Then, speak of the devil, those bitches popped up. It was a press conference. Spencer stood straight and proud in front of a microphone. Emily had her hands in her pockets. Hanna held hands with her boyfriend, Mike Montgomery. And Aria was sticking close to Noel Kahn as though they were stuck together by Velcro.
Noel. Ali stared at him hard. For a long time, Noel had shared her secret. Not anymore.
She turned to Nick, her hatred flaring hot. “We have to get them back.”
He flinched. “Really?”
Ali lowered her shoulders. “Did you think I was going to let them get away with this?”
Nick looked panicked. “But you almost died last week. Is it really worth it? I mean, I have an untraceable bank account. We can use it to escape anywhere we want. You’ll heal, we’ll relax, and maybe, after a while, revenge won’t matter so much anymore.”
“It will always matter,” Ali said tightly, her eyes blazing. She inched closer to Nick. “You said you’d do anything for me,” she growled. “Were you lying?”
A frightened look passed across Nick’s face. “Fine. What do you want to do?”
Ali turned back to the press conference. Spencer had started speaking. “We’re all looking just to move past this and get on with our lives,” she said in a loud, clear voice. “There are more important things in the world for the press to focus on instead of us. We mourn for Courtney DiLaurentis and her family. We even mourn for Alison; may she rest in peace.”
Ali rolled her eyes. “They are so lame.”
“What are you going to do now?” a reporter bellowed to the girls.
Emily Fields came to the microphone next. She looked sick, like she was going to throw up. “We’ve been given the opportunity to travel to Jamaica for spring break,” she said shakily. “I think it’s a good thing for us to get out of Rosewood for a little while.”
Nick sniffed. “I wouldn’t mind going to Jamaica.”
Something clicked. “Can you get us passports?” Ali asked.
Nick’s eyebrows made a V. “Probably. Why?”
Ali grabbed his hands, an idea forming in her mind. “No one will be looking for us there. We get to get out of here, just like you want. And we get those girls, just like I want.”
“How?” Nick asked warily.
“I’m not sure yet. But I’ll figure it out.”
Nick looked uncertain. “You aren’t letting those girls see you. There are cops in other countries. They can still turn you in.”
“Then I find someone who will impersonate me.”
“Who’s going to do that?”
Ali’s eyes darted back and forth as she pondered the options. A light snapped on. “Tabitha.”
Tabitha Clark was another patient at The Preserve, a sweet, tormented little slip of a blonde who idolized Ali and was a genius at imitating Ali’s voice and gestures. She looked even more like an Ali clone than Iris Taylor, who’d been Ali’s roommate. Even better, Tabitha had burns on her arms from a fire. The girls would see those, make the Poconos connection, and lose their minds.
“She’s out of The Preserve,” Ali said, leaping to her feet. “She’ll do anything for me. Get in touch with her. Tell her it’s all expenses paid. Make it out like it’s a fun little holiday. Will you?”
Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay.” He gave her a warning look. “But you have to promise that after Jamaica, we move on to the Bahamas. Or maybe Fiji. We disappear . . . for real.”
“Of course.” Ali drew him into her arms. “Thank you. You’re the best boyfriend ever.”
Nick kissed the tip of her nose. Then he scowled and clamped a hand around her wrists. “After Jamaica, you’re going to be my prisoner,” he said in a deep, grumbling voice. “I won’t have to share you with anyone. No family. No friends. You’ll be my captive . . . forever.”
“I’m at your mercy,” Ali said in a fake, high-pitched drawl. But inside, she laughed. As if Nick would ever control her.
Ali was at Nick’s mercy, though—it was his money and cunning know-how that got the tickets and fake passports to Jamaica. But she also knew Nick would stick by her if Jamaica didn’t go according to plan. And when things did go wrong and they had to regroup, lay the groundwork for framing the girls, and get them on even bigger secrets than ones they’d ever kept, he helped every step of the way. When she and Nick had to return to Rosewood instead of escaping to other Caribbean islands and plant Nick in key roles in each of the girls’ lives to orchestrate their downfalls, he’d done it so willingly and devotedly. Ali put Nick through trial after trial, positioning him as a drug dealer, a bartender, even dragging him to Iceland and forcing him to woo Aria and steal a painting. And Nick—sweet, sensitive, borderline-personality Nick—complied again and again, so dutiful, so loving. Her perfect little soldier.
We’ll leave after they’re in jail, Ali convinced him. And then, later: We’ll leave after they die. And if they don’t die, well, we’ll both go down together.
But even that was a white lie. Deep down, Ali had been laying another set of tracks, a just-in-case plan Nick didn’t know about. It started with that letter he’d written to the girls for her, and it ended with the video of him killing Tabitha alone. There were other things, too. Things she’d done when Nick wasn’t looking, using pliers and wincing in pain, using a leaky pen and her imagination. Last-ditch-effort things, only in play if she was pushed to her most desperate limits.
The only thing that mattered was that those bitches died.
Only then would she be done.
1
HANNA’S BIG BREAK
On a warm Monday morning in mid-June, Hanna Marin walked into Poole’s, an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor in downtown Rosewood. The inside hadn’t changed since Hanna had been here last—the same penny candy under the glass, black-and-white checkerboard floor, wrought-iron stools and tables, and long, marbled counter. The owners even offered the same flavors of ice cream, including the Phillies Fundae, a sundae in honor of the Philadelphia Phillies baseball team. Just breathing in the heavenly scent of homemade waffle cones and cookies-and-cream ice cream made Hanna’s empty stomach growl.
Her old friends Aria Montgomery, Spencer Hastings, and Emily Fields were in a back booth underneath a large poster of a 1950s-styled girl daintily eating a banana split. It had been two weeks since Hanna had seen them, but she and the others had received a note from Emily asking if they could talk today. It was pretty obvious what Emily wanted to talk about. Hanna wasn’t sure, though, if she was ready.
“Hey, Han.” Spencer slid over to make room. The others said hi, too.
Hanna threw her leather satchel on the seat and sat down. For a moment, silence hung over them. Spencer sipped a cup of the parlor’s famous fresh-brewed coffee, her blond hair falling in her face. Aria picked at a bowl of sherbet. Emily peeled off a wrapper of a Charleston Chew.
“So,” Hanna finally said, “what’s new?”
Everyone chuckled awkwardly. Hanna hoped nothing was new with them. The last few months had been a whirlwind of activity—and hell. First, a diabolical text-messager who called herself A had returned, tormenting each of them with their secrets. After all that, A had framed them in the murder of Tabitha Clark, a girl they’d gotten in an altercation with while in Jamaica on spring break of their junior year. The police had false evidence showing all four of them beating Tabitha to death.