the middle of the lot when Aria called, “Hanna, look out!” Hanna turned her head to the left and her mouth fell open, at first not understanding. The SUV was headed straight for her.
The tires squealed. She smelled burnt rubber. Hanna froze, not sure what to do. “Wait!” she heard herself say, staring into the SUV’s tinted window. The car kept coming, faster and faster. Move, she told her limbs, but they seemed hardened and dried out, like cacti.
“Hanna!” Emily cried. “Oh my God!”
It only took a second. Hanna didn’t even realize she’d been hit until she was in the air, and she didn’t realize she was in the air until she was on the pavement. Something in her cracked. And then pain. She wanted to cry out, but she couldn’t. Sound was amplified—the car’s engine roared, her friends’ screams were like sirens, even her heart pumping blood sounded wet in her ears.
Hanna rolled her neck to the side. Her tiny, champagne-colored clutch had landed a few feet away; its contents had sprung out like candy from a burst piñata. The car had run over everything, too: Her mascara, her car keys, her mini bottle of Chloé perfume. Her new BlackBerry was crushed.
“Hanna!” Aria screamed. It sounded like she was coming closer. But Hanna wasn’t able to turn her head to look. And then it all faded away.
37 IT WAS NECESSARY
“Oh my God!” Aria screamed. She and Emily crouched down at Hanna’s contorted body and started yelling.
“Hanna! Oh my God! Hanna!”
“She’s not breathing,” Emily wailed. “Aria, she’s not breathing!”
“Do you have your cell?” Aria asked. “Call 911.”
Emily reached shakily for her phone, but it slid out of her hands and skidded across the parking lot, coming to a stop by Hanna’s exploded evening bag. Emily had begun panicking when she picked Aria up and Aria told her everything—about A’s cryptic notes, about her dreams, about Ali and Ian, and about how Spencer must have killed Ali.
At first, Emily had refused to believe it, but then a look of horror and realization washed over her. She explained that not long before Ali went missing, Ali had confessed that she was seeing someone.
“And she must have told Spencer,” Aria had answered. “Maybe that’s what they’d been fighting about all those months before the end of school.”
“911, what’s your emergency?” Aria heard a voice say on Emily’s speakerphone.
“A car just hit my friend!” Emily wailed. “I’m in the Rosewood Day School parking lot! We don’t know what to do!”
As Emily cried out the details, Aria put her mouth against Hanna’s lips and tried to give her mouth-to-mouth like she’d learned in lifeguarding class in Iceland. But she didn’t know if she was doing it correctly. “C’mon, Hanna, breathe,” she wailed, pinching Hanna’s nose.
“Just stay on the line until the ambulance gets there,” Aria could hear the 911 dispatcher’s voice say through Emily’s phone. Emily leaned down and reached out to touch Hanna’s faded Rosewood Day sweatshirt. Then she pulled back, as if she was afraid. “Oh my God, please don’t die….” She glanced at Aria. “Who could have done this?”
Aria looked around. The swings swayed back and forth in the breeze. The flags on the flagpole fluttered. The woods adjacent to the playground were black and thick. Suddenly, Aria saw a figure standing next to one of the trees. She had dirty blond hair and wore a short black dress. Something in her face looked wild and unhinged. She was staring right at Aria, and Aria took a step back across the pavement. Spencer.
“Look!” Aria hissed, pointing to the trees. But just as Emily raised her head, Spencer disappeared into the shadows.
The buzzing startled her. It took Aria a moment to realize it was her cell phone. Then Emily’s Call Waiting lit up. One new text message, Emily’s screen said. Aria and Emily exchanged a familiar, uneasy look. Slowly, Aria brought her Treo out of her bag and look
ed at the screen. Emily leaned over to look, too.
“Oh no,” Emily whispered.
The wind abruptly stopped. The trees stood still like statues. Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Please, no,” Emily wailed. The text was only four chilling words long.
She knew too much.
—A
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Perfect was the toughest Pretty Little Liars book to date, because there were so many pieces that had to fit in exactly the right places to make everything work. So I want to thank all of the careful readers, plotters, chart-makers, word arrangers, and other brilliant people who helped in the process: Josh Bank and Les Morgenstern, who saw Perfect through its early stages, spending days with me hashing out how exactly Spencer should go mad. I’m very grateful to have you guys on my side. The wonderful people at HarperCollins, Elise Howard and Farrin Jacobs, who puzzled over many drafts, catching all kinds of things I constantly missed. Alloy’s Lanie Davis, who drew brilliant charts, was on-call whenever, wherever, and remained an unflagging fan. And, last but not least, my patient, incredibly competent and wonderfully innovative editors—Sara Shandler at Alloy and Kristin Marang at HarperCollins—whose hard work helped to really snap this book into focus. I appreciate all of you for knowing these characters so well, loving this series as much as I do, and really believing in its success. We truly are Team Pretty Little Liars, and I propose we start a bowling team, or perhaps a synchronized swimming team, or perhaps we could all just wear matching Lacoste polo shirts.
Many thanks and much love to Nikki Chaiken for professional advice on early drafts about Spencer and Dr. Evans. Love to my wonderful husband, Joel, for his research on what sort of plane would be used to write messages in the sky and the physics of what happens to cars when they crash into each other, and who continues to read all the drafts of this book—amazing! Love also to my wonderful friends and readers, including my fabulous parents, Shep and Mindy (no swanky bar that serves red wine would be complete without either of you), my sweet and loyal cousin, Colleen (no swanky bar would be complete without you, either), and my good friend Andrew Zaeh, who texted me as soon as he stepped off a plane to tell me that someone was reading Pretty Little Liars, 20,000 feet up. And thanks to all who have reached out so far with your thoughts and questions about the series. It’s great to hear you’re out there. You guys are part of Team Pretty Little Liars, too.
And thanks to the zany girl this book is dedicated to—my sister, Ali! Because she’s nothing like the Alison in this book, because we can still go on for hours about the magical, fictitious world of pelicans, owls, and square-headed creatures we made up when we were six, because she doesn’t get mad when I accidentally wear her $380 Rock and Republics, and because tattoos look very nice on the back of her neck—even though I think she should’ve gone with a certain man’s face and a huge eagle tattooed there instead. Ali is quality with a capital Q, and the best sister anyone could ask for.
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT…
Oooops! So I made one teensy tiny slip-up. It happens. I’ve got a busy life, things to do, people to torture. Like four pretty little ex-best friends.
Yeah, yeah. I know you’re upset about Hanna. Wah. Get over it. I’m already planning my outfit for her funeral: appropriately somber with a touch of flash. Don’t you think little Hannakins would want us to mourn in style? But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself—Hanna does have a history of rising from the dead….
Meanwhile, Aria just can’t catch a break. Her soul-mate’s in jail. Sean hates her. She’s homeless. What’s a girl to do? Looks like it’s time for a life makeover—new house, new friends, maybe even a new name. But watch out Aria—even if your new BFF is blind to your real identity, I’ve got 20/20 vision. And you know I can’t keep a secret.
I wonder how CONVICT is going to look next to CLASS VP on Spencer’s college apps? Seems like Little Miss Golden Orchid is about to trade her kelly-green Lacoste polo for a scratchy orange jumpsuit. Then again, Spence wouldn’t have that perfect GPA if she didn’t have a few tricks up her sleeve—like, say, finding someone else to blame for Ali’s murder. But know what? She just might be right.
What about Emily, off to live with her wholesome, Cheerios-eating cousins in Iowa? Hey, maybe it won’t be so bad—she’ll be a girl-loving needle in a big old sexually repressed haystack, far, far away from my prying eyes. As if! She’s gonna go haywire when she realizes she can’t hide from me. Yeee-haw!
And finally, with Hanna out of commission, it’s time for me to take on a new victim. Who, you ask? Well nosy-pants, I’m still deciding. It’s not like it’ll be hard: everyone in this town has something to hide. In fact, there’s something even juicier than the identity of moi bubbling beneath Rosewood’s glistening surface. Something so shocking, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. So I won’t even bother. HA. You know, I kind of love being me….
Buckle up, girlies. Nothing is as it seems.
Mwah!
—A
Credits
Hand Lettering by Peter Horridge
Photography by Ali Smith
Doll design by Tina Amantula
Cover design by Jennifer Heuer
Excerpt from The Lying Game
PROLOGUE
I woke up in a dingy claw-foot bathtub in an unfamiliar pink-tiled bathroom. A stack of Maxims sat next to the toilet, green toothpaste globbed in the sink, and white drips streaked the mirror. The window showed a dark sky and a full moon. What day of the week was it? Where was I? A frat house at the U of A? Someone’s apartment? I could barely remember that my name was Sutton Mercer, or that I lived in the foothills of Tucson, Arizona. Had someone slipped me something?
“Emma?” a guy’s voice called from another room. “You home?”
“I’m busy!” called a voice close by.
A tall, thin girl opened the bathroom door, her tangled dark hair hanging in her face. “Hey!” I leapt to my feet. “Someone’s in here already!” My body felt tingly, as if it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, it seemed like I was flickering on and off, like I was under a strobe light. Freaky. Someone definitely slipped me something.
The girl didn’t seem to hear me. She stumbled forward, her face covered in shadows.
“Hello?” I cried, climbing out of the tub. She didn’t look over. “Are you deaf?” Nothing. She pumped a bottle of lavender-scented lotion and rubbed it on her arms.
The door flung open again, and a snub-nosed, unshaven teenage guy burst in. “Oh.” His gaze flew to the girl’s tight-fitting T-shirt, which said new york new york roller coaster on the front. “I didn’t know you were in here, Emma.”
“That’s maybe why the door was closed?” Emma pushed him out and slammed it shut. She turned back to the mirror. I stood right behind her. “Hey!” I cried again.
Finally, she looked up. My eyes darted to the mirror to meet her gaze. But when I looked into the glass, I screamed.
Because Emma looked exactly like me.
And I wasn’t there.
Emma turned and walked out of the bathroom, and I followed as if something was yanking me along behind her. Who was this girl? Why did we look the same? Why was I invisible? And why couldn’t I remember, well, anything? The wrong memories snapped into aching, nostalgic focus—the glittering sunset over the Catalinas, the smell of the lemon trees in my backyard in the morning, the feel of cashmere slippers on my toes. But other things, the most important things, had become muffled and fuzzy, as if I’d lived my whole life underwater. I saw vague shapes, but I couldn’t make out what they were. I couldn’t remember what I’d done for any summer vacations, who my first kiss had been with, or what it felt like to feel the sun on my face or dance to my favorite song. What was my favorite song? And even worse, every second that passed, things got fuzzier and fuzzier. Like they were disappearing.
Like I was disappearing.
But then I concentrated really hard and I heard a muffled scream. And suddenly it was like I was somewher
e else. I felt pain shooting through my body, before a final, sleepy sensation of my muscles surrendering. As my eyes slowly closed, I saw a blurry, shadowy figure standing over me.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
No wonder Emma didn’t see me. No wonder I wasn’t in the mirror. I wasn’t really here.
I was dead.
1 THE DEAD RINGER
Emma Paxton carried her canvas tote and a glass of iced tea out the back door of her new foster family’s home on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Cars swished and grumbled on the nearby expressway, and the air smelled heavily of exhaust and the local water treatment plant. The only decorations in the backyard were dusty free weights, a rusted bug zapper, and kitschy terra-cotta statues.
It was a far cry from my backyard in Tucson, which was desert-landscaped to perfection and had a wooden swing set I used to pretend was a castle. Like I said, it was weird and random which details I still remembered and which ones had evaporated away. For the last hour, I’d been following Emma trying to make sense of her life and willing myself to remember my own. Not like I had a choice. Everywhere she went, I went. I wasn’t entirely sure how I knew these things about Emma, either—they just appeared in my head as I watched her like a text message popping in an inbox. I knew the details of her life better than I did my own.
Emma dropped the tote on the faux wrought-iron patio table, plopped down in a plastic lawn chair, and craned her neck upward. The only nice thing about this patio was that it faced away from the casinos, offering a large swath of clear, uninterrupted sky. The moon dangled halfway up the horizon, a bloated alabaster wafer. Emma’s gaze drifted to two bright, familiar stars to the east. At nine years old, Emma had wistfully named the star on the right the Mom Star, the star on the left the Dad Star, and the smaller, brightly twinkling spot just below them the Emma Star. She’d made up all kinds of fairy tales about these stars, pretending that they were her real family and that one day they’d all be reunited on earth like they were in the sky.