Courtney chewed thoughtfully. The crunches echoed through the room. “Kind of. I was at this place called the Radley. And then, after it became a hotel or whatever, I was moved to a place called the Preserve at Addison-Stevens.” She said the name with a haughty British accent, rolling her eyes.
Spencer exchanged a shocked look with the other girls. Of course. Jason DiLaurentis wasn’t the patient at the Radley—Courtney was. His name was in the logbooks because he’d visited her. And Hanna had said that Iris, her roommate at the Preserve, had drawn a picture of Ali in some secret room. But Iris must have known Courtney, not Ali.
“So…it was for…mental issues?” Aria said tentatively.
Courtney pointed a pretzel at Aria like a dagger. “Those places aren’t just for mental patients,” she snapped.
“Oh.” A bloom of red appeared on Aria’s cheeks. “Sorry. I had no idea.”
Courtney gave a shrug and stared into the pretzel bowl. Spencer waited for her to elaborate on why she had been in those facilities, but she said nothing.
Finally, Courtney raised her head. “Anyway. I’m sorry I ran away from you the night of the fire. That was probably really…confusing.”
“Oh my God, that was you,” Hanna exclaimed.
Spencer ran her fingers along the edge of the blue linen place mat. It made sense, of course, that it was Courtney who had emerged from the woods, not Ali’s ghost or a figment from a weird group hallucination.
Emily leaned forward, her reddish-blond hair falling in her face. “What were you doing there?”
Courtney pulled her chair closer to the table. “I got a note—from Billy I guess—saying there was something in the woods I needed to see.” Courtney’s face twisted with remorse. “I wasn’t supposed to leave the house, but the note said it would help solve Ali’s murder. When I reached the woods, the fire started. I thought I was going to die…but then Aria saved me.” She touched Aria’s wrist. “Thank you, by the way.”
Aria’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.
“How did you get out of there so quickly?” Emily pressed.
Courtney wiped a stray piece of salt from her lip. “I called my contact at the Rosewood PD. He’s an old family friend.”
The sound of mic feedback filtered in from the press conference outside. Spencer gazed at Aria, Emily, and Hanna. It was obvious who the family friend was. It explained why they hadn’t seen him the night of the fire. It also explained why he’d told them to stop saying they saw Ali the very next day: He’d needed to keep Ali’s sister safe.
“Wilden.” Emily’s jaw tensed. “You shouldn’t trust him. He’s not what he seems.”
Courtney leaned back, letting out an easy, amused chuckle. “Settle down, Killer.”
A chilly frisson of fear slithered up Spencer’s back. Killer? That was Ali’s nickname for Emily. Had Ali told her?
But before any of them could say anything, Mrs. DiLaurentis appeared in the front hall. When she noticed the group, her face brightened. “Thanks for coming, girls. It means a lot to us.”
Mrs. DiLaurentis walked over to Courtney and put her hand on her arm. Her long, perfect nails were painted classic Chanel red. “I’m sorry, honey, but there’s someone from MSNBC who has a couple of questions. He’s come all the way from New York….”
“Okay,” Courtney groaned, getting up.
“The Rosewood PD wants to speak with you, too,” Mrs. DiLaurentis said. She took her daughter’s face in her hands and began to smooth out Courtney’s eyebrows. “Something about the night of the fire.”
“Again?” Courtney sighed dramatically, wrenching away from her mom. “I’d rather talk to the press. They’re more fun.”
She turned back to the girls, who were still sitting motionless at the table. “Come by anytime, guys,” she said, smiling. “Door’s always open. And, oh!” She pulled a brand-new laminated school ID from her jeans pocket. COURTNEY DILAURENTIS, it said in big red letters. “I’m going to Rosewood Day!” she exclaimed. “See you at school tomorrow.”
And then, with a final unsettling wink, she was gone.
6
FREAK NO MORE
The following morning, Hanna walked down the path from the student parking lot toward school. Channel 6, Channel 8, and CNN news vans were parked at Rosewood Day’s main entrance. Reporters hunched behind the bushes like lions on the prowl. Smoothing her auburn hair, Hanna braced herself for their barrage of questions.
The reporter closest to her stared for a moment, and then turned to the others. “Never mind,” he shouted. “It’s only that Pretty Little Liar girl.”
Hanna winced. Only that Pretty Little Liar girl? What the hell did that mean? Didn’t they want to ask Hanna what she thought about Ali’s secret twin? What about her opinions on Billy trying to prove his innocence? And while she was at it, how about a big, fat apology for all the mud they’d slung at her?
She stuck her nose in the air. Whatever. She didn’t want to be on TV anyway. The camera added ten pounds.
A tubby guy operating the boom microphone squawked into his Nextel walkie-talkie. Another reporter clapped her cell phone closed. “Courtney DiLaurentis is in the back parking lot!”
The reporters and camera people stampeded for the back of the school.
Hanna shuddered. Courtney. It hardly seemed real. The first few hours after Hanna left the DiLaurentis kitchen, she kept waiting for people with cameras to pop out of nowhere, announcing that this was all some bizarre prank.
Why hadn’t Ali told them about her sister? All those sleepovers, all those notes between classes, all those trips to the Poconos and Newport. All those times they played Never Have I Ever or Truth or Dare, and Ali hadn’t once spilled the secret. Should Hanna have sensed the truth when Ali wanted to pretend that they were quintuplets who’d been separated at birth? Or when she saw the drawing of Ali—Courtney—on the Preserve wall. Had Ali been dropping cryptic hints whenever she looked at Hanna and sighed, “You’re so lucky to be an only child”?
Pushing past a knot of nerdy freshman girls watching a rerun of Glee on an iPhone, Hanna kicked open the front door and strutted inside. It looked like a Hallmark factory had thrown up in the lobby. The walls were slathered with white paper cupids, red heart-shaped streamers, and gold foil bunting. Next to the auditorium doors were giant candy-heart fixtures the school put up every year. FIND LOVE, said the first heart in wedding invitation–style calligraphy. AT THE VALENTINE’S BALL, said the second heart. THIS SATURDAY, said the final one. There were little bite marks in the corner of the last heart, probably from a rodent that had gotten into the storage closet where the hearts were kept for the rest of the year. Details about the dance were on pink flyers in a big woven basket, including the mandate that in honor of Valentine’s Day, everyone must wear something red, pink, or white—even the boys. Because of the recent tragedy, ticket proceeds would go toward the newly established Jenna Cavanaugh fund, which would sponsor the training of Seeing Eye dogs. Interestingly, all traces of the Jenna Shrine that had been in the lobby yesterday had vanished. Either the Rosewood Day staff had gotten too many complaints of how depressing and disturbing it was, or now that Courtney was here, Jenna’s death was yesterday’s news.
A fit of giggles arose from Steam. Hanna turned and saw Naomi, Riley, and Kate sitting at one of the tile-topped café tables, nursing aromatic mugs of herbal tea and picking at warm cranberry-bran scones. There was a fourth girl there, too, with a heart-shaped face and huge blue eyes.
The milk steamer on the espresso machine hissed, and Hanna jumped. She felt transported back to sixth grade, when Naomi, Riley, and Ali had been joined at the hip. Of course it wasn’t Ali sitting shoulder to shoulder with Naomi and Riley, looking as though they’d been friends forever. It was Courtney.
Hanna walked over, but just as she was about to sit in the only empty chair at the table, Naomi plunked her enormous Hermès bag on the seat. Riley piled her green Kate Spade on next, and then Kate flung her studded Foley + Corinna hobo on top. The bags teetered like a Jenga tower. Courtney pressed her cranberry-colored tote to her chest, looking conflicted.
“Sorry, Psycho,” Naomi said icily. “That seat’s taken.”
“I’m not psycho.” Hanna narrowed her eyes. Courtney shifted in her seat, and Hanna wondered if the word psycho made her uncomfortable. She’d been in those hospitals, too.
“If you’re not psycho,” Kate teased, “then why did I hear you screaming in your sleep last night?”
The girls tittered. Hanna bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. If only she could somehow record this on her phone and show it to her father. Then again, would he even care? After the press conference, she’d waited for him to knock on her bedroom door to discuss what had happened. It used to be their regular thing—they’d talked for hours when Hanna didn’t make junior cheerleading, when she worried that Sean Ackard would never like her, and when he and Hanna’s mom decided to get a divorce. The knock never came, though. Mr. Marin had spent the evening in his office, seemingly unaware that Hanna was in major distress.
“Why don’t you sit with Skidz?” Riley teased. The other girls cackled. “He’s been waiting for you!” She pointed across the room.
Hanna followed Riley’s bony, witchlike finger. Mike was slumped at a back table right next to the bathroom, slurping from a tall paper cup of coffee and staring at a piece of paper. He looked like the only puppy at the pound who hadn’t found an owner. Hanna’s heart twisted. He’d sent Hanna a bunch of texts the previous night; she’d meant to write back, but she hadn’t gotten around to it. She wasn’t sure what to say. It didn’t matter that the underwear in the photo wasn’t his—everyone believed it was, just like everyone believed she was psycho. And nicknames stuck at Rosewood Day. In seventh grade, Ali had dubbed Peter Grayson “Potato” because he was shaped like Mr. Potato Head, and kids still called him that today.
Mike looked up and noticed her. His face brightened and he waved a pink flyer. On it were the words ROSEWOOD DAY VALENTINE’S DANCE.
She wanted to move closer to Mike’s table, but if she sat with Mike—and especially if she agreed to go with him to the Valentine’s Day dance—she’d be Psycho forever. Her little trip to the Preserve wouldn’t be an unfortunate faux pas but a defining moment in her high school career. She wouldn’t be on the A-list for house parties or picked for the prom committee—the only committee at Rosewood Day worth vying for. She wouldn’t go with the right people to Jamaica or St. Lucia for spring break, which meant she wouldn’t have a spot in the beach house in Miami during Junior Week in June. Sasha at Otter would stop holding clothes for her, Uri wouldn’t be able to squeeze her in for last-minute highlights and blow-dries, and she’d transform back into dorky loser Hanna overnight—the weight would pile back on, Dr. Huston would put braces back on her teeth, and the LASIK eye surgery would suddenly stop working and she’d be stuck with the wire-rimmed, Harry Potter–style glasses she’d worn in fifth grade.
