by Sara Shepard
Mrs. Fields held a box in her hands, a concerned look on her face. “You got something from the Ulster Correctional Facility?”
A chill went through Emily’s body. “Thanks,” she said quickly, grabbing it and shutting the door.
Her mom stuck her foot in the gap before Emily could close the door completely. “Didn’t you get a letter from there, too?” she went on, her voice cracking. “Do you . . . know someone from there?”
Emily hugged the box tightly to her chest. EMILY FIELDS, it said on the top. “No,” she mumbled. It was the truth, after all.
“Then why is someone from a prison sending you things?”
See? That was why Emily hadn’t told her mom anything. Sure, she was dying to explain that the love of her life was gone . . . and that Ali had done it . . . and that she felt like she was falling into a dark, deep chasm that she’d never be able to climb out of. But her mom wouldn’t hear any of that. She wouldn’t hear anything past the fact that Emily had loved someone in prison. She wouldn’t absorb any of Jordan’s good qualities, or that she would have been freed soon. So why even bother getting into it?
Emily turned around jerkily and walked back to her bed. “I’m really tired.”
She hoped her mom would take that as a hint to leave, but Mrs. Fields remained in the doorway. A moment later, Emily heard a sniff and turned. Mrs. Fields’s face was red, her eyes full of tears. “What’s wrong with you, honey?” she begged Emily. “Please tell me.”
“Nothing,” Emily groaned. Now go away so I can open this box, she wanted to scream.
Mrs. Fields still didn’t move. Her gaze drifted to the bruises on her neck. “You’re going to explain those right now,” she demanded, now sounding angry. She often took on an angry tone, Emily knew, when she got really scared. “Otherwise, I’m going to think someone hurt you.”
Emily balled up a fist. “I did it myself,” she blurted before she could think.
Her mom’s eyes widened. “You deliberately hurt yourself? Why?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Emily roared. She stomped back to the door and closed it tight. “I’m fine, Mom! Just give me some space!”
She twisted the lock on the knob and waited. She could hear her mother standing outside, sniffing a little, her clothes rustling. And then, without saying another word, Mrs. Fields turned and padded down the hall. Emily listened as she walked down the stairs. She heard a jingle of keys, then the rumble of the garage door rising. Where was her mother going? Emily wasn’t sure she’d been out since her heart attack. But maybe it was a good thing. She’d asked for space; now she was getting it.
She looked at the box, then felt under the mattress and pulled out the picture of Jordan she’d hidden. Jordan smiled happily up at her, blissfully unaware of what her future would hold. Emily stared at the picture until her eyes blurred, trying to imagine that Jordan was still alive. But all she saw when she closed her eyes was Jordan’s body on a cold, hard slab in the morgue. Gone.
Slowly, she opened the box. On top of a layer of Bubble Wrap was a small typewritten note. Emily picked it up and examined it closely. Jordan Richards’s possessions, it read. And then, Delivered to: Emily Fields.
A knot formed in Emily’s chest, and she shut the box tight. This must be the stuff Jordan had on her when she was arrested. For whatever reason, Jordan had wanted her to have it, not her parents. What was inside? A watch, maybe. Some earrings. Personal items, things Emily couldn’t bear to see right now. Or maybe ever.
She needed noise, news, something. Carrying her phone and the laptop with the surveillance feed, she padded downstairs. The house was quiet, the TV in the den off and the breakfast dishes stacked neatly in the drying rack. Emily switched on the TV in the kitchen and stared at a commercial for a local car dealership. A plate full of Danish from the local bakery sat on the kitchen table, probably a hint that Emily should eat something. But she couldn’t imagine putting food in her mouth, and swallowing, and feeling full. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat anything ever again.
The commercials on TV were over, and the news was back on. “We have new developments from the disturbing murder of the young woman in prison known as the Preppy Thief,” the anchor, a generic-looking blond woman with an ascot around her neck, was saying.
Emily’s head snapped up. It was as if the news were showing this just to torment her. On the screen was a picture of Jordan on a boat dock, her long hair blowing in the wind, a huge, brilliant smile on her face. It was gut-wrenching to look at. Jordan seemed so alive. So vibrant. Emily moved zombielike toward the TV and touched Jordan’s cheek, the TV zapping her with static.
“The assailant is Robin Cook, who’d been incarcerated for assault and battery. Miss Cook went missing from her prison cell a few days ago. Citizens in the Ulster County area are on alert to be on the lookout for her—she could be violent and dangerous.”
A picture of the killer appeared, the very first one Emily had seen—she’d scoured Google for any information on Robin Cook but had found nothing. Emily studied it hard, then stood back. She knew this girl. It was the burly red-headed girl she’d seen in the visitation room the day she’d talked to Jordan. The one who’d looked Emily up and down, like she was checking her out.
That was Jordan’s killer? She and Jordan had barely looked at each other. No animosity had passed between them.
Then Emily thought about Robin Cook’s visitor that day. It had been a girl in a hoodie, right? Emily couldn’t really remember her; the girl had hurried so quickly out of the room when Emily arrived. It had seemed like Emily spooked them.
What if that was because the visitor was Ali?
Emily’s thoughts started to whirl. Was it possible? Maybe, somehow, Ali knew this girl. And maybe she’d met with her that morning to plan how Robin was going to kill Jordan. Maybe Hanna and the others were right: Ali hadn’t broken into prison and killed Jordan. She’d had someone else do it—and then, presumably, she’d broken that someone out of jail.
Robin was an Ali Cat.
She placed her palms on the table and let out a scream. The sound echoed satisfyingly through the room . . . but it wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. Suddenly, she felt antsy, as if her clothes were made of hair. A harsh and dangerous feeling awoke inside her, something she barely recognized but immediately embraced. That was it. The final straw. She stood up and grabbed her keys. It was time to actually do something.
She was going to that house. She was going to find Ali, no matter what it took.
An hour later, Emily sat in her car, her fingers squeezing and squeezing the leather steering wheel like a stress ball. Trees, hills, open space, and occasional barns swept past, but she didn’t pause to look at the scenery. And her phone, which sat on the passenger seat, kept buzzing.
It was her friends, checking in on her. Maybe they’d seen the Jordan/Robin news on TV, too. But Emily couldn’t answer their calls—there was no way she could tell them she was driving to Ashland alone. They were already worried about her. Something about seeing Robin’s face—and knowing she’d been right next to Emily the day Jordan died, and that Emily could have stopped her, maybe—changed something in her. Now all she could imagine was seizing Ali and squeezing her hard around the neck. Harder, then harder still, until she couldn’t breathe. She pictured Ali’s eyes bulging wide, her mouth gasping for air she couldn’t breathe. Ali finally turning to Emily and begging her to stop.
And would Emily stop? No, she wouldn’t. At least, not in her fantasies. She wasn’t ashamed of feeling that way, either. She felt like she’d passed some point of no return, and couldn’t go back.
She turned at the red mailbox marked Maxwell and climbed the steep hill up the driveway. The main house stood tall and proud, a FOR SALE sign now in the front yard. Emily parked the car under one of the big birch trees, got out, and grabbed the metal baseball bat from the backseat, the only weapon-like item she could find in her house. Then she looked around. Leaves swished playfully on the branches.
Somewhere, a dog barked. It was so quiet up here. So peaceful.
And so horrible.
Emily hurried around to the pool house. Adrenaline coursed vigorously in her blood as she marched up to the windows. She cupped her hands and peered inside. The room was dark. But Ali had to be here. Emily would accept nothing less.
Emily’s brain snapped and fizzed. When she kicked the door open, it felt like it wasn’t her body doing it, but someone else’s—someone strong and brave. The door swung open into the empty room, and she stepped inside, nostrils flaring, bat poised. The room still smelled sickeningly of vanilla soap. Emily never wanted to smell vanilla again.
“Ali?” Emily bellowed, prowling around the room like a cat. She pictured the sound registering on the surveillance cameras. But it didn’t matter: It was her shift now. No one else was watching. “Ali? Where are you?” she growled.
She stopped and listened. Nothing. But all she could picture was Ali hiding in a closet, holding her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Maybe Robin was with her—maybe they were laughing together. Emily poked her head into the second room on the first floor. That same empty bureau, that maddeningly dusty floor. She pulled open a closet door, then slammed it hard. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
She stormed up the stairs and glared into the two small rooms. Dark. Filled with spiderwebs. She could practically hear Ali’s cackles.
“Ali!” Emily screamed, spinning around, a pulse throbbing hard and fast in her brain. “I know you’re near! And I know what you did to Jordan! I know it was you!”
But she received no answer. The same as always—Ali was always ripping something away from them, and there was never, ever a way to truly get it back. How much had Emily lost since this ordeal began? How much had Ali ruined? How could one person continue to get away with this? How could such a sick, black, despicable soul continue to persevere?
It felt like there was a huge buildup of pressure inside her. She let out a keening wail and stumbled down the stairs, her vision blurred. First she darted toward the drawer in the makeshift kitchen, pulling it out. It felt satisfying to throw it to the floor and hit it with the baseball bat. She pulled at the cabinet next, grunting as she ripped it off its flimsy hinges.
She used the bat to smash a vase in the kitchen. Then she hacked away at the wooden railing. She yanked the only set of curtains off the walls, tossed them on the ground, and stomped on them.
There wasn’t much to trash, but she destroyed all she could. When she was finished, she stood in the center of the room, breathing hard. Sweat ran down her face. There was dirt under her fingernails and blood from the broken glass on her arms and legs. She could feel splinters in her hands. She looked around, still sensing Ali was close. “How did you do it?” she whispered to the ceiling. “Why did you do this to me?”
It was a stupid question to ask, because Emily already knew the answer. Sobs rippled through her body. “I will never love you!” she shrieked to the empty room. “Never, ever! And I will kill you! You will pay for this!”
The words rang out through the room, too true but also too raw. The bat slipped from her sweaty fingers. All at once, Emily felt horrified by what she’d said. It was what she wanted . . . and she knew she was capable. But she couldn’t believe she’d turned into this person.
Then she looked around the decimated room with fresh eyes. What had she done? Her friends would see the remains of this during their surveillance shifts. They’d think it was a lead . . . and Emily would have to tell them the truth. What if the Maxwells or a Realtor checked in on the place? What if they found this?
She jumped to her feet, wiped her bloody hands on her jeans, and quickly gathered up all the cabinets and drawers and put them back on their hinges as best she could. Then she used her hands to sweep the glass into a pile. You’re a terrible person, you’re a terrible person, she thought, the words like punches. How could she say she was going to kill someone? How had Ali driven her to this? All at once, she wondered if Ali had succeeded in her master plan. She had twisted Emily into a lunatic. She had changed her from the sweet, sensitive, cautious girl she once was into someone exactly like her.
By mid-afternoon, she’d cleaned up entirely, and she emerged from the house sweaty, bloody, and exhausted. She scuttled to her car and threw herself into the seat, barely noticing all the blood she was getting on the steering wheel. She stared blankly through the windshield, for a moment not having any idea where she was going to go. She felt drained, used up, finished. She felt ready to wave the white flag.
“I surrender, Ali,” she said in monotone as she drove down the steep hill to the main road. “You win.”
And that was a terrible thing to say aloud, too.
21
I’LL BE YOUR BEST FRIEND. . . .
“And that’s why we’re not friends anymore, Hanna Marin,” Hanna said harshly, eyeing Hailey under the hot set lights. Her Naomi Zeigler wig tickled her scalp, but she resisted scratching it. “Because you’re crazy. And you’re a liar. And there’s only so much a girl can take.”
Instead of Hailey looking shocked, as the script dictated, she stared glassily at the wall, almost asleep. A beat too late, she snapped to attention. “But, Naomi,” she whined. “You don’t, like, know the whole story.”
“Cut!” Hank bellowed. “The lighting is all wrong.”
The bell rang. Everyone snapped out of character, and Hailey fell gratefully into a raffia couch. “Oh my God,” she murmured, slinging a hand over her eyes. “I feel like death.”
“Late night?” Hanna asked cautiously. Hailey did look exhausted. Despite hours in hair and makeup, her hair was limp and her face was sallow and puffy. And even when she smiled, she seemed pissed off, like she was ready to lose it.
“Yeah, but super fun.” Hailey pulled her hand away from her eyes and peered at Hanna. “I was going to invite you, too, but you never texted me back.”
She sounded hurt. Hanna suddenly remembered Hailey’s “can you talk” text that had come in just as she’d pulled into Turkey Hill yesterday. She had completely forgotten to call Hailey, though maybe that was a good thing. Right now the last thing she needed was to get in more trouble. Every time she talked to Mike on the phone during his breaks at soccer camp, that horrible image of her and Jared kissing swirled in her head.
Hank made his adjustments, then ducked behind the wall again. “I need you to reply more quickly this time, Hailey,” he shouted out. “You missed your cue.”
Hailey rolled her eyes. “What does he know?” she murmured to Hanna under her breath. “I’m the one who’s been in twelve major motion pictures and two hit TV shows.”
Hanna stuck her tongue into her cheek. How much longer could she watch Hailey butcher her character? She said nothing as she walked back to her first marker.
Hank called action, and they started the scene again. This time, Hailey not only missed her cue, she completely bungled most of her lines or else breezed through them tonelessly. Hank yelled cut again. Hailey fell onto the couch once more. “How long is this going to take?”
Hank ran out from behind the wall and walked right up to Hailey, towering over her. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
Hailey’s eyes narrowed. “Huh?”
“You missed your cue.” Hank placed his hands on his hips. “Again. And I couldn’t even make out most of your lines. You had no inflection. And your eyes were completely dead.”
Daniel, Hank’s assistant, rushed up behind him with the scene’s script fastened to a clipboard. Hanna took a small step away from him—he still creeped her out—but he was paying no attention to her. His long finger searched down the page, finding the line. “Halfway through, you were supposed to say, ‘Naomi, there’s something you need to know,’ not just ‘Hey, Naomi.’”
Hailey made a face. “So?”
Hank looked at the cameraman. “Okay, we’re going to have to retake that. Again.” He rolled his eyes and started back to his chair, muttering something under hi
s breath. It sounded like, “And this time, Hailey, try not to show the world you’re hungover.”
Hailey straightened up. “Excuse me?”
Hank trundled on, still muttering.
“Hey!” Hailey called after him. “I asked you a question!”
Hank still didn’t answer. “Uh, may I remind you that I’m the star here?” Hailey bellowed. “And you’re just the overweight, washed-up director!”
Her words rang out through the room. Hanna gasped. She was pretty sure everyone else on set did, too.
Hank wheeled around, eyes blazing. “You’re out of line, Hailey.”
Hailey raised her chin. “That’s what you get for talking behind my back.”
Hank gritted his teeth. “Maybe you deserved it. Your head isn’t in this. Your behavior is unacceptable. You’re always late, you’re always hungover, and your bad performance after bad performance is bringing down the quality of this whole production.”
His voice rang out through the high-ceilinged room, and after he finished talking, there was dead silence. Hailey blinked hard, as if Hank had just punched her in the stomach. She opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it fast, tears welling in her big blue eyes.
Hanna’s stomach swirled around and around. She’d prayed for Hank to finally get through to Hailey, but hated that it was going down like this. This was so public. So embarrassing.
Hank sighed heavily, closed his eyes, and seemed to center himself. “Either you straighten up and actually listen to me, or you’re gone,” he said in a calmer voice. “You understand?”
Hailey turned away slightly. “You can’t fire me.”
“Hailey . . . ,” Hank warned.
Hailey raised her hand to cut him off. “Because I quit.”