by Sara Shepard
Everyone turned to look at Emily. She stared down at the table. Okay, so she’d lost it in the hunt for Ali. But that was because Ali had almost drowned Emily in the Rosewood Day Prep pool . . . and then one of her Ali Cats had killed Jordan Richards, the love of Emily’s life. She hadn’t meant to go to the pool house and freak out. She hadn’t meant to trash the place and vow loudly that she was going kill Ali, which the surveillance camera had recorded. It had just . . . happened.
“And then there’s that journal.”
Rubens reached for a large binder on his right. Inside was a photocopy of the journal Ali had purportedly written and stashed in the woods, in an easy enough hiding place for the cops to find. Emily hadn’t wanted to read it, but she’d heard plenty about it. Ali had painted herself as the innocent victim and Spencer, Aria, Emily, and Hanna as her vengeful captors. Entries talked of the girls verbally and physically abusing her. As Rubens opened the binder, Emily caught sight of the words tied me up. Then she saw the phrase they don’t understand.
Poor, poor me, Ali sang in Emily’s head. Emily must have groaned, because Spencer looked up at her, eyes wide. Emily’s cheeks blazed. She had to be careful. Her friends already thought she was troubled—and that was when she wasn’t hearing voices.
Aria glanced at the binder, too. “Surely that won’t count as evidence, will it?”
“Especially because of what Nick said this morning.” Emily fumbled for her phone and showed the lawyer an article she’d found before the meeting. She pointed to the headline. Maxwell Says Journal Is All Lies, it read. His Love and Loyalty Only Go So Far. “If Nick says Ali lied about the stuff about him in the journal, it throws the validity of the rest of the thing into question, right?” she asked hopefully.
Rubens shrugged. “We’re talking about a confessed murderer’s word here. Sometimes judges take journals very seriously. And when someone writes, I’m scared, or I think they’re going to kill me, and then she winds up dead . . .”
“But she’s not dead,” Emily blurted. “The police found one tooth and blood. That’s it. Won’t it be hard for them to convict us of murder without a body?”
The lawyer shut the binder with a slap. “That’s true. And you have that going for you.” A strange look came over his face. “So let’s hope detectives don’t find the rest of her.”
Everyone stared at the lawyer, startled. “Are you saying you don’t believe us?” Spencer finally sputtered.
The lawyer raised his palms, but didn’t confirm or deny it.
Hanna put her head in her hands. Spencer tore her Styrofoam coffee cup into small pieces. Aria laid her palms flat on the table. “Can we give our side of the story in court?”
Rubens tapped his pen against the table. “I’d rather not put you girls on the stand. Then the DA will get to cross-examine you, and he’s going to be ruthless—he’ll find all sorts of ways to trap you in your story. Let me paint a picture of you girls. I’ll bring the right facts to light. But even with all that, I don’t know what chance we have. I can try and offer some theories of other people who might have killed Alison. Someone in Jenna Cavanaugh’s family, for example. Someone in Ian Thomas’s family. Someone else who hated her. But you are still the most compelling and logical suspects.”
Emily glanced at the others. “But she’s not dead,” Spencer repeated.
“Is there anything that can truly save us?” Aria asked weakly. “Anything that will guarantee we go free?”
Rubens sighed. “The only thing that I can think of is if Alison DiLaurentis herself strolls into that courtroom and turns herself in.”
Like that will ever happen, Ali said loudly in Emily’s head.
The lawyer blew air through his cheeks. “Get some sleep, girls. You look exhausted.” He gestured to the plate of Danishes. “And have one, for God’s sake. You don’t know when you’ll get the pleasure of a Danish from Rizolli’s again.”
Emily flinched. It was pretty easy to interpret what that meant: Prisons didn’t serve pastries.
Hanna snatched a bear claw and shoved it into her mouth, but everyone else filed out the door without even looking at the breakfast spread. At the elevator bank, Spencer stabbed the DOWN button. Suddenly, she looked at Emily with alarm. “Em,” she hissed, her eyes on Emily’s hand.
Emily looked down. A long line of blood dripped from her cuticle down her wrist. She’d picked her skin until it bled and hadn’t even felt it. She fumbled for a tissue in her bag, feeling her friends’ eyes on her. “I’m fine,” she said preemptively.
But they weren’t the only ones concerned about her; Emily’s family was acting even stranger. Unlike the other myriad of incidents when Emily had gotten in major trouble and her parents had disowned her, this time, her family continued to let her eat meals with them. They even bought her favorite foods, did her laundry, and checked in on her incessantly, as though she were a newborn. Her mom made stilted, polite conversation with her about TV shows and books and paid rapt attention whenever Emily said anything. Last night, Emily’s father had leapt up from the chair, saying the TV was all hers and she could watch whatever she wanted and could he get her something? Emily had longed for this sort of attention from her family for so long—basically since the beginning of A. But it felt strange now. They were only doing it because they thought she was crazy.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. The girls shuffled in silently, heads down. Emily could feel the other people in the elevator staring. One girl not much older than them pulled out her iPhone and started typing something on the screen. After a moment, Emily heard the snap of the device’s camera and noticed that the phone was aimed at her face.
She wheeled around and stared at the girl. “What are you doing?”
The girl’s cheeks reddened. She covered the phone’s lens with her hand and lowered her eyes.
“Did you take a picture of us?” Emily screeched.
She tried to grab the phone, but Spencer caught her arm, pulling her back. The elevator dinged, and the girl darted into the lobby. Spencer stared at Emily. “You have to get a grip.”
“But she was really rude!” Emily protested.
“You can’t freak out about it,” Spencer urged. “Everything we do, Em, everything we say—we have to think about how the jury is going to interpret it.”
Emily shut her eyes. “I can’t believe we have to appear in front of a jury at all.”
“Me, neither,” Hanna whispered. “What a nightmare.”
They walked across the lobby, past a guard’s desk. Emily glanced out the revolving doors. Sunlight sparkled on the sidewalk. A group of girls in colorful sundresses and sandals passed, laughing giddily. But then, beyond them, she thought she saw a shadow slip into an alley across the street. The hair rose on the back of her neck. Ali—the real Ali—could be anywhere. Watching them. Waiting to strike.
She turned back to her friends. “You know, we could take action,” she said in a low voice. “We can look for her again.”
Spencer’s eyes widened. “No way. Absolutely not.”
Aria’s throat bobbed. “It’s impossible.”
But Hanna nodded. “I have wondered where Ali went. And Rubens did say that was the only way we could go free.”
“Hanna, no.” Spencer gave her a sharp look. “We have no leads.”
That’s right, Ali tittered in Emily’s mind. You’ll never find me.
Emily pulled out her phone again. The Nick article was still on the screen. “Nick’s so angry. Maybe he’ll help us out. Give us something.”
Spencer snorted. “Unlikely.”
“Yeah, and I hate the idea of facing him in prison,” Aria said nervously. “Don’t you?”
“If we go together, I think we can handle it,” Emily said, trying to sound firm.
“Maybe,” Aria murmured unhappily.
Hanna tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “What are the chances the cops will even let us visit someone in prison? We’re out on bail. We can�
�t exactly move freely and do whatever we want.”
Emily looked at Spencer. “Could your dad pull some strings?” Spencer’s father, a powerful lawyer, knew everyone from the DA to the mayor to the chief of police. He could make all sorts of things happen.
Spencer crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Please?” Emily cried.
Spencer shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to.”
Emily’s mouth hung open. “So you’re going to give up? That’s not like you, Spence.”
Spencer’s chin wobbled. “What I don’t want to do anymore is play Scooby-Doo. It only leads to more problems.”
“Spence,” Emily protested, reaching for Spencer’s arm. But Spencer shook her off, letting out a pained note that echoed through the lobby. She spun around and walked through the revolving doors.
A long silence followed. Emily felt that same weight pressing on her chest once more. She didn’t dare look at Hanna or Aria because she knew she’d burst into tears if she did. Maybe Spencer was right. Maybe it was a terrible idea to go looking for Ali again.
That’s right, Ali shrieked in Emily’s head, louder than ever. This time, I’ve got you for good.
2
SPENCER’S NEW TUTOR
Spencer Hastings walked quickly to the end of the Center City block. She glanced over her shoulder, half-sure that her friends were running after her, trying to convince her to embark on another crazy, frustrating, and fruitless Ali search. But the street was empty. Good.
She was done trying to search for Ali. After the past two weeks, after coming so close to finding Ali and then losing her so dramatically, she was giving up. She’d gotten everything she wanted only to have it all taken away—she no longer had any college future, she no longer had a book deal, and her bullying blog, which had so recently been a huge success, hadn’t had any hits in days except for people writing posts about what a horrible person she was. Fine, Ali, you win, she’d finally conceded. As far as Spencer was concerned, it was time to face her fate: prison.
Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, though. She was Spencer Hastings, and if she was going to have to go to prison, then she was damn sure going to do everything she could to make it as tolerable as possible. It was the same approach she’d taken before attending Camp Rutabaga in fifth grade: She’d interviewed previous summers’ campers and counselors, read message boards, even tramped over the campgrounds during the winter to get the lay of the land. She’d learned never to swim before 11 AM, when they added new chlorine to the pool; to avoid the peas in the mess hall; and that the surest way to win Color War was by mastering the rope bridge—and she had done so by practicing on a course she’d built beforehand in her backyard. And so she’d started her prison prep by reading the bestselling memoir Behind Bars: My Time in Prison. When she realized Angela Beadling, the author, lived in Philly, Spencer had gone on her website, and found that she consulted for individual clients as a Prison Life and Acclimation Specialist. She’d immediately called and made an appointment.
Her phone bleated, startling her. She looked at the screen. Dad. Emily hadn’t called him behind her back, had she? Spencer bit her lip and answered.
“Hey, Spence,” Mr. Hastings said soberly. “How are you holding up?”
Spencer swallowed hard, all thoughts of Emily fading away. She appreciated her father’s efforts to stay in touch—it was more than her ice-queen mother was doing at the moment. “Okay,” she said, trying to sound positive. “I just came from a meeting with Rubens, actually.”
“Really?” Mr. Hastings sounded enthusiastic. “And how did that go?”
Spencer skirted a green recycling can. She didn’t have the heart to tell her dad that Rubens had told them exactly the same thing as every other lawyer. Mr. Hastings had pulled all kinds of strings to get them a meeting, after all. And though they hadn’t talked about it—and would probably never discuss it in a zillion years—a huge, dark secret lingered between them. Not long ago, Spencer had found out that her father was Ali and Courtney’s dad, too. She knew he must have conflicted feelings about how messed up both of those girls had turned out, but Real Ali was still his flesh and blood. Spencer couldn’t help thinking that his careful, deliberate supportiveness was a clear message that he didn’t believe for a second that he was letting any paternal feelings get in the way.
“Um, great,” she said. “He seems really professional, and he’s going to represent all of us.” She took a breath, considering asking him about visiting Nick—her dad would definitely help. But she decided it wasn’t worth pursuing.
“Well, glad to hear it,” Mr. Hastings said. “Hey, if you’re still in the city, want to grab some lunch? I can meet you at Smith and Wollensky.”
Spencer stopped and looked around. She’d forgotten that she was close to her dad’s place on Rittenhouse Square. “Um, I can’t,” she blurted. “I’m already on SEPTA. Sorry!”
Then she hung up as fast as she could. With just her luck, she’d run into her dad on the street right now and be forced to answer questions. And she had no idea how she would explain where she was really going.
She reached into her pocket, looked at the address she’d written on a crumpled Post-it, and then entered it into Google Maps on her phone. It didn’t take her long to get to the building, a pretty white house with molding that looked like birthday-cake frosting. The car parked in front was a British racing green Porsche 911. An American flag hung from the eaves and there was a huge pot of flowers on the porch. Spencer walked up the steps and looked at the name on the mailbox. ANGELA BEADLING. This was it. Spencer was a little surprised—the book had been a bestseller, sure, but she hadn’t expected Angela to live somewhere quite so cushy.
She rang the bell and waited. Behind her, there was a loud slam, and she whirled around, her heart jumping in her throat. The street appeared deserted, so she wasn’t sure who could have made that slam. Someone in the house next door? The wind?
Ali?
No way. Ali wasn’t here. She couldn’t be.
A steely-eyed woman with blond hair, a sharply pointed nose, and thin lips appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a menswear-cut pair of trousers and an oxford shirt. Spencer stared at her. The woman stared back. It was the woman from the book jacket, all right. Except she wasn’t pleasantly smiling like she was in her author photo.
“Are you Spencer?” the woman asked gruffly. She stuck out her hand before Spencer answered. “I’m Angela. It’s three hundred just to come through the door.”
“O-oh.” Spencer fumbled for her purse and handed over a bunch of crumpled bills. Seemingly satisfied, Angela stepped through the doorway and waved Spencer into a huge space decorated with eighteenth-century French furniture. A tapestry depicting a sour-faced king and queen sitting on thrones in a royal court decorated the back wall. The chandelier over their heads held real candles, though none were lit at the moment. Three ceramic Buddhas stared at Spencer from the mantel. They weren’t calming in the least.
Angela plopped down on the largest leather couch Spencer had ever seen and spread her legs across it so that Spencer couldn’t share the space. Spencer drifted toward an upright chair in the corner. “So,” Spencer began, sitting down. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me. I really enjoyed your book.”
Angela smirked. “Thanks.”
Spencer leaned down and pulled her laptop from her bag, opening it on her lap. She took a moment to create a new document in Word and titled it Prison. “So I guess we’ll just start from the beginning, right? Like in ‘Chapter One—Getting There.’ Am I really going to be strip-searched?”
Then she heard Angela snickering and looked up. “Honey, this isn’t SAT prep.”
Spencer felt her cheeks blaze but didn’t close the laptop.
Angela lit a Newport Light on a long, gold cigarette holder. “I know who you are and what you did. You’ll probably get medium security, is my guess. I don’t think they’ll
do minimum for you, but maybe not maximum, either.”
Spencer’s heart pounded. Medium, she typed. Just hearing the designations made things seem much more real. “Actually, I didn’t do anything,” she corrected Angela. “I’m wrongfully accused.”
“Uh huh. Everyone says that.” Angela tapped the cigarette into a brown ashtray. “All right, we will start at the beginning. This is how it’s going to go down. First, they’re going to strip-search you. Then, you’ll be assigned a bunk, where more than likely your bunkmates will be murderers like yourself—they like to keep similar criminals together. You won’t see your friends, if you’re all convicted. And don’t even try to make other friends, because they’re all backstabbing bitches. Now, with this consultation, I can specialize in either tricks to deal with the guards, how to handle the gangs, or how to manage a relationship while behind bars—you got a boyfriend?”
“N-no,” Spencer stammered. Angela was talking too fast. She hadn’t even had a chance to type.
“Well, then, I suggest we talk about dealing with the girl gangs—just like in chapter ten.” Angela rolled her eyes and took another drag. “If you want to hear about the guards, too, that’ll be an extra one-twenty-five.”
Spencer’s mouth felt dry. “Maybe we could talk about the, um, useful parts of prison? Like the college programs? Work-study initiatives?”
Angela stared at Spencer for a beat, then burst out laughing. “Honey, if anything, they’ll do a GED program. And of course they have a lot of law books in case you want to appeal your case, which everyone does, not that you really get anywhere with that.”
Spencer’s heart beat faster. “What about exercise? Your book didn’t mention it, but I’ve read that correctional facilities value physical fitness and health, so . . .”
Angela snorted. “They let you walk around the yard. Don’t think you’re getting a spin studio or a Pilates class.”