Emily quickly shook her head. Going to a party right now sounded about as fun as walking over hot coals.
Beth flipped the switch to the garbage disposal, and the water in the sink began to bubble. “What’s up with you? Mom said you’ve been mopey, but you seem catatonic. When I asked you about your swim scholarship, you looked like you were about to burst into tears. Did you just break up with a girlfriend?”
A girlfriend. The chicken-silkscreened dish towel slipped from Emily’s grasp. It always jolted her when one of her prim-and-proper family members mentioned Emily’s sexual orientation. She knew they were trying to be understanding, but their chipper it’s-okay-to-be-gay attitude sometimes made Emily feel embarrassed.
“I didn’t break up with anyone,” Emily mumbled.
“Is Mom still being really hard on you?” Beth rolled her eyes. “Who cares if you took a summer off from swimming? That was months ago! I don’t know how you deal, living under this roof all by yourself.”
Emily looked up. “I thought you liked Mom.”
“I do, but I was dying to get out of here by the time senior year was over.” Beth wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Now, c’mon. What’s bugging you?”
Emily slowly dried a dish, looking into Beth’s kind, patient face. She wished she could tell her sister the truth. About the pregnancy. About A. Even about Tabitha. But Beth would freak. And Emily had already alienated one sister.
“I’ve been stressed,” she mumbled. “Senior year is harder than I thought it would be.”
Beth pointed a fork at Emily. “That’s why you need to come with me to this party. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Emily traced her fingers over a plate’s scalloped edge. She desperately wanted to say no, but something deep inside her made her pause. She missed having a sister to talk to—the last time she’d seen Carolyn, over Christmas break, Carolyn had made every effort to avoid being alone with Emily. She’d even slept on the couch in the den, saying she’d gotten used to falling asleep in front of the TV, but Emily knew it was really to avoid their shared bedroom. Beth’s attention and affection felt like a gift Emily shouldn’t refuse.
“I guess I could go for a little bit,” she mumbled.
Beth threw her arms around her. “I knew you’d be up for it.”
“Up for what?”
They both turned. Mrs. Fields stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. Beth stood up straighter. “Nothing, Mom.”
Mrs. Fields padded back out of the room. Emily and her sister faced each other and burst into giggles. “We’re going to have so much fun,” Beth whispered.
For a moment, Emily almost believed her.
Chapter 2
SPENCER HAS A DOPPELGANGER
“Move it a little bit to the left.” Spencer Hastings’s mother, Veronica, stood in the foyer of the family’s grand house, one hand on her slim hip. Two professional picture-hangers were positioning a large painting of the Battle of Gettysburg under the curving double staircase. “Now it’s a little too high on the right. What do you think, Spence?”
Spencer, who had just walked down the stairs, shrugged. “Tell me again why we took down the portrait of Great-great-grandpa Hastings?”
Mrs. Hastings gave Spencer a sharp look and then glanced worriedly at Nicholas Pennythistle, her fiancé, who had moved into the Hastingses’ house a week and a half ago. But Mr. Pennythistle, still clad in his flawlessly fitting suit and shiny wingtips from work, was busy tapping away on his BlackBerry.
“Everyone needs to feel comfortable and welcome here, Spence,” Spencer’s mother answered quietly, pushing a lock of ash blond hair behind her ear. The four-carat diamond engagement ring Mr. Pennythistle had given her glinted under the overhead lights. “Besides, I thought Great-great-grandpa’s portrait scared you.”
“It scared Melissa, not me,” Spencer mumbled. In truth, she liked the kooky family portrait—several sad-eyed spaniels perched on Great-great-grandpa Hastings’s lap. Great-great-grandpa was also the spitting image of Spencer’s father, who’d moved out of the Hastings abode after her parents’ divorce and bought a loft in downtown Philadelphia. It had been Mr. Pennythistle’s idea to swap out the portrait with the grisly Civil War tableau, surely wanting to expunge all evidence of Spencer’s father from his new house. But who wanted to walk through the front door and be greeted by a bunch of rearing, angry steeds and bloodied Confederates? Just looking at the battle scene stressed Spencer out.
“Dinner is served!” a voice trilled from the kitchen.
Melissa, Spencer’s older sister, popped her head into the hall. She’d offered to cook the family dinner tonight, and she wore a black apron that said GREEN GOURMET across the front and silver oven mitts on her hands. A thin black velvet headband held back her chin-length blond hair, a pearl necklace encircled her throat, and understated Chanel ballet flats adorned her feet. She looked like a younger, fresher version of Martha Stewart.
Melissa caught Spencer’s eye. “I made your favorite, Spence. Lemon chicken with olives.”
“Thanks.” Spencer smiled gratefully, knowing this was a gesture of solidarity. The sisters had been rivals for a long time, but last year, they’d finally put aside their differences. Melissa knew Spencer wasn’t adjusting well to the new family situation. But there were other things Spencer was having a hard time swallowing, too. Things Spencer didn’t dare talk about with her sister—or with anyone.
Spencer followed her mother and Mr. Pennythistle—she still couldn’t bring herself to call him Nicholas—into the kitchen just as Melissa was setting a baking dish in the center of the table. Their stepsister-to-be, Amelia, who was two years younger than Spencer, perched in the corner seat, napkin primly on her lap. She was wearing a pair of low-heeled booties Spencer had picked out for her on a recent shopping trip in New York, but her hair was still frizzy and her shiny cheeks were desperately in need of foundation.
Amelia scowled when she looked up and saw Spencer, and Spencer turned away, feeling a prickle of annoyance. It was clear Amelia still hadn’t forgiven her for getting her brother, Zach, sent away to military school. Spencer hadn’t meant to out Zach to his father. But when Mr. Pennythistle had walked in on Spencer and Zach in bed together, he’d assumed the worst and flown into a rage. Spencer had only announced that Zach was gay to get Mr. Pennythistle to stop hitting his son.
“Hey, Spencer,” another voice said. Darren Wilden, Melissa’s boyfriend, sat on the other side of Amelia, chewing on a piece of fresh-from-the-oven garlic bread. “What’s new?”
A fist clenched in Spencer’s chest. Though he now worked security at a museum in Philly, until recently Darren Wilden had been Officer Wilden, the chief investigator in the Alison DiLaurentis murder case, and it had been his job to sense when people were hiding something or lying. Could Wilden know about Spencer’s new stalker, who—of course—went by A? Could he suspect what she and her friends had done to Tabitha in Jamaica?
“Uh, nothing,” Spencer said haltingly, tugging on the collar of her blouse. She was being ridiculous. There was no way Wilden could know about A or Tabitha. He couldn’t possibly know that every night, Spencer had bad dreams about the Tabitha incident, replaying the awful day in Jamaica over and over again. Nor could he know that Spencer read and reread articles about the aftershocks of Tabitha’s death as often as she could—about how devastated Tabitha’s parents were. How her friends in New Jersey held vigils in her honor. How several new nonprofits had sprung up to condemn teenage drinking, which was what everyone had assumed had killed her.