Whatever. Her friends might be convinced they’d collectively hallucinated, the DNA report might allegedly say the body in the hole was Ali’s, and all of Rosewood might think Emily was delusional, but she knew what she saw. Last night while she slept, she’d endured dream after dream about Ali, like Ali was begging Emily’s subconscious to come find her. In the first one, Emily had walked into her church and found Ali and Isaac sitting together in the back pew, giggling and whispering. In the dream after that, Emily and Isaac had been naked under the covers in Isaac’s bed, just like they’d been the week before. They heard footsteps on the stairs. Emily thought it was Isaac’s mother, but Ali had walked into the room instead. Her face was covered with soot, and her eyes were huge and frightened. “Someone’s trying to kill me,” she said. And then she disintegrated into a pile of ash.
Ali was out there. But . . . whose body was in the hole then? And why was Wilden insisting it was Ali’s DNA if it really wasn’t? Someone had obviously set that fire to cover something up. Sure, Wilden had an alibi for when the fire started, but who was to say that receipt from CVS was even his? And wasn’t it a little convenient that he had the receipt at the ready? Emily thought of the lone police car she’d seen sneaking away from the Hastingses’ house the night of the fire, almost like whoever was driving didn’t want to be noticed. Wilden wasn’t on the scene that night . . . or was he?
She entered her biology classroom. It smelled of its usual jumble of leaky Bunsen burner gas, formaldehyde, and marker-board bleach. The teacher, Mr. Heinz, wasn’t there yet, and the students were gathered around one desk in the middle of the room, looking at something on a silver MacBook Air. When Sean Ackard noticed Emily, he paled and broke from the crowd. Lanie Iler, one of Emily’s friends from swimming, saw Emily next and opened and closed her mouth like a fish.
“Lanie?” Emily tried, her heart starting to thud. “What is it?”
Lanie had a conflicted expression on her face. After a moment, she pointed at the laptop.
Emily took a few steps toward the computer. A hush fell over the room and the crowd parted. The local news web page glowed on the screen. POOR, POOR PRETTY LITTLE liars read the headline under Emily, Aria, Spencer, and Hanna’s school pictures. Farther down on the page was a blurry picture of the girls in Spencer’s hospital room. They were all gathered over Spencer’s bed, talking worriedly.
Emily’s pulse raced. Spencer’s hospital room had been on the second floor, so how had the paparazzi gotten this photo?
Her eyes returned to their new nickname. Pretty Little Liars. A couple of kids behind her tittered. They thought this was funny. They thought Emily was a joke. She took a big step back, almost bumping into Ben, her old boyfriend from swimming. “I guess I should watch out for you, Little Liar,” he teased, smirking.
That was it. Without another glance at her classmates, she rushed out of the room and headed straight for the bathroom, her rubber Vans squeaking on the polished floor. Luckily, there was no one inside. The air smelled like freshly smoked cigarettes, and water dripped from one of the faucets into a pale blue basin. Leaning against the wall, Emily took heaving breaths.
Why was this happening? Why did no one believe her? When she’d seen Ali in the woods on Saturday night, her heart had filled with joy. Ali was back. They could resume their friendship. And then, in a blink, Ali was gone again, and now everyone thought Emily had made her up. What if Ali really was out there, hurt and scared? Was Emily honestly the only person who wanted to help her?
She ran cold water on her face, trying to catch her breath. Suddenly, her phone beeped, echoing loudly off the hard bathroom walls. She jumped and unhooked the backpack from her shoulder. Her phone was in the front pocket. One new text message, said the screen.
Her heart went into free fall. She looked around swiftly, anticipating a pair of eyes watching her from the utility closet, a pair of feet under a stall. But the bathroom was empty.
Her breathing was shallow in her chest as she looked at the screen.
Poor little Emily—
You and I both know she’s alive. The question is: What would you do to find her?—A
Gasping, Emily opened the keyboard to her phone and started to type. I’ll do anything.
There was a return message almost immediately. Do exactly as I say. Tell your parents you’re going on that church trip to Boston. But instead, you’ll go to Lancaster. For more, go to your locker. I’ve left you something there.
Emily squinted. Lancaster . . . Pennsylvania? And how did A know about the Boston trip? She envisioned the crumpled-up flyer sitting at the bottom of the hall trash can. Had A seen her throw it away? Was A here at school? And more specifically, could she actually trust A?
She looked down at her phone. What would you do to find her?
Quickly, she sprinted up the stairs back to her locker, which was in the Foreign Languages wing. As French students sang along to “La Marseillaise,” Emily spun the dial and opened her locker door. At the bottom, next to a spare pair of swim fins, was a small grocery bag. Wear me, said messy Magic Marker scrawl on the front.
Emily’s hand fluttered to her mouth. How had this gotten here? Taking a deep breath, she picked up the bag and pulled out a long, plain dress. underneath that was a simple wool coat, stockings, and odd-looking shoes with little eyelet buttons. It looked like the Little House on the Prairie Halloween costume Emily had worn in fifth grade.
Her hand touched a piece of paper at the bottom of the grocery bag. It was another note, seemingly banged out on an old typewriter.
Tomorrow, take a bus to Lancaster, go north for about a mile from the depot, and turn at the big sign of the horse and buggy. Ask for Lucy Zook. Don’t dare take a cab to get there—no one will trust you.—A
Emily devoured the note three more times. Was A suggesting what Emily thought she was suggesting? Then she noticed typing on the other side of the note. She flipped the paper over.
Your name is Emily Stoltzfus. You’re from Ohio, but you’ve come to Lancaster for a visit. If you want to see your old BFF again, you’ll do exactly what I say. And . . . oh, did I forget to mention? You’re Amish. Everyone else there is, too. Viel Glück! (That’s German for “good luck”!)—A
Chapter 7
An Old Friend is Back
When the final bell of the day rang, Spencer plodded gratefully to her locker. Her limbs ached. Her head felt like it weighed a million pounds. She was ready for this day to be over. Her parents had told her she could take a few days off school to recuperate after the fire, but Spencer wanted to get back into the swing of things as soon as possible. She vowed to get straight A’s this semester, whatever it took. And maybe by spring, Rosewood Day would take her off academic probation and let her keep her spot on the lacrosse team—she needed it for college applications. There was still time to get into an Ivy League summer program, and she could sign up for Habitat for Humanity to round out her community service.
As she pulled her English books from her locker, she felt a tug on her jacket sleeve. When she turned around, Andrew Campbell was standing there, his hands shoved in his pockets, his longish blond hair pushed off his face.
“Hi,” he said.
“H-hi,” Spencer stammered. She and Andrew had started dating a few weeks ago, but Spencer hadn’t spoken to him since she told him she was moving to New York to be with olivia. Andrew had tried to warn her not to trust olivia, but Spencer hadn’t listened. In fact, she’d kind of called him a clingy loser. Since then, he’d ignored her at school—which was a nearly impossible feat, since they had every class together.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I guess,” she answered shyly.
Andrew fiddled with the ANDREW FOR PREZ! pin on his messenger bag. It was from the previous semester’s campaign for class president, which he’d won over Spencer. “I was at the hospital when you were still unconscious,” he admitted. “I talked to your parents, but I . . .” He looked down at his lace-up Merrells. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”
“Oh.” Spencer’s heart did a flip. “I—I would have wanted to see you. And . . . I’m sorry. For . . . you know.”
Andrew nodded, and Spencer wondered if he’d found out what happened with Olivia. “Maybe I can call you later?” he asked.
“Sure,” Spencer said, feeling a flutter of excitement. Andrew raised a hand awkwardly, doing a little bow in good-bye. She watched him disappear down the hall, skirting around a bunch of orchestra girls holding violin and cello cases. She’d come close to crying twice today, overstressed and tired of kids staring at her like she’d come to school in only a thong. Finally, something pleasant had happened.
The front walk was crowded with yellow buses, a traffic guard in a bright orange vest, and, of course, the ubiquitous news vans. A CNN cameraman noticed Spencer and nudged his reporter. “Miss Hastings?” They sprinted over. “What do you think about the people who doubt that you saw Alison Saturday night? Did you really see her?”
Spencer gritted her teeth. Damn Emily for blurting out that they’d seen Ali. “No,” she said into the lens. “We didn’t see Ali. It was a misunderstanding.”
“So you lied ?” The reporters were practically frothing at the mouth. A bunch of students had stopped just behind Spencer too. A couple kids were waving at the cameras, but most were staring at her, agog. A freshman boy snapped a photo with his camera phone. Even Spencer’s AP econ teacher, Mr. McAdam, had paused in the lobby and was gaping at her through the big front windows.
“The brain conjures up all kinds of strange things when deprived of oxygen,” Spencer said, parroting what the ER doctor had told her. “It’s the same phenomenon that happens to people right before they die.” Then she extended her palm toward the screen. “No more questions.”
“Spencer!” called a familiar voice. Spencer whirled around. Her sister, Melissa, was in her silver Mercedes SUV, parked in one of the visitors’ spots. She waved her arm. “Come on!”
Saved. Spencer ducked the reporters and darted past the buses. Melissa smiled as Spencer climbed into the SuV, as if it wasn’t completely out of the ordinary that she was picking Spencer up from school.
“What are you doing back?” Spencer blurted. She hadn’t seen Melissa in almost a week, not since she swiftly bolted from the house after coming home from Nana’s funeral. That was right around the time Spencer had begun talking to Ian Thomas on IM. Spencer had looked for him on IM last night, hoping to talk to him about the fire, but he hadn’t logged on.
Spencer suspected Melissa thought Ian was innocent too—after Ian had been arrested and thrown in jail, Melissa insisted that he didn’t deserve a life sentence. She even admitted she’d talked to Ian on the phone when he was in prison. Her sister had packed up her things so hastily last week that Spencer wondered if Melissa felt she needed to get out of Rosewood for the same reasons Ian did—because she knew too much about what had really happened to Ali.
