Twisted pll-9

by Sara Shepard

  In a previous life, Wilden had been the bad boy of Rosewood Day, the private school in town everyone attended—the kid who wrote dirty messages on the bathroom walls and smoked joints in full view of the gym teacher. Melissa, on the other hand, was the do-gooder valedictorian and Homecoming queen whose idea of getting drunk was eating half an Irish Cream liqueur truffle. Spencer also knew that Wilden grew up in an Amish community in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, but ran away as a teenager. Had he shared that juicy piece of gossip with her sister yet?

  “I saw Emily when I came in,” Wilden said. “Are you guys going to watch that crazy made-for-TV movie next weekend?”

  “Uh . . .” Spencer pretended to straighten her blouse, not wanting to answer the question. Wilden was referring to Pretty Little Killer, a cheesy cable docu-drama retelling the story of the real Ali’s return, rampage as A, and death. In a parallel life, the four of them would probably watch the movie together, analyzing the girls who’d been chosen to play them, groaning over inaccurate dialogue, and wincing at Ali’s insanity.

  But not now. After Jamaica, their friendship began to disintegrate. Nowadays, Spencer couldn’t even be in the same room with any of her old friends without feeling antsy and flushed.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Spencer asked, steering the conversation away from the past. “Not that I mind, of course.” She shot Melissa a kind smile. The sisters had had their issues in the past, but they’d tried to put all of that behind them after the fire last year.

  “Oh, we’re just stopping by to grab a couple of boxes I left behind in my old room,” Melissa said. “Then we’re off to Kitchens and Beyond. Did I tell you? I’m redoing my kitchen again! I want it to have a more Mediterranean theme. And Darren’s moving in with me!”

  Spencer raised an eyebrow at Wilden. “What about your job in Rosewood?” Melissa lived in a luxuriously renovated townhouse on Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia, a gift from their parents for graduating from Penn. “That’s going to be a long commute from Philly every day.”

  Wilden grinned. “I resigned from the police force last month. Melissa got me a job working security at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I’ll get to run up those marble stairs like Rocky every day.”

  “And protect valuable paintings,” Melissa reminded him.

  “Oh.” Wilden tugged at his collar. “Yeah. Right.”

  “So who’s this party for, anyway?” Wilden grabbed two glasses from the granite-topped kitchen island and poured himself and Melissa some pinot noir.

  Spencer shrugged and gazed into the living room. “A new family that moved into the house across the street. I guess Mom’s trying to make a good impression.”

  Wilden straightened. “The Cavanaugh house? Someone bought that place?”

  Melissa clucked her tongue. “They must have gotten an amazing deal. I wouldn’t live there if they gave it to me for free.”

  “I guess they’re trying to wipe the slate clean,” Spencer mumbled.

  “Well, cheers to that.” Melissa tipped the glass to her mouth.

  Spencer stared at the streaky patterns in the travertine floor tile. It was pretty crazy that someone bought the Cavanaughs’ old place—both Cavanaugh children had died while living there. Toby committed suicide shortly after he’d returned to Rosewood from reform school. Jenna had been strangled and thrown into a ditch behind the house . . . by Ali—the real Ali.

  “So, Spencer.” Wilden turned to her again. “You’ve been keeping a secret.”

  Spencer’s head jerked up, her blood pressure jumping. “E-excuse me?” Wilden had a detective’s instincts. Could he tell she was hiding something? Surely he didn’t know about Jamaica. No one could know about that for as long as she lived.

  “You got into Princeton!” Wilden cried. “Congratulations!”

  Air slowly filled Spencer’s lungs again. “Oh. Yeah. I found out about a month ago.”

  “I couldn’t help bragging to him, Spence.” Melissa beamed. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “And early decision, too.” Wilden’s eyebrows rose. “Amazing!”

  “Thanks.” But Spencer’s skin felt prickly, like she’d spent too much time in the sun. It had taken a Herculean effort to claw her way back to the top of the class rankings and secure a spot at Princeton. She wasn’t exactly proud of everything she’d done, but she’d made it.

  Mrs. Hastings burst back into the kitchen and clapped her hands on Spencer and Melissa’s shoulders. “Why aren’t you two circulating? I’ve been talking about my brilliant daughters for the past ten minutes! I want to show you off!”

  “Mom,” Spencer whined, though secretly she felt happy that her mom was proud of both of them, not just Melissa.

  Mrs. Hastings just steered Spencer toward the door. Luckily, Mrs. Norwood, a woman Spencer’s mother regularly played tennis with, blocked their way. When she spied Mrs. Hastings, her eyes popped. She grabbed Mrs. Hastings’s wrists. “Veronica! I’ve been dying to talk to you! Well played, darling!”

  “I’m sorry?” Mrs. Hastings stopped and offered her a broad, fake smile.

  Mrs. Norwood lowered her chin coyly and winked. “Don’t pretend nothing’s going on! I know about Nicholas Pennythistle! Quite a catch!”

  Mrs. Hastings went pale. “O-oh.” Her eyes flitted to her two daughters. “Uh, I haven’t exactly told—”

  “Who’s Nicholas Pennythistle?” Melissa interrupted, her voice sharp.

  “A catch?” Spencer repeated.

  Mrs. Norwood instantly realized her gaffe and backed into the living room. Mrs. Hastings faced her daughters. A vein protruded prominently in her neck. “Um, Darren, would you excuse us for a moment?”

  Wilden nodded and headed into the main room. Mrs. Hastings sank onto one of the barstools and sighed. “Look, I was going to tell you this evening after everyone left. I’m dating someone new. His name is Nicholas Pennythistle, and I think it’s serious. I’d like you to meet him.”

  Spencer’s mouth dropped. “Isn’t it a little soon?” How could her mom be dating again? The divorce had only been finalized a few months ago. Before Christmas, she was still moping around the house in sweats and slippers.

  Mrs. Hastings sniffed defensively. “No, it’s not too soon, Spencer.”

  “Does Dad know?” Spencer saw her father practically every weekend, the two of them attending art exhibits and watching documentaries in his new Old City penthouse. Recently, Spencer had noticed hints of a woman in her dad’s apartment—an extra toothbrush in his bathroom, a bottle of pinot grigio in the fridge—and figured he was seeing someone. It had all felt way too soon. But now her mom was seeing someone, too. Ironically, Spencer was the only person in her family not dating.

  “Yes, your father knows.” Mrs. Hastings sounded exasperated. “I told him yesterday.”

  A waitress stepped back into the kitchen. Mrs. Hastings stuck her glass out for more champagne. “I’d like you girls to have dinner at the Goshen Inn with Nicholas, myself, and his children tomorrow night, so clear your schedules. And wear something nice.”

  “Children?” Spencer squeaked. This was getting worse and worse. She pictured spending the evening with two small brats with big ringlet curls and a penchant for torturing small animals.

  “Zachary is eighteen, and Amelia is fifteen,” Mrs. Hastings answered crisply.

  “Well, I think it’s wonderful, Mom,” Melissa said, beaming brightly. “Of course you should move on! Good for you!”

  Spencer knew she should say something to that effect, too, but nothing came to her. She was the one who’d exposed their father’s past affair with Ali’s mother, and that Ali and Courtney were Spencer and Melissa’s half siblings. It wasn’t like she’d meant to—A made her.

  “Now mingle, girls! It’s a party!” Mrs. Hastings grabbed Melissa and Spencer’s arms and shoved them into the living room.

  Spencer staggered into the space, which had filled up with people from the neighborhood, the country club, and the Rosewood Day paren
ts’ association. A bunch of kids Spencer had known since kindergarten gathered by the big bay window on the side of the house, not-so-secretly sipping glasses of champagne. Naomi Zeigler shrieked as Mason Byers tickled her. Sean Ackard was deep in conversation with Gemma Curran. But Spencer didn’t feel like speaking to any of them.

  Instead, she walked toward the bar—she might as well get a drink for this—and instantly her heel caught on the lip of the carpet. Her legs went out from under her, and suddenly she was airborne. She reached out for one of the heavy oil paintings on the wall and steadied herself before she did a nose-plant to the floor, but several heads turned and stared right at her.

  Emily caught Spencer’s eye before Spencer could look away. She offered Spencer the most tentative of waves. Spencer turned back for the kitchen. They were not talking right now. Or ever.

  The temperature in the kitchen felt even hotter than it had been a moment before. The mingling smells of fried appetizers and pungent foreign cheeses made Spencer woozy. She bent over the island, taking deep breaths. When she looked into the living room again, Emily’s eyes were lowered. Good.

  But someone else was staring at her instead. Wilden had clearly seen the silent exchange with Emily. Spencer could almost see the gears in the ex-detective’s head turning: What could have caused their picture-perfect, magazine-cover friendship to crash and burn?

  Spencer slammed the kitchen door shut and retreated to the basement, bringing a bottle of champagne with her. Too bad, Wilden. That was a secret neither he nor anyone else would ever know.

  Chapter 2

  Furs, friends, and far-off giggles

  “Please don’t use a wire hanger,” a silver-haired matron said gruffly as she stripped off a Burberry trench and hefted it into Emily Fields’s arms. Then, without even a thank you, the woman glided toward the center of the Hastings’ living room and helped herself to a canapé. Snob.

  Emily hung the coat, which smelled like a mix of eau de toilette, cigarettes, and wet dog, on a hanger, affixed a coat check tag to it, and placed it gently in the large oak closet in Mr. Hastings’s study. Spencer’s two Labradoodles, Rufus and Beatrice, panted behind the doggie gate, frustrated that they were cordoned off for the party. Emily patted both their heads, and they wagged their tails. At least they were happy to see her.

  When she returned to her perch at the coat check table, she looked cautiously around the room. Spencer had slipped back into the kitchen and hadn’t come out again. Emily wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  The Hastings house was the same as ever: Old paintings of relatives hung in the foyer, fussy French chairs and couches sat in the living room, and heavy gilded curtains covered the windows. Back in sixth and seventh grades, Emily, Spencer, Ali, and the others had pretended this room was a chamber in Versailles. Ali and Spencer used to fight over who got to be Marie Antoinette; Emily was usually relegated to a lady-in-waiting. Once, as Marie, Ali made Emily give her a foot massage. “You know you love it,” she teased.

  Despair rolled over Emily like a strong ocean wave. It was painful to think about the past. If only she could box up those memories, mail them to the South Pole, and be free of them for good.

  “You’re slouching,” hissed a voice.

  Emily looked up. Her mother stood in front of her, her brow wrinkled and the corners of her lips crumpled into a scowl. She wore a blue dress that hit at an unattractive spot between her knees and her calves, and she carried a fake-snakeskin bag under her arm like it was a loaf of French bread.

  “And smile,” Mrs. Fields added. “You look miserable.”

  Emily shrugged. What was she supposed to do, grin like a maniac? Burst into song? “This job isn’t exactly fun,” she pointed out.

  Mrs. Fields’s nostrils flared. “Mrs. Hastings was very nice to give you this opportunity. Please don’t quit this like you quit everything else.”

  Ouch. Emily hid behind a curtain of reddish-blond hair. “I’m not going to quit.”

  “Just do your job, then. Make some money. Lord knows every bit counts.”

  Mrs. Fields marched away, putting on a friendly face for the neighbors. Emily slumped in the chair, fighting back tears. Don’t quit this like you quit everything else. Her mom had been furious when Emily walked off the swim team last June without any explanation, spending the summer in Philadelphia instead. Emily hadn’t rejoined the Rosewood Day team in the fall, either. In the world of competitive swimming, missing a couple of months spelled trouble, especially during college scholarship time. Missing two seasons equaled doom.

  Her parents were devastated. Don’t you realize we can’t pay for college if you don’t get a scholarship? Don’t you realize you’re throwing your future away?

  Emily didn’t know how to answer them. There was no way she could tell them why she’d quit the team. Not for as long as she lived.

  She’d finally rejoined her old club team a couple of weeks ago and hoped that a college scout might take pity on her and give her a last-minute spot. A recruiter from the University of Arizona had been interested in her last year, and Emily had clung to the notion that he would still want her for the team. But earlier today, she’d had to let go of that dream, too.

  Pulling her phone from her bag, she once again checked the rejection email that had come in from the scout. Sorry to say . . . just not enough room . . . good luck. Looking at the words, Emily’s stomach swirled.

  Suddenly, the room smelled pungently of roasted garlic and cinnamon Altoids. The string quartet sawing away in the corner sounded hideously out of tune. The walls closed in around Emily’s sides. What was she going to do next year? Get a job and live at home? Go to community college? She had to get out of Rosewood—if she stayed here, the terrible memories would swallow her up until there was nothing left of her.

  A tall, black-haired girl near the china cabinet caught her eye. Aria.

  Emily’s heart began to pound. Spencer had acted like she’d seen a ghost when they’d locked eyes, but maybe Aria would be different. As she watched Aria gazing at the knickknacks in the cabinet—acting like the objects in the room mattered more than the people, something she’d always done when she was left alone at parties—Emily was suddenly overtaken by nostalgia. She stepped out from behind the coat-check table and moved toward her old friend. If only she could rush over to Aria and ask her how she was. Tell her what had happened with the swimming scholarship. Solicit a sorely needed hug. If only the four of them hadn’t gone to Jamaica together, she could have.

  To her surprise, Aria looked up and focused on Emily. Her eyes widened. Her lips pursed.

  Emily straightened and offered her a small smile. “H-hey.”

  Aria flinched. “Hey.”

  “I can take that for you if you want.” Emily gestured to Aria’s purple trench coat, which was still knotted tightly around her waist. Emily had been with Aria when she’d bought it at a thrift shop in Philly last year, shortly before they went on spring break together. Spencer and Hanna had told Aria that the coat smelled like an old lady, but Aria bought it anyway.

  Aria placed her hands in the coat pockets. “That’s okay.”

  “The coat looks really good on you,” Emily added. “Purple has always been your color.”

  A muscle at Aria’s jaw twitched. She looked like she wanted to say something, but closed her mouth tightly. Then her eyes brightened at something across the room. Noel Kahn, her boyfriend, swooped over to Aria and wrapped his arms around her. “I was looking for you.”

  Aria kissed him hello, then wheeled away without giving Emily another word.

  A group of people in the middle of the room burst into laughter. Mr. Kahn, who was staggering as though he’d had too much to drink, started fiddling on the Hastingses’ piano, playing the right hand part to the “Blue Danube Waltz.” All at once, Emily couldn’t bear to watch the party any longer. She tumbled through the front door just before the tears started to fall.

  Outside, the air was unseasonably
warm for February. She trudged around the side of the house to the Hastingses’ backyard, tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

  The view in Spencer’s backyard was so different now. The historic barn that had stood at the back of the property was gone—Real Ali had burned it down last year. Only scorched, black dirt remained. Emily doubted anything would ever grow in that spot again.

  Next door was the DiLaurentises’ old house. Maya St. Germain, whom Emily had had a thing with junior year, still lived there, though Emily hardly saw Maya anymore. In the front yard, the Ali Shrine, which had stood for so long after Courtney’s—her Ali’s—death on the DiLaurentises’ old curb, was gone, too. The public was still obsessed—the newspapers were already running Alison DiLaurentis Fire Anniversary features, and then there was Pretty Little Killer, that awful Alison biopic—but no one wanted to eulogize a murderer.

  Thinking about it, Emily slipped her hand into her jeans pocket and felt for the silky tassel she’d carried with her for the past year. Just feeling that it was still there calmed her down.

  A small cry rang out, and Emily turned. Just twenty feet away, almost blending into the trunk of the Hastingses’ giant oak, stood a teenage girl bouncing a bundled baby. “Shhh,” the girl cooed. Then she glanced over at Emily, smiling apologetically. “Sorry. I came out here to keep her quiet, but it’s not working.”

  “It’s okay.” Emily covertly wiped her eyes. She glanced at the tiny baby. “What’s her name?”

  “Grace.” The girl shifted the baby higher in her arms. “Say hi, Grace.”

  “Is she . . . yours?” The girl looked about Emily’s age.

  “Oh God, no.” The girl laughed. “She’s my mom’s. But she’s inside, schmoozing, so I’m on nanny duty.” She shifted for something in the big diaper bag on her shoulder. “Would you mind holding her for a second? I have to get her bottle, but it’s way at the bottom.”