“And was it romantic?”
Spencer quickly tried to conjure up some cute scenes with Andrew. Sharing the appetizer. Drunkenly dancing to Shakira. She caught herself. What was the point? It didn’t matter anymore.
The clouds started to move out of her brain. Melissa was sitting here, so sweetly trying to make an effort to patch things up. The way she’d taken an interest in Foxy, the way she’d urged their parents to forgive her…and Spencer had repaid her by stealing Wren and ripping off her old econ paper. Even Melissa didn’t deserve this.
“I have something to tell you,” Spencer blurted out. “I…I saw Wren.”
Melissa barely flinched, so Spencer pressed forward. “This whole week. I’ve gone to his new apartment in Philly, we’ve talked on the phone, everything. But…I think it’s over now.” She curled into the fetal position, armoring herself for when Melissa started to hit her. “You can hate me. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you. You can go tell Mom and Dad to kick me out of the house.”
Melissa quietly held Spencer’s preppy seersucker pillow to her chest. It took a long time for her to answer. “It’s all right. I won’t tell them anything.” Melissa leaned back. “I actually have something to tell you. You remember Friday night, when you couldn’t reach Wren? You left five messages?”
Spencer stared at her. “H-How do you know that?”
Melissa gave her a tight, satisfied smile. A smile that suddenly made everything all too clear. I’ve been seeing someone else, Wren had said. It can’t be, Spencer thought.
“Because Wren wasn’t in Philly,” Melissa answered nonchalantly. “He was here, in Rosewood. With me.” She got up off the bed and pushed her hair behind her ears, and Spencer saw the hickey on Melissa’s neck, practically in the same spot where Spencer’s had been. Melissa couldn’t have been more deliberate if she’d circled it with a Sharpie.
“And he told you?” she managed. “You knew, all this time?”
“No, I only found out last night.” Melissa ran her hand over her chin. “Let’s just say I got an anonymous tip from a concerned individual.”
Spencer gripped her bedspread. A.
“Anyway,” Melissa lilted, “I was with Wren last night, too, when you were at Foxy.” She tilted her head down at Spencer, giving her the same haughty look she used to make when they played Queen, back when they were little. The rules of Queen never changed: Melissa was always Queen, and Spencer always had to do what she said. Make my bed, loyal subject, Melissa would say. Kiss my feet. You’re mine forever.
Melissa took a step toward the door. “But I decided this morning. I haven’t told him yet, but Wren’s really not for me. So I’m never going to see him again.” She paused, considered her words, then smirked. “And by the looks of things, I guess you won’t be seeing him ever again, either.”
34
SEE? DEEP DOWN, HANNA REALLY IS A GOOD GIRL
The first thing Hanna heard on Sunday morning was someone singing that Elvis Costello song “Alison.”
“ALLLLLison, I know this world is KILLING you!” It was a guy, his voice loud and grating like a lawn mower. Hanna threw her covers back. Was it the TV? Was it someone outside?
When she stood up, her head felt like it was full of cotton candy. She saw the Chloé jacket she’d worn last night thrown over her desk chair, and everything came flooding back to her.
After her mom retrieved her from the Four Seasons, they’d driven home in stony silence. When they pulled into the driveway, Ms. Marin jammed the Lexus into park and stormed crookedly into the house, drunk with anger. When Hanna got to the door, her mom slammed it in her face, and there was a loud, solid clunk. Hanna stood back, stunned. Okay, so she’d outed her mom’s worst parenting faux pas, and that was probably a bad move. But was her mom seriously locking her out?
Hanna pounded on the door, and Ms. Marin opened it a crack. Her eyebrows were drawn together. “Oh, I’m sorry. You want to come in?”
“Y-Yes,” Hanna squeaked.
Her mother guffawed. “You’re completely willing to insult and disrespect me in front of your father, but you’re not too proud to live here?”
Hanna had made some sort of blubbering attempt at an apology, but her mom stormed away. She did, however, leave the door open. Hanna had scooped up Dot and run to her room, too traumatized to even cry.
“Ohhhhh, ALLLLLison…I know this world is KILLLing YOU!”
Hanna tiptoed to her door. The singing was coming from inside the house. Her legs started to shake. Only a crazy person would be stupid enough to sing that “Alison” song in Rosewood right now. The cops would probably arrest you just for humming it in public.
Was it Toby?
She straightened her yellow camisole and stepped into the hall. At the same moment, the hall bathroom door opened and a guy stepped out.
Hanna put her hand to her mouth. The guy had a towel—her white, fluffy, Pottery Barn towel—wrapped around his waist. His blackish hair stood up in peaks. A silent scream got stuck in Hanna’s throat.
And then he turned around and faced her. Hanna took a step back. It was Darren Wilden. Officer Darren Wilden.
“Whoa.” Wilden froze. “Hanna.”
It was hard not to gawk at his perfectly formed abs. He was definitely not a cop who ate too many Krispy Kremes. “Why were you singing that?” she finally asked.
Wilden looked embarrassed. “Sometimes I don’t notice I’m singing.”
“I thought you were…” Hanna trailed off. What the hell was Wilden doing here? But then she realized. Of course. Her mom. She smoothed down her hair, not feeling any calmer. What if it had been Toby? What would she have done? She would probably be dead.
“Do you…do you need to get in here?” Wilden gestured bashfully at the steamy bathroom. “Your mom’s in hers.”
Hanna was too stunned to respond. Then, before she knew exactly what she was saying, she blurted out, “I have something to tell you. Something important.”
“Oh?” A droplet of water fell off a strand of Wilden’s hair onto the floor.
“I think I know something about…about who killed Alison DiLaurentis.”
Wilden raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
Hanna licked her lips. “Toby Cavanaugh.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I…I can’t tell you why. You just have to take my word for it.”
Wilden frowned and leaned against the doorjamb, still half-naked. “You’re going to have to give me a little more than that. You could be giving me the name of some guy who broke your heart, for revenge.”
In that case, I’d have told you Sean Ackard, Hanna thought bitterly. She didn’t know what to do. If she told Wilden about The Jenna Thing, her dad would hate her. Everyone in Rosewood would talk. She and her friends would go to juvie.
But keeping the secret from her dad—and the rest of Rosewood—didn’t really matter anymore. Her whole life was ruined, and besides, she was the one who’d really hurt Jenna. That night might’ve been an accident, but Hanna had hurt her plenty of times on purpose.
“I’ll tell you,” she said slowly, “but I don’t want anyone else to get in trouble. Only…only me, if someone has to. Okay?”
Wilden held up his hand. “It doesn’t matter. We checked out Toby when Alison first disappeared. He has an airtight alibi. Couldn’t have been him.”
Hanna gaped. “He has an alibi? Who?”
“I can’t disclose that.” Wilden looked stern for a moment, but then the corners of his mouth curled up into a smile. He pointed at Hanna’s A&F moose-printed flannel pants. “You look cute in your jammies.”
Hanna curled her toes into the carpet. She’d always hated the word jammies. “Wait, are you sure Toby’s innocent?”
Wilden was about to respond, but his walkie-talkie, which was perched on the edge of the bathroom sink, made a crackling sound. He turned and grabbed it, keeping one hand on the towel around his waist. “Casey?”
“There’s another body,” a crackling voice answered. “And it’s…” The transmission turned to static.
Hanna’s heart started pounding again. Another body?
“Casey.” Wilden was buttoning up his police shirt. “Can you repeat that? Hello?” Fuzz was all he got in reply. He noticed Hanna still standing there. “Go to your room.”
Hanna bristled. The nerve of him, trying to speak to her like he was her father! “What about another body?” she whispered.
Wilden put the walkie-talkie back on the counter, whipped on his pants, and tore the towel off his lower half, tossing it on the bathroom floor just like Hanna often did. “Just calm down,” he said, his friendliness all gone. He put his gun in his holster and clomped down the stairs.
Hanna followed him. Spencer had called last night to tell her that Emily was okay—but what if she’d been mistaken? “Is it a girl’s body? Do you know?”
Wilden flung the front door open. In the driveway next to her mom’s champagne-colored Lexus was his squad car. ROSEWOOD PD was printed, loud and clear, on the side panel. Hanna gawked. Had that been here all night? Could the neighbors see it from the road?
Hanna followed Wilden to his car. “Can you at least tell me where the body is?”
He whirled around. “I can’t tell you that.”
“But…you don’t understand—”
“Hanna.” Wilden didn’t let her finish. “Tell your mom I’ll call her later.” He swung into his car and put the siren on. If the neighbors didn’t know he’d been there before, they sure did now.
35
SPECIAL DELIVERY
Sunday at 11:52 A.M., Aria sat on her bed, staring at her red-painted fingernails. She felt slightly disoriented, as if she were forgetting something…something huge. Like those dreams she sometimes had where it was June, and she just realized she hadn’t gone to math class the whole year and was going to flunk out.
And then she remembered. Toby was A. And today was Sunday. Her time was up.
It scared her to put a name and face to A’s wrath—and that Ali and Spencer had been covering something up, something that could be really, really serious. Aria still had no idea how Toby had found out about Byron and Meredith, but if Aria caught them together twice, others could have seen them together, too—including Toby.
She’d meant to tell Ella about everything last night. When Sean dropped her off at home, he asked repeatedly if he should come in with her. But Aria told him no—she had to do what she was going to do alone. The house had been dark and still, the only sound the groaning of the dishwasher on high-scrub mode. Aria had fumbled for the foyer lights, then tiptoed into the dark, empty kitchen. Usually, her mother was up at least until 1 or 2 A.M. on Saturday nights, doing Sudoku puzzles or having discussions with Byron at the table over decaf coffee. But the table was spotless; she could see dried sponge swirls on its surface.
