“Nice to see you,” Hanna said tightly. Suddenly feeling awkward, she shoved a flyer in Colleen’s face. “Vote for Tom Marin.”
“Oh, Hanna, I’m not old enough to vote.” Colleen sounded crushed, as if Hanna wasn’t just trying to make conversation. “But your dad’s awesome. That Wilkinson guy seems like a jerk, don’t you think? And his son is such a player.”
Hanna’s eyes widened. How did Colleen know Liam was a player?
Colleen touched Mike’s arm. “We should get going. Our dinner reservations are at seven-fifteen.” She beamed at Hanna. “We have Rive Gauche reservations tonight. It’s a Saturday tradition. I absolutely love the moules frites.”
“I read that moules frites are loaded with the worst kind of fat. But you don’t really look like you care about that kind of thing,” Hanna said sweetly to Colleen. Then she glared pointedly at Mike. He’d always wanted to go to Rive Gauche when they were dating, but Hanna had refused because Lucas Beattie, her ex, worked there. Rive Gauche was the Rosewood Day hangout, though, and Hanna hated the idea of the school’s elite seeing Mike Montgomery and Colleen together. Dating Mike would automatically make Colleen in, and she so didn’t deserve it.
“See ya later, then,” Mike said, not catching Hanna’s snarkiness—or her frustration. As he walked away, his hand entwined in Colleen’s, Hanna felt a strange sense of loss and longing. She hadn’t realized how cute Mike’s butt was. Or how attentive he was to his girlfriends. All of a sudden, she missed everything about him. She missed the shopping trips where he had patiently sat outside the dressing room and critiqued Hanna’s outfits, the lustful comments he made about the Kardashian girls when they watched their shows on E!, and how he let Hanna put makeup on him once—he’d looked surprisingly good in eyeliner. Hanna even missed the stupid Hooters keychain that hung from his backpack zipper. Her time with Liam might have been electric and intoxicating, but with Mike, she’d been silly and immature and utterly herself.
All of a sudden, it hit her like a shocking note from A: She wanted Mike back. She could even imagine the type of note A might write for the occasion:
The grass is always greener, isn’t it, Hannakins? Looks like you’re as out as last season’s wide-leg jeans!
4
A DRIVE DOWN MEMORY LANE
The following evening, Emily Fields’s mother gripped the steering wheel of the family Volvo and turned out of Lyndhurst College, where Emily had just competed in her final long-course swim meet of the year. The windows in the car were steamed up, and the mingling aromas of chlorine, UltraSwim shampoo, and Mrs. Fields’s vanilla latte wafted through the air.
“Your butterfly is looking so good,” Mrs. Fields gushed, patting Emily’s hand. “The UNC team is going to be thrilled to have you.”
“Mm-hmm.” Emily ran her fingers over the furry insides of her swimming jacket. She knew she should be excited about her swim scholarship to the University of North Carolina next year, but she was just relieved that this swim season was over. She was exhausted.
She pulled out her cell phone and checked the screen for the eleventh time that day. No new messages. She turned her phone off and then on again, but the inbox was still blank. She clicked over to her Daily Horoscopes app and read Taurus, her sign. You will shine at work today, it said. Prepare for surprises ahead.
Surprises . . . as in bad surprises or good surprises? A whole week had passed without a single note from New A. There had been no threats, no taunts about what Emily and the others had done in Jamaica, no “tsk tsk” for believing that Kelsey Pierce, a girl Emily had fallen for, was the person after them. But A’s absence was even spookier than a barrage of texts about her darkest secrets. Emily couldn’t help but picture A lying in wait and plotting a new assault, something dangerous and devastating. She dreaded what it might be.
Emily’s mother paused at a stop sign in a small housing development. Modest homes were framed by old oaks, and there was a basketball hoop at the end of a cul-de-sac. “This isn’t the usual route we use to go home,” she murmured. She checked the GPS. “I wonder why this thing is sending me on these back roads.” She shrugged and kept driving. “Anyway, have you been in touch with any of the girls on the UNC team? It might be nice to start getting to know them.”
Emily ran her hands over her damp reddish-blondish hair. “Uh, yeah. I should do that.”
“A few of them live in ‘clean’ dorms—you know, the kind where smoking, alcohol use, and sexual activity are frowned upon? You should request one of those rooms. You wouldn’t want to lose your swim scholarship from too much partying.”
Emily stifled a groan. Of course her über-conservative mom would want her to live like a nun at college. Earlier in the week, when her mom had found out that Kelsey, the girl she’d been hanging around with, had a drug problem, she’d grilled Emily, figuring Emily was using drugs, too. Emily was surprised her mom hadn’t asked her to pee in a cup for an at-home drug test.
While Mrs. Fields blathered on about the clean dorms, Emily picked up her cell phone again and scrolled through the previous texts she’d received from A, ending with the last one:
Dig all you want, bitches. But you’ll NEVER find me.
She sucked in her stomach. In some ways, she almost wished A would just expose all of them and get it over with—the guilt and lying were too horrible to bear. She also wished that A would reveal herself as the person Emily knew she was—Real Ali. Her friends might not believe it, but Emily knew deep down in her bones that Ali had survived the fire at the Poconos house. After all, Emily had left a way for Ali to escape, opening the door for her before the house exploded.
The pieces were starting to fit together. Ali and Tabitha were at the Preserve at the same time, and maybe that was why Tabitha had acted so much like Ali in Jamaica. Perhaps the two of them had been working together somehow—maybe Ali had gotten in touch with Tabitha after she’d escaped the fire in the Poconos. Maybe Ali even sent Tabitha to Jamaica to screw with the girls’ minds and drive them crazy.
The whole thing broke Emily’s heart. She knew, logically, that their tormenter wasn’t Her Ali, the girl she’d adored for years, spent lots of time with, and kissed in the DiLaurentis’s tree house at the end of seventh grade. But she couldn’t help but dwell on that moment last year when Real Ali had returned, impersonated Their Ali, and kissed Emily with such passion. She’d seemed so . . . genuine, not like a cold-hearted psycho.
“You know, you should probably sign up for a spot in the clean dorms now,” Mrs. Fields was saying as they drove up a hill past a large school playground. Several teenagers were sitting on the swings, smoking cigarettes. “I’d love to have this settled before your father and I go out of town on Wednesday.” Mr. and Mrs. Fields were taking a trip to Texas for Emily’s grandma and grandpa’s sixty-fifth wedding anniversary, leaving Emily alone in the house for the first time ever. “Want me to call the student living office tomorrow and ask?”
Emily groaned. “Mom, I don’t know if I want to—”
She trailed off, suddenly noticing where they were. SHIP LANE, said a green street sign. Up ahead was a very familiar little white ranch house with green shutters and a big front porch. It was on that very porch that she and her friends had left a certain baby carrier months earlier.