by Sara Shepard
“Authorities are still looking into the cause of the explosion that forced all passengers on the cruise ship to evacuate,” he said. “New evidence suggests that the blast originated in the boiler room. A video surveillance tape that was recovered shows two grainy figures. It’s unclear whether the individuals in the video caused the explosion or if it was a freak accident.”
Mrs. Hastings set down the coffee carafe. “I can’t believe they still don’t know what happened.”
Melissa, who was in Rosewood visiting friends, glanced at Spencer. “Of all the cruises, it would be yours to have a crazy Unabomber on board.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t on that boat.” Amelia, who was two years younger than Spencer and had wild curly hair, a pug nose, and a penchant for sweater sets and Mary Janes—even after the makeover Spencer had given her in New York City—snorted haughtily. “Were you guys on a suicide mission? Is that why you went rogue and sailed to that cove instead of to shore?”
Spencer padded toward the toaster, ignoring her. But Amelia kept talking. “That’s what everyone’s saying, you know—you and your three friends have cracked. Maybe you need to live in Dad’s panic room twenty-four-seven, huh?”
Mr. Pennythistle gave Amelia a stern look. “That’s enough.”
Mrs. Hastings set a cup of coffee down in front of her fiancé. “You have a panic room, Nicholas?” she asked, seemingly eager to change the subject. She hadn’t exactly learned how to discipline Amelia yet.
Mr. Pennythistle laced his fingers together. “At the model home in Crestview Estates. I built it after those mob guys moved into some of the surrounding neighborhoods—you never know. And besides, a certain kind of buyer might like that sort of thing. Of course, I doubt Spencer could attend Princeton from there. There’s no Internet access.”
Spencer started to chuckle, but then stopped. Mr. Pennythistle probably wasn’t making a joke—he was a brilliant land developer, a real estate mogul, and a pretty good cook, but he definitely wasn’t a comedian. Still, she didn’t mind him—he made a wicked gumbo every Saturday, played her favorite sports radio station in the kitchen when he was cooking, and even let Spencer drive his pimped-out Range Rover now and then. If only his daughter were bearable.
Spencer slipped two slices of rye bread into the slots of the toaster. Amelia had a point, of course—trouble was following her everywhere. Maybe she should go to a panic room for a while. Not only had Spencer been on the Splendor of the Seas, but one of her best friends, Aria Montgomery, had also been in the boiler room when the explosion occurred. Equally disconcerting, Aria had come into possession of a locket on that cruise that belonged to Tabitha Clark, a girl they’d accidentally hurt in Jamaica last year. At the time, they’d thought Tabitha was the real Alison DiLaurentis, the evil twin who’d stalked and nearly killed Spencer and the others at the DiLaurentises’ Poconos vacation home in an explosive fire. They’d thought Ali was back for revenge, so Aria had pushed the girl off a roof to get rid of her for good.
But then the news came out that Tabitha wasn’t Real Ali—she was an innocent girl. That was when the nightmare began.
Tabitha’s necklace connected them to the night Tabitha was killed—the girls were sure that their diabolical stalker, New A, had planted it on Aria to frame her. They knew they couldn’t just throw away the necklace on the ship—A would find it and get it back to them. So instead of evacuating to the shore after the explosion, Spencer, Aria, and their friends Emily Fields and Hanna Marin stole a motorized life raft and sailed to a cove Spencer had heard about in her scuba diving class. They buried the locket somewhere A would never look, but then their raft was punctured—surely A’s plan, too. A rescue crew arrived in the nick of time.
After that mess, they decided to come clean about what they’d done to Tabitha—it was the only way to get A off their backs. They’d met at Aria’s house to make the call to the authorities, but as they were on hold with the chief investigator on the case, a news flash came on TV. Tabitha Clark’s autopsy report was in—she’d been killed by blunt-force trauma to the head, not from a fall off the roof. That didn’t make sense, though; none of the girls had hit her. Meaning . . . they didn’t do it.
Seconds later, they received a message from A. You got me, bitches—I did it. And guess what? You’re next.
A charred smell roused Spencer from her thoughts. Smoke was pouring out of the toaster. “Shit,” she whispered, hitting the lever to pop the toast up. When she turned around, everyone at the table was staring. There was a wisp of a smirk on Amelia’s face. Melissa looked worried.
“You okay?” Mrs. Hastings asked.
“I’m fine,” Spencer said quickly, dropping the hot pieces of bread into the oversized marble sink. Yes, it was a huge relief that they hadn’t killed Tabitha, but A still had a ton of dirt on them, including pictures of them on the roof deck that night. A could say the girls had gone down to the beach when they discovered that Tabitha hadn’t died and finished her off. And A’s confessional text wouldn’t hold up in court—I did it could mean anything.
And what about You’re next? Who was A? Who could want to kill them so badly? The same day they were going to confess, Emily had told the girls that she’d left the door open for Real Ali at the Poconos house, allowing her to possibly escape the blast. So she could be alive . . . and she could be A. It made the most sense: Real Ali was the only person that crazy.
Melissa stood up from the table and tickled Spencer’s side. “I bet I know why you’re spacey this morning. Someone’s nervous about seeing a certain boy again?”
Spencer ducked her head. She’d let slip that Reefer Fredericks, her new boyfriend, was visiting today from Princeton, where he lived. They hadn’t seen each other since the cruise. Today was an in-service day for both schools and the first day they were both free.
“It should be fun,” she said nonchalantly, even though her stomach started to flip.
“Are you going to ask him to prom?” Amelia asked.
“Oh, Spence, you should!” Melissa cried. “You can’t go stag in that gorgeous Zac Posen gown!”
Spencer bit her lip. She did plan on asking Reefer to prom, which was in two weeks. She’d been staring at the Zac Posen dress she’d bought on a trip to New York City with her mom all morning, dreaming about how she’d look in it on Reefer’s arm.
Prom was never something Spencer had daydreamed about as a little girl—her fantasies centered more on getting elected class president and giving the valedictorian speech at graduation. But this year, prom sounded like a refreshingly normal activity in her totally abnormal life, and she didn’t want to miss it. She already knew Reefer would say yes. She got romantic texts from him every day. He’d sent flowers to her house and her homeroom. They talked on the phone for hours every night, Reefer telling her about a new strain of pot he’d created and Spencer filling him in on the grueling after-school suspension hours she had to attend, the school’s punishment for stealing that lifeboat.
Everyone cleared the breakfast dishes, and within ten minutes, they were all gone, leaving Spencer alone. She tapped her fingernails on the countertop and idly watched the news, but the weather report did nothing to calm her nerves.
The doorbell rang, and she shot up and checked her reflection in the toaster to make sure her blond hair was pulled into a neat ponytail and her pink lipstick wasn’t smudged. Then she ran to the front door and flung it open. Reefer was standing on the porch, a sheepish grin on his face.
“Hey, stranger,” Spencer said.
“Hey yourself.” Reefer looked gorgeous as usual, a navy T-shirt pulling tight against his well-defined shoulders, his face clean-shaven, his dreadlocks pulled back to show off his high cheekbones and clear green eyes. Spencer tilted her chin up and kissed him, playfully squeezing his butt. Reefer flinched, surprised.
“Don’t worry,” Spencer murmured into his neck. “My mom’s gone. We’re alone.”
“Oh, okay.” Reefer pulled back. “Um, Spence, wait. I have
to tell you something.”
“I have stuff to tell you, too!” Spencer grabbed his hands. “So, I think I mentioned that our prom is in two weeks, and—”
“Actually,” Reefer cut her off, “do you mind if I go first? I sort of need to get it out.”
There was a strange look on his face that Spencer couldn’t decipher. She led him into the kitchen and turned off the TV on the counter. When she gestured for him to sit down at the table, he smoothed the tablecloth again and again with his fingers, trying to get all the creases out. Spencer had to smile: Reefer probably hated the wrinkled tablecloth as much as she did. That was just one reason they went so well together.
“I got this internship I’ve really wanted,” he announced.
Spencer smiled. She wasn’t surprised. Reefer was a genius. He’d probably been offered hundreds of internships. “Congratulations! Where?”
“Colombia.”
“University? In New York?” Spencer clasped her hands together. “That is going to be so much fun! We can try out new restaurants, go to Central Park, check out a Yankees game. . . .”
“No, Spencer, not Columbia University. Colombia, the country.”
Spencer blinked. “In South America?” Reefer nodded. “Well, that’s cool, too. I mean, not as close, but it won’t be that long before you come back for school.” Then she noticed the stiff expression on Reefer’s face. “Are you coming back for school?”
Reefer took a deep breath. “Maybe not. It’s an amazing opportunity with this botanist, Dr. Diaz. He’s, like, a rock star in his field. I’ve always wanted to work with him—everyone does—but once he takes you on, you kind of can’t leave. I didn’t even mention it to you, because it was such a long shot. But I got the letter two days ago offering me a position. It’s for two years. I’m going to defer Princeton until I get back.” He brushed a dreadlock over his shoulder. “Honestly, I was thinking about deferring Princeton anyway—I felt like I needed a few years to just, you know, be. But then I met you, and . . .”
A zillion thoughts zoomed through Spencer’s brain. He’d heard about this two days ago? They’d talked on the phone a lot in the last two days. He hadn’t said a word.
And two years . . . wow. That was kind of forever.
She sat back. “Okay. That’s still amazing. So when are you leaving? We still have some time together, right?”
Reefer picked at his thumb. “Dr. Diaz needs someone ASAP, so I’m leaving tonight.”
“Tonight?” She blinked hard. “Can you postpone it a little while, maybe? I was kind of hoping you could come to my prom with me.” She hated the wheedling tone in her voice.
By the look on Reefer’s face, she could tell he was going to say no. “They really need me there now. And, Spencer, I’m not really sure we should . . . you know . . . wait for each other.”
Spencer felt like he’d just dumped a bucket of ice over her head. “Wait a minute. What?”
“I’m into you.” Reefer wouldn’t meet her eye. “But, I mean, it’s two years. I’m not very good at the long-distance thing. We could be different people after it’s all over. I don’t want you to be tied down, you know?”
“You mean you don’t want to be tied down,” Spencer blurted out angrily.
Reefer stared at the floor. “I understand that this is kind of a shock. But I wanted to tell you in person. That’s why I drove all the way out here, even though I should be packing.” He checked his watch. “In fact, I should probably go.”
Spencer looked on helplessly as he headed toward the front door. There were a million things she wanted to say, but her mouth couldn’t form the words. So that’s it? And, Are you seriously trying to guilt-trip me for making you drive all the way out here? And, What about all those romantic texts? You were the one who pursued me!
She thought about how Reefer had promised to stick by her at Princeton and show her a good time. Who would do that now?
In the foyer, Reefer looked at her plaintively. “Spencer, I hope we can still be—”
“Just go,” Spencer cut him off, suddenly angry. She pushed him out the door and slammed it shut, collapsing against it and sliding to the wood floor, her legs splayed out in front of her.
What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?
She pictured the Eco Cruise in her mind’s eye. Reefer had taken her out to dinner, and they’d had their first kiss on the dance floor. It had been amazing—she knew he’d thought so, too. It was like Alien Reefer had just come over. The one good thing in her life had suddenly been ripped away.
Beep.
Her cell phone lay on the console table in the hall. Her heart sped up again as she pushed to her feet and looked at the screen. There was a new text from an unknown sender.
Poor little Spencer, doesn’t have a date
Better find another before it’s too late
Unless, of course, I happen to spill
My tale of all the folks you’ve killed.
—A
2
Hanna’s a Royal
Later that day, Hanna Marin sat at the bar at Rive Gauche, her favorite pseudo-French restaurant at the King James Mall. She was waiting for her boyfriend, Mike Montgomery, to arrive, and though the bartender wouldn’t serve her, she felt classier sitting at the bar instead of at one of the booths. Besides, the booths were packed with other kids from Rosewood Day, many of them underclassmen, which made Hanna feel melancholy and sort of old. In a few short months, she would be at FIT—she’d received her acceptance letter last week. Rive Gauche would be nothing but a place to visit during holiday breaks.
Well, hopefully she’d get to visit Rive Gauche over the holidays and not spend the rest of her life in jail, as New A wanted. Hanna didn’t like to think about that.
Her phone pinged, and she grabbed it. GOOGLE ALERT FOR THE SPLENDOR OF THE SEAS ECO CRUISE. Hanna pressed READ. She’d set up an alert for the cruise she and her friends had just gone on for any news about who had set off the bomb in the boiler room. Both Aria and a boy she’d met, Graham Pratt, had been down there, but Hanna and the others were almost positive a third figure had been, too—the bomber. They were also pretty sure that person was A. If only the police could identify whoever that third person was. Then all this would be over.
Graham Pratt, a passenger on the bombed Splendor of the Seas Eco Cruise is still in a coma after suffering multiple burns sustained in the explosion, the first line read.
Hanna looked up, staring aimlessly at a table full of senior lacrosse players, including Aria’s boyfriend, Noel Kahn, and James Freed. Graham wasn’t just a friend Aria had made on the trip—he was also Tabitha’s ex-boyfriend. For a while, the girls had thought he might be New A—especially when he’d started acting creepy and violent and chased Aria down to the boiler room, repeating over and over that he had something to tell her. Terrified that Graham was going to hurt her, Aria had shut herself in a back closet . . . and then the explosion had gone off.
Hanna kept reading. Mr. Pratt has been transferred to the William Atlantic Plastic Surgery and Burn Rehabilitation Clinic outside Rosewood, Pennsylvania, for further treatment. The burn clinic has won the prestigious Best in the Tristate Area award for four years running, and . . .
Hanna stared at her stricken expression in the mottled, old-timey mirror across the bar. Her ex-boyfriend Sean Ackard’s father ran the William Atlantic Clinic, or the “Bill Beach,” and Hanna had volunteered there last year as penance for crashing Mr. Ackard’s BMW after Sean broke up with her. Jenna Cavanaugh had been treated for burns there, and so had Hanna’s old bestie, Mona Vanderwaal, the first A. Not that Hanna liked to think about that, either.
The rest of the article didn’t say much more—only that Graham’s injuries were severe. A chill snaked up Hanna’s spine. It seemed like Graham had been caught in A’s crossfire, just like Gayle Riggs, another A suspect who’d been gunned down in her driveway right in front of the girls. But why had A wanted to hurt Graham? At first, the girls all worried that Graham wa
s A and that he’d wanted to confront Aria about what she and the others had done to his ex in Jamaica. But when they received more messages from A after Graham was in a coma, they wondered instead if he had been trying to warn Aria that A was after her. Watching you, he’d told Aria over and over through the heavy steel door in the boiler room. Maybe he’d meant A was watching her—maybe he’d seen A spying. So did he know who A was? If only he’d wake up . . .
Another e-mail popped into her in-box. NEW MESSAGE FROM SPECIAL AGENT JASMINE FUJI. Hanna squinted at the subject line. It read, simply, TABITHA CLARK.
The phone nearly slipped from her fingers. Special Agent?
She opened the e-mail, her heart thudding hard. Jasmine Fuji was an FBI agent on Tabitha’s murder case, and Hanna’s name had come up on a roster of guests who’d been staying at The Cliffs resort in Jamaica the same time Tabitha Clark had been. I would like to ask you a few questions about what you might remember from that night, the note read. I’m sure you understand that time is of the essence, so please contact me as soon as possible.
Bile rose in Hanna’s throat. The girls knew now that they hadn’t killed Tabitha, but A had incriminating photographs of them talking to her on the vacation—and even one of Aria shoving Tabitha off the roof while Hanna and the others stood there, watching. A had so much else on them, too: Hanna had covered up a serious car accident, Spencer had framed another girl for drug possession, Emily had accepted money for a baby . . . though she’d tried to give it back. Once A dumped all that in Agent Fuji’s lap, she would never believe they were innocent.
“Hanna?” Mike’s voice rang out behind her.
She swung around to see him. He looked adorable in his Rosewood Day Lacrosse T-shirt, fitted black jeans, and beat-up Vans. There was an excited-little-boy smile on his face.
“I have a surprise for you!”
“What?” Hanna asked warily, dropping her phone back into her bag. She wasn’t really in the mood for a surprise right now.