Finally, he released her, giving Hanna a thrilled grin. Hanna’s smile was wobbly at best. In forty-eight hours, her dad might know the truth about her—in more ways than one.
How was she supposed to come up with $10,000? And even if she found a way to pay off Patrick, how could she stop A?
Hanna pulled out her phone and started to type a text to Mike. You were right about Patrick. I miss you. Please call me.
As she hit SEND, she noticed someone was bustling up the walk. Hanna narrowed her eyes at the bright blue Rosewood Day Swimming anorak. Was that Emily?
“I’ll be back in a sec,” she told her dad, who had turned to speak to a man in a tailored black suit. Hanna burst out of the atrium and into the frigid outdoors. Emily’s reddish-gold hair was wild around her face, and her clear green eyes looked red-rimmed. “I had to talk to you,” Emily said, noticing Hanna. “And you keep hanging up on me, so I figured this was the only way.”
“How did you know I’d be here?” Hanna demanded, hands on hips.
Emily rolled her eyes. “You posted it all over Facebook. You’d think with A running loose you’d be a bit more secretive about your whereabouts. Or do you still not believe it’s real?”
Hanna turned away. “I don’t know what to think.”
“So you’ve gotten notes, too?”
An older couple passed them and pushed through the atrium doors. In the middle of the big room, Hanna’s father shook hands and slapped backs. This was way too public of a place to be talking about A. She pulled Emily farther down the path and lowered her voice. “I already told you I’ve been getting notes.”
“Someone knows, Hanna.” Emily’s voice cracked. “A sent me a photo of me and . . . her.”
“What do you mean?”
Emily pulled out the picture and shoved it in Hanna’s face. Sure enough, it was from Jamaica. “Who could have gotten this? Who knows?”
“It’s her, Hanna. Tabitha. Ali.”
“But that’s impossible!” Hanna cried. “We—”
Emily cut her off. “All of my notes so far have sounded exactly like something Ali might write. In one of them, she even called me Killer.”
Hanna stared into the middle distance. Of course her notes reminded her of Ali. “It’s not possible.”
“Yes it is,” Emily insisted, sounding angry. “And you know it. Think about what happened. What we did. What we saw—or didn’t see.”
Hanna opened her mouth, then shut it again. If she allowed herself to talk or think about Jamaica, Tabitha’s awful voice would invade her head again.
But it was already too late. Visions swarmed into Hanna’s mind like an invasion of ants at a picnic. That awful night, after Tabitha hinted that she knew Hanna used to be a chubby, ugly loser, Spencer and Emily ran toward her, worry on their faces. “We need to talk,” Spencer said. “That girl that Emily saw on the landing? There’s something weird about her.”
“I know,” Hanna said.
They found Aria alone at the bar. She’d met Tabitha, too, she said, but she still didn’t believe she was Ali. “It has to be a coincidence,” she said.
“It’s not,” Emily urged.
The three of them dragged Aria up to the room she and Emily were sharing and triple-locked the doors. Then, one by one, each of them shared the eerie, Ali-like experience they’d had with Tabitha. With each tale, Hanna’s heart galloped faster and faster.
Aria frowned, still skeptical. “There has to be a logical explanation. How can she know things only Ali knows, say things only Ali says?”
“Because she’s Ali,” Emily insisted. “She’s back. Just . . . different. You saw the scars.”
Aria blinked. “So you’re saying she didn’t die in the fire?”
“I guess not.” Emily shut her eyes, guilt washing over her again. She swallowed it down. “I guess she escaped from the house.”
The room went silent. There was a loud thump from one of the upper floors; it sounded like kids were wrestling in their rooms. Aria cleared her throat. “But what about her family? Who’s been supporting her? How did she get here?”
“Maybe they don’t know she’s alive,” Emily whispered. “Maybe she’s gone rogue.”
“But if this is Ali, she had major reconstructive surgery,” Aria pointed out. “You said so yourself, Em. Do you really think she got through all that on her own? How did she pay for it?”
“It’s Ali we’re talking about.” Hanna hugged a pillow tight. “I wouldn’t put anything past her.”
Unspoken questions floated almost palpably through the air: What if Ali had deliberately followed them to Jamaica? What if she was planning to finish the job she’d started in the Poconos? What should they do?
A muffled, scratching sound made them turn. There, on the carpet just inside the door, was a folded-up piece of resort stationery. Someone had clearly just slipped it into the room.
Spencer leapt up and grabbed it. The girls gathered around and read it together. Hey girls! Meet me on the crow’s nest in ten minutes. I want to show you something. Tabitha.
An Amtrak train across Route 30 clanged past, breaking Hanna from the memory. She pinched the bridge of her nose and looked at Emily. “Do you think Wilden would believe us?”
“I heard he isn’t a cop anymore.” Emily rubbed her hands up and down her arms, shivering. “And could you see his face if we told him we were being tortured by a dead girl? And anyway, if we tell anyone, A would tell what we did. And we can’t have that, Hanna. We can’t.”
“I know,” Hanna said softly, her heart thudding hard.
The door to the atrium whooshed open, bringing with it a rush of party noise. Jeremiah stepped out, spied Hanna, and stormed toward her, his face twisted into a scowl. “What are you doing out here? And who’s this?” He glared at Emily like she was a spy.
“A friend,” Hanna snapped.
“The friend who wrote this?” Jeremiah waved his iPad in Hanna’s face. On the screen was an email message. Hanna’s gotten into all kinds of trouble lately! Better ask her about it before the reporters do. The sender’s return address was a nonsensical jumble of letters and numbers.
“Oh my God,” Emily whispered, reading the message over Hanna’s shoulder.
Jeremiah eyed her. “Do you know what this is about?”
“No,” Emily and Hanna stammered together. Which was the truth, at least for Hanna. She didn’t know which horrible thing it was about: what happened in Jamaica, or what happened with Patrick.
Jeremiah’s nostrils flared. He stuffed the iPad back into his man-purse. The flap gaped, giving Hanna a glimpse of a pack of Marlboro Lights and the gray pouch that contained the campaign’s petty cash. “Out with it, Hanna. Do you have anything to tell me?”
“I said no,” Hanna answered quickly.
“Are you sure? It’s better I know before anyone else does.”
“For the last time, no.”
A roar of laughter rose from the atrium. Jeremiah gave Hanna and Emily another withering glance. “Whatever this is, you’d better clear it up before the press gets wind of it. I knew you shouldn’t have set foot anywhere near this campaign. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be around at all.”
Then he stalked away, marching through the atrium to the elevator at the back of the room. Hanna covered her face with her hands.
Emily touched her shoulder. “Hanna, this is getting worse. If we don’t do anything, A’s going to ruin your dad’s campaign! Not to mention our lives! We’ll go to jail!”
“We don’t know if that note’s from A,” Hanna mumbled.
“Who else would it be from?”
Hanna watched Jeremiah get into the elevator. The lighted display above the car stopped on the third floor, where Mr. Marin’s campaign office was. The gray pouch inside his man-purse suddenly flashed through her mind. She peeked at her phone. Mike hadn’t written back. Then she set her jaw grimly. She might not be able to control A, but maybe there was a solution to Patrick.
She smoothed down her hair and looked at Emily. “You should go home. I’ll handle this.”
Emily wrinkled her nose. “How?”
“Just go, okay?” Hanna nudged Emily toward the parking lot. “I’ll call you later. Get home safe, okay?”
“But . . .”
Hanna went back into the atrium—she didn’t want to hear any more of Emily’s protests. Ducking her head, she slithered covertly around the edge of the room. People stood at the buffet line, helping themselves to ostrich burgers and caprese salads. Kate flirted with Joseph, one of Mr. Marin’s younger aides. Isabel and Hanna’s father were yukking it up with a big donor who’d promised to back him for the election. No one noticed as Hanna slipped through the heavy door to the stairwell.
She climbed three flights, her spiky heels ringing out on the concrete treads. At her dad’s floor, she pushed open the door to the hall and spotted Jeremiah’s balding head just outside her father’s office. He was talking heatedly to someone on his Droid. Come on, come on, Hanna urged silently. Finally, Jeremiah hung up, pressed through the double doors, and stabbed the DOWN elevator button.
Hanna flattened herself against the wall and held her breath, praying he wouldn’t see her. As Jeremiah waited, he rummaged through his suit pants pockets, pulling out receipts and other little slips of paper. An object clunked to the carpet, but he didn’t notice.
Ding. The elevator doors slid open, and Jeremiah stepped inside. As soon as the doors closed, Hanna stepped forward, eyeing the shiny object he’d dropped. It was a silver money clip with the initials JPO. Everything was falling into place even better than she’d imagined. She scooped it up with the cuff of her coat sleeve over her fingers and pushed into her father’s office.
The room smelled like Jeremiah’s overpowering cologne. Red, white, and blue posters that said TOM MARIN, PA SENATOR lined the walls. Someone had left a half-eaten Italian sub in one of the cubicles, and a copy of the Philadelphia Sentinel lay facedown on one of the black leather couches in the corner.
Hanna tiptoed to her father’s separate quarters. The green banker’s lamp was still on. Next to a phone was a Tiffany-framed picture from Mr. Marin and Isabel’s wedding. Kate stood in front of the newlyweds, and Hanna stood slightly off to the side, like they hadn’t intended for her to be in the photo. She wasn’t even looking directly at the camera.
Looking around frantically, she spied a small, gray safe wedged in the corner by the window. She knew she’d seen it the night of the screening; it had to be where Jeremiah deposited the petty cash funds. She darted toward it and crouched down. The safe was the kind used in hotel rooms where you had to punch a four-digit code into a keypad. Looking around, she grabbed a tissue from a box on her dad’s desk so she wouldn’t leave prints. First, she tried November 4th, the date of next year’s election, but two big angry red lights blinked in her face. What about 1-2-3-4? More angry red lights. 1-7-7-6, to be patriotic and Founding Father–esque? Nothing.
