Spencer looked down at the photo and thought of the magic shows she and Melissa used to perform. After their friendship had splintered, Spencer had thought that if she muttered some of her and Melissa’s old magic words, they’d be best friends again. If only it were that easy.
When she looked up again, Melissa’s expression had shifted. She narrowed her eyes and turned away. “Bitch,” she said over her shoulder as she sashayed down the hall.
Spencer curled her hands into fists, all of her anger gushing back in. It would take a whole lot more than magic for them to get along. It would take a miracle.
3
EMILY’S OWN AMERICAN GOTHIC
Late Sunday afternoon, Emily Fields followed an old lady with a walker onto the moving sidewalk of the Des Moines International Airport, dragging her ratty blue swim duffel behind her. The bag was stuffed with all her worldly goods—her clothes, shoes, her two favorite stuffed walruses, her journal, her iPod, and various carefully folded notes from Alison DiLaurentis that she couldn’t bear to part with. When the plane was over Chicago, she realized she’d forgotten underwear. But then, that was what she got for packing frantically this morning. She’d only gotten three hours of sleep, shell-shocked from seeing Hanna’s body fly up into the air when that SUV hit her.
Emily arrived in the main terminal and ducked into the first bathroom she could find, squeezing around a very large woman in too-tight jeans. She stared at her bleary-eyed reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her parents had really done it. They’d really sent her here, to Addams, Iowa, to live with her aunt Helene and her uncle Allen. It was all because A had outed Emily to the entire school, and all because Emily’s mother had caught her hugging Maya St. Germain, the girl she loved, at Mona Vanderwaal’s party last night. Emily had known the deal—she’d promised to do the “gay-away” Tree Tops program to rid herself of her feelings for Maya or it was good-bye, Rosewood. But when she discovered that even her Tree Tops counselor, Becka, couldn’t resist her true urges, all bets were off.
The Des Moines airport was small, boasting only a couple of restaurants, a bookshop, and a store that sold colorful Vera Bradley bags. When Emily reached the baggage claim area, she looked around uncertainly. All she remembered about her aunt and uncle was their super-strictness. They avoided anything that might trigger sexual impulses—even certain foods. As she scanned the crowd, Emily half-expected to see the stern, long-faced farmer and his plain, bitter wife from the American Gothic painting standing near the baggage carousel.
“Emily.”
She whirled around. Helene and Allen Weaver were leaning against a Smarte Carte machine, their hands clasped at their waists. Allen’s tucked-in mustard-yellow golf shirt prominently displayed his massive gut. Helene’s short gray hair looked shellacked. Neither was smiling.
“Did you check any luggage?” Allen asked gruffly.
“Uh, no,” Emily said politely, wondering if she should go in for a hug. Weren’t aunts and uncles usually happy to see their nieces? Allen and Helene just looked annoyed.
“Well, then, let’s go,” Helene said. “It’s about two hours to Addams.”
Their car was an old, wood-paneled station wagon. The inside smelled like fake pine-tree air freshener, a smell that always made Emily think of long, cross-country drives with her grumpy grandparents. Allen drove at least fifteen miles under the speed limit—even a frail old woman squinting over her steering wheel passed them. Neither her aunt nor her uncle said a word the whole drive—not to Emily, and not to each other. It was so quiet, Emily could hear the sound of her heart breaking into seven million tiny pieces.
“Iowa sure is pretty,” Emily commented loudly, gesturing to the endless flat land all around her. She’d never seen a place so desolate—there weren’t even any rest stops. Allen made a small grunt. Helene pursed her lips even tighter. If she’d pursed any harder, she’d have swallowed her lips altogether.
Emily’s cell phone, cool and smooth in her jacket pocket, felt like one of the last bridges to civilization. She brought it out and stared at the screen. No new messages, not even from Maya. She’d sent Aria a text before she left, asking how Hanna was doing, but Aria hadn’t responded. The newest text in her inbox was the one A had sent last night—She knew too much. Had A really hit Hanna? And what about the things Aria had told her before Hanna’s accident—could Spencer be Ali’s killer? Tears dotted Emily’s eyes. This was definitely the wrong time to be so far from Rosewood.
Suddenly, Allen took a sharp right off the road, veering onto a bumpy dirt path. The car wobbled over the uneven ground, crossing over several cattle guards and passing a few rickety-looking houses. Dogs ran up and down the length of the path, barking viciously at the vehicle. Finally, they pulled onto yet another dirt road and came to a gate. Helene got out and unlocked it, and Allen drove the car through. A two-story, white-shingled house loomed ahead. It was spare and modest, sort of reminiscent of the Amish houses in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, that Emily and her parents used to stop at to buy authentic shoofly pie.
“Here we are,” Helene said blandly.
“It’s beautiful,” Emily said, trying to sound upbeat as she got out of the car.
Like the other houses they’d passed, the Weavers’ property was surrounded by a chain-link fence, and there were dogs, chickens, ducks, and goats everywhere. One brave goat attached to the cattle guard by a long chain trotted right up to Emily. He butted her with his dirty-looking horns, and she screamed.
Helene looked at her sternly as the goat waddled away. “Don’t scream like that. The chickens don’t like it.”
Perfect. The chickens’ needs took precedence to Emily’s. She pointed to the goat. “Why is he chained like that?”
“She,” Helene corrected her. “She’s been a bad girl, that’s why.”
Emily bit her lip nervously as Helene led her into a tiny kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the fifties. Emily immediately missed her mom’s cheery kitchen, with its chicken collectibles, year-round Christmas towels, and refrigerator magnets shaped like Philadelphia monuments. Helene’s fridge was bare and magnet-free and smelled like rotting vegetables. When they walked into a small living room, Helene pointed to a girl about Emily’s age sitting on a vomit-colored chair and reading Jane Eyre. “You remember Abby?”
Emily’s cousin Abby wore a pale khaki jumper that came to her knees and a demure eyelet blouse. She’d pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck, and she wore no makeup. In her tight LOVE AN ANIMAL, HUG A SWIMMER tee, ripped Abercrombie jeans, tinted moisturizer, and cherry-flavored lip gloss, Emily felt like a whore.
“Hello, Emily,” Abby said primly.
“Abby was nice enough to offer to share her room with you,” Helene said. “It’s just up the stairs. We’ll show you.”
There were four bedrooms upstairs. The first was Helene and Allen’s, and the second was for John and Matt, the seventeen-year-old twins. “And that one’s for Sarah, Elizabeth, and baby Karen,” Helene said, gesturing to a room that Emily had mistaken for a broom closet.
Emily gaped. She hadn’t heard of any of those cousins. “How old are they?”
“Well, Karen’s six months, Sarah is two, and Elizabeth is four. They’re at their grandmother’s right now.”
Emily tried to hide a smile. For people who shunned sex, they certainly had a lot of offspring.
Helene led Emily into an almost-empty room and pointed to a twin cot in the corner. Abby settled down on her own bed, folding her hands in her lap. Emily couldn’t believe the room had been lived in—the only furniture was the two beds, a plain dresser, a small round rug, and a bookshelf with hardly any books on it. At home, her room was plastered with posters and pictures; her desk was strewn with perfume bottles, cutouts from magazines, CDs, and books. Then again, the last time Emily was here, Abby had told her she was planning to become a nun, so perhaps no-frills living was part of her nunnish training. Emily glanced out the big picture window at the end of the room and saw the Weavers’ enormous field, which included a large stable and a silo. Her two older boy cousins, John and Matt, were lugging bales of hay out of the stable and onto the bed of a pickup truck. There was nothing on the horizon. At all.
“So, how far away is your school?” Emily asked Abby.
Abby’s face lit up. “My mom didn’t tell you? We’re homeschooled.”
“Ohh…” Emily’s will to live slowly seeped out the sweat glands in her feet.
“I’ll give you the class schedule tomorrow.” Helene plunked a few grayish towels onto Emily’s bed. “You’ll have to take some exams to see where I place you.”
“I’m a junior in high school,” Emily offered. “I’m in some AP classes.”
“We’ll see where I place you.” Helene gave her a hard look.
Abby got up from her bed and disappeared into the hall. Emily gazed desperately out the window. If a bird flies by in the next five seconds, I’ll be back to Rosewood by next week. Just as a delicate sparrow fluttered past, Emily remembered she wasn’t playing her little superstitious games anymore. The events of the last few months—the workers finding Ali’s body in the gazebo hole, Toby’s suicide, A’s…everything—had made her lose all faith in things happening for a reason.
Her cell phone chimed. Emily pulled it out and saw that Maya had sent her a text. R U really in Iowa? Pls call me when you can.
Help me, Emily began to type, when Helene snatched the phone from her hands.
“We don’t allow cell phones in this house.” Helene switched the phone off.
“But…” Emily protested. “What if I want to call my parents?”
“I can do that for you,” Helene sang. She came close to Emily’s face. “Your mother has told me a few things about you. I don’t know how they do things in Rosewood, but around here, we live by my rules. Is that clear?”
Emily flinched. Helene spat when she spoke, and Emily’s cheek felt moist. “It’s clear,” she said shakily.
“Good.” Helene walked out into the hallway and dropped the phone into a large, empty jar on a wooden end table. “We’ll just put this here for safekeeping.” Someone had printed the words SWEAR JAR on the lid, but the jar was completely empty except for Emily’s phone.
Emily’s phone looked lonely in the swear jar, but she didn’t dare unscrew the lid—Helene probably had it wired with an alarm. She walked back into the empty bedroom and threw herself onto the cot. There was a sharp bar in the middle of the mattress, and the pillow felt like a slab of cement. As the Iowa sky turned from russet to purple to midnight blue to black, Emily felt hot tears stream down her face. If this was the first day of the rest of her life, she’d much rather be dead.
The door opened a few hours later with a slow creeeeaaak. A shadow lengthened across the floor. Emily sat up on her cot, her heart pounding. She thought of A’s note. She knew too much. And of Hanna’s body, crashing down to the pavement.
