She gathered the plates and carried them to the sink, hoping she’d seem helpful. After a few minutes of scrubbing, she felt in her pocket for her cell phone. This would be an opportune time for A to write a snarky message about Mommy Dearest’s behavior. In fact, maybe Mrs. Colbert hadn’t known about Emily and Isaac yesterday…but A had tipped her off just in time for tonight’s dinner. Just like the old A, New A always seemed to know everything, after all.
But the little screen on Emily’s Nokia was blank. Suddenly, Emily realized she actually wanted a text from A. If A was behind this, then at least Isaac’s mom would be a victim of A’s manipulative wrath instead of simply being a passive-aggressive ogre.
As Mrs. Colbert let out a peal of laughter in the other room, Emily looked around the kitchen. Isaac’s mom collected cow stuff in the same way Emily’s mom collected chickens. They had the exact same refrigerator magnets of a thatched-roof French cottage, a tall-steepled church, and a boulangerie. Mrs. Colbert was a regular mom with a regular kitchen, just like Mrs. Fields. Maybe Emily was overreacting.
Emily gathered the washed forks, spoons, and knives and dried them on a dish towel, wondering where the silverware drawer was. She tried the one nearest the sink. A double-A battery rolled to the front. There were scissors, scattered paper clips, a cow-print oven mitt, and a bunch of takeout menus held together by a purple rubber band. Emily started to close it, but a picture shoved to the back of the drawer caught her eye.
She slid it forward. Isaac was standing in the family’s front foyer, wearing the slightly oversize suit that belonged to his father. He had his arm around Emily, who was wearing a pink satin dress she’d swiped from Carolyn’s closet. This had been taken the week before when they were on their way to the Rosewood Day benefit. Mrs. Colbert had flitted around them, her cheeks pink, her eyes shining. “You two look so cute!” she’d crowed. She’d adjusted Emily’s corsage, reknotted Isaac’s tie, and then offered both of them fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies.
The photo told that happy story…except for one thing. Emily no longer had a head. It had been cut out of the picture entirely, the scissors cleanly removing every last strand of her hair.
Emily shut the drawer fast. She ran her fingers over her neck, then up her jaw, then around her ears, cheeks, and forehead. Her head was still attached. As she stared out the kitchen window, trying to figure out what to do, her cell phone chimed.
Emily’s heart sank. So A was involved. She reached for the phone, her fingers trembling. One new picture message.
An image appeared on the screen. It was an old photo of someone’s backyard. Ali’s backyard—Emily recognized the tree house in the big oak off to the side. And there was Ali, her face young and smiling and bright. She was wearing a field hockey uniform from Rosewood Youth League, meaning the photo was from fifth or sixth grade—after that, Ali played JV for Rosewood Day. There were two other girls in the picture too. One had blond hair and was mostly concealed by a tree—it had to be Naomi Zeigler, one of Ali’s best friends at the time. The other girl was in profile. She had dark hair, pale skin, and naturally red lips.
Jenna Cavanaugh.
Emily held the phone outstretched, puzzled. Where was the blackmail about her? Where was the gleeful, Gotcha! Mommy thinks you’re a big dirty slut! message? Why wasn’t A behaving like…A?
Then she noticed the accompanying text at the bottom of the photo. Emily read it four times, trying to understand.
One of these things doesn’t belong. Figure it out quickly…or else.
—A
13 THAT MOTHER-DAUGHTER BOND
That same Wednesday evening, Spencer boarded the Amtrak Acela bullet train at the 30th Street Station, settled into a plushy seat by the window, adjusted the belt of her gray wool wrap dress, and brushed a piece of dried grass off the pointy toe of her Loeffler Randall boots. She’d spent over an hour choosing her outfit, and hoped the dress said young fashionista, serious young woman, and I’m an awesome bio-daughter, really! It was a hard balance to strike.
The conductor, a gray-haired, kindly looking man in a jaunty blue Amtrak uniform, examined her ticket. “Going to New York?”
“Uh-huh.” Spencer gulped.
“Business or pleasure?”
Spencer licked her lips. “I’m visiting my mom,” she blurted.
The conductor smiled. An older woman across the aisle clucked approvingly. Spencer hoped none of her mother’s friends or her father’s business associates were coincidentally on this train. It wasn’t like she wanted her parents to know what she was doing.
She’d tried to confront her family about being adopted one last time before she left. Her dad was working from home, and Spencer had stood in the doorway of his office, watching as he read the New York Times on his computer. When she cleared her throat, Mr. Hastings turned. His face softened. “Spencer?” he said, concern in his voice. It was as if he’d temporarily forgotten he was supposed to hate her.
Tons of words had welled in Spencer’s head. She wanted to ask her dad if any of this could be real. She wanted to ask him why he’d never told her. She wanted to ask him if this was why they treated her like shit a good deal of the time—because she wasn’t really theirs. But then she lost her nerve.
Now her cell phone beeped. Spencer pulled it out of the front pocket of her tote. It was from Andrew. Want to come over?
An Amtrak train going in the other direction thundered past. Spencer opened a reply text. Having dinner with my family, sorry, she typed back. It wasn’t a complete lie. She wanted to tell Andrew about Olivia, but she was afraid; if she told him, he’d be waiting in anticipation tonight, dying to know how her meeting had gone. But what if it went badly? What if Spencer and Olivia hated each other? She already felt vulnerable enough.
The train clickety-clacked on. A man in front of Spencer laid down a section of newspaper, and Spencer spied yet another story about Rosewood. Was Initial Investigation of DiLaurentis Disappearance Flawed? squawked a headline. Is the DiLaurentis Family Hiding Something? said another.
Spencer pulled her Eugenia Kim hand-knitted newsboy cap over her eyes and slumped lower in her seat. These crazy news stories were relentless. Still, what if the cops who’d initially investigated Ali’s disappearance over three years ago did miss something huge? She thought of Ian’s IMs. They found out I knew. Do you see why I had to run? They hated me. You know that.
It was puzzling. First, Ian assumed he was IMing Melissa, not Spencer. So did Melissa know who hated Ian…and why? Had Ian shared his suspicions about Ali’s murder with her? But if Melissa knew an alternate story about what happened to Ali the night she died, why hadn’t she come forward with it?
Unless…someone was scaring Melissa into silence. Spencer had called her sister repeatedly over the past forty-eight hours, eager to ask Melissa if there was anything more that she knew. But Melissa hadn’t returned any of her calls.
The door that connected two train cars clattered open, and a woman in a navy business suit teetered down the aisle, carrying a cardboard container of burnt-smelling coffees and bottled waters. Spencer leaned her head against the window, watching the bare trees and weathered telephone poles slide by. And what did Ian mean when he wrote they hated me? Did it have anything to do with the picture message Emily had forwarded to Spencer about a half hour ago, the old photo of Ali, a partially concealed Naomi Zeigler, and Jenna Cavanaugh in Ali’s yard? A’s accompanying text implied that the photo was a clue…but to what? Okay, it was weird that Ali was hanging out with dorky Jenna Cavanaugh, but Jenna herself had told Aria that she and Ali were covert friends. And what did that have to do with Ian?