The shadowy memory from the night Ali was murdered flooded her mind. After Spencer and Ali had gotten in a fight outside the barn, Ali ran off into the thicket. There had been a signature giggle, rustling sounds, and then Spencer had seen two distinct shapes. Ali . . . and someone else.
I saw two blonds in the woods, Ian had told Spencer when he’d accosted her on her porch, pleading that he was innocent. Spencer stared at the photo of the man on her cell phone’s tiny screen. Billy had blond hair. And he was New A, sending each of them texts that blamed Jason, Wilden, and even Spencer’s mom. But how did he know so much about all of them? Who was he? Why did he care?
Her cell screen flashed white. New text message. Spencer grappled with the keyboard and pressed read. It was from Andrew Campbell, Spencer’s boyfriend. I heard about jail. . . and that you were released. Are you okay? Are you home? Do you know what’s happening on your street?
Spencer sat back in the seat, the streetlights whizzing past outside the window. What did he mean, on her street?
Another text popped in her inbox. This one was from Aria. What’s going on? Your road is blocked off. There are police cars everywhere.
A horrible idea began to form. The radio had said there was another murder.
The police car made a wide left turn onto her street. At least ten vehicles were jackknifed across the road, blue lights flashing. Neighbors stood on their yards, their faces slack. Police officers moved in and out of the shadows. They were right in front of Spencer’s house.
Melissa.
“Oh my God,” Spencer cried. She pulled at the door and leapt out of the car.
“Hey!” her driver growled. “You’re not allowed out until we’re in your driveway!”
But Spencer didn’t listen. She sprinted toward the flashing lights, her limbs aching. Her house was ahead. She passed through the front gate and up the long drive. All sound disappeared. Shapes blurred in front of her. She could taste bile at the back of her throat. Then she saw a figure on the front porch, her body in silhouette. She shaded her hand over her forehead, squinting in the bright porch light. Her knees buckled. A relieved wail gurgled from her throat. She sank to the grass.
Melissa ran toward her and engulfed her in a hug. “Oh, Spence, it’s so awful.”
Spencer trembled. The sirens rang in her ears. A couple of neighborhood dogs howled along, disoriented and scared.
“It’s so terrible,” Melissa sobbed on Spencer’s shoulder. “That poor girl.”
Spencer stepped back. The air was frigid and sharp. The smell of the fire was still pungent and suffocating. “What girl?”
Melissa’s jaw twitched. She grabbed Spencer’s hand. “Oh, Spence. You don’t know?”
Then she gestured toward the sidewalk. The police weren’t surrounding their house but the Cavanaughs’ across the street. Yellow police tape covered the Cavanaughs’ entire backyard. Mrs. Cavanaugh stood in the driveway, screaming in agony. A German shepherd in a blue vest stood next to her, sniffing the ground. A small shrine had already begun at the curb, rife with pictures and candles and flowers. When Spencer saw the name written in pale green chalk on the pavement, she lurched back.
“No.” Spencer looked at Melissa imploringly, hoping this was a dream. “No!”
And then she understood. A few days ago, she’d gazed out her bedroom window and seen a greasy-haired man dressed in a plumber’s jumpsuit lope up the Cavanaughs’ driveway. He’d given a beautiful girl a predatory look, revealing a gleaming gold front tooth. But the girl hadn’t seen his look. She hadn’t known to be afraid. She couldn’t see anything . . . ever.
Spencer turned to Melissa in horror. “Jenna?”
Melissa nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. “They found her in a trench in her backyard, where plumbers were replacing one of the burst pipes,” she said. “He killed her just like he killed Ali.”
What Happens Next . . .
Poor poor Jenna Cavanaugh. I’d feel bad, but what’s done is done. Finito. Over. Stick a fork in her, she’s dead. Does that make me sound heartless? Oh well!
Of course, the Pretty Little Liars are going to take this one hard. Aria will wish she’d asked Jenna about Ali’s pesky sibling problems. Emily will cry because, well, Emily always cries. Hanna will wear a little black dress that makes her look skinny to the funeral. And Spencer . . . well, she’ll just be glad her sister is alive.
So where do we go from here? A body has been found. DNA has been collected. An arrest has been made, a mug shot taken. But is it my mug shot? Am I the big, bad Billy Ford . . . or someone else entirely? Well, you’ll just have to stay tuned because I’m keeping that my last little secret.
For now, anyway.
Kisses,
—A
Acknowledgments
Heartless was another tricky book to get right, but I had lots of help. My brilliant editors at Alloy: Lanie Davis, Sara Shandler, Josh Bank, and Les Morgenstein, pulled through as usual—whatever would I do without any of them? And Farrin Jacobs and Kari Sutherland at Harper had amazing edits and suggestions that turned a decent second draft into a stellar third one. Seriously, Team PLL is the best editorial team I could ever ask for.
Thanks also to Andy McNicol and Anais Borja at William Morris for being such dedicated PLL cheerleaders. Love to my husband, Joel, a source of so much happiness, and to my parents, Shep and Mindy, for the fantastic book party they threw me in June—complete with specialty drinks and late-night dancing (well, more like shuffling). Many thanks to Libby Mosier and daughters Alison and Cat for putting together an awesome Pretty Little Liars party in St. Davids, PA—with tough trivia and a nail-biter of a scavenger hunt. Kisses to all of my readers, too, for all your letters, Twitters, Facebook posts, YouTube adaptations of crucial PLL scenes, and various other ways of saying how much you love the series. You guys are the best.
And finally, this book is dedicated to my grandmother, Gloria Shepard, who has been a voracious reader of Pretty Little Liars from the start, and my late uncle, the always-cheerful, always-inspirational Tommy Shepard, the biggest fan of all things Michael Jackson and Star Wars I’ve ever met. Many hugs.
Excerpt from The Lying Game
I woke up in a dingy claw-foot bathtub in an unfamiliar pink-tiled bathroom. A stack of Maxims sat next to the toilet, green toothpaste globbed in the sink, and white drips streaked the mirror. The window showed a dark sky and a full moon. What day of the week was it? Where was I? A frat house at the U of A? Someone’s apartment? I could barely remember that my name was Sutton Mercer, or that I lived in the foothills of Tucson, Arizona. Had someone slipped me something?
“Emma?” a guy’s voice called from another room. “You home?”
“I’m busy!” called a voice close by.
A tall, thin girl opened the bathroom door, her tangled dark hair hanging in her face. “Hey!” I leapt to my feet. “Someone’s in here already!” My body felt tingly, as if it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, it seemed like I was flickering on and off, like I was under a strobe light. Freaky. Someone definitely slipped me something.