“Spencer, dear,” said a voice to the right. It was Mrs. Kahn, looking gaunt in her emerald green sequined gown. Spencer had heard her tell the society photographers that it was a vintage Balenciaga. Everything about Mrs. Kahn sparkled, from her ears to her neck to her wrists to her fingers. It was common knowledge that last year, when Noel’s father had gone to L.A. to finance yet another golf course, he’d bought out half of Harry Winston for his wife. The bill had been posted on a local gossip blog.
“Do you know if there are any more of those delicious mini petit fours?” Mrs. Kahn asked. “Why the hell not, right?” She patted her flat stomach and shrugged, as if to say, There’s a killer on the loose, so let us eat cake.
“Uh…” Spencer spied her parents across the room, next to the string quartet. “I’ll be back.”
She wove around the partygoers until she was a few feet away from her parents. Her father wore a dark Armani suit, but her mom had on a short black number with bat-wing sleeves and a ruched waist. Maybe it was all over the Milan runways, but in Spencer’s opinion, it looked like something Dracula’s wife would wear when she cleaned the house.
She tapped her mom on her shoulder. Mrs. Hastings turned, a big, rehearsed smile on her face, but when she saw it was Spencer, her eyes narrowed. “Uh, we’re running low on petit fours,” Spencer reported dutifully. “Should I go check in the kitchen? I noticed the bar is out of champagne, too.”
Mrs. Hastings wiped her hand over her brow, obviously flustered. “I’ll do it.”
“It’s no trouble,” Spencer offered. “I can just—”
“I’m handling it,” her mother whispered icily, spitting as she spoke. Her eyebrows arched down, and the little lines around her mouth stood out prominently. “Would you please just go to the library with the rest of the kids?”
Spencer stepped back, her heel twisting on the highly polished wood floor. It felt like her mother had just slapped her. “I know you’re thrilled I’ve been disinherited,” Spencer blurted loudly, before she was quite aware of what she was saying. “But you don’t have to make it so obvious.”
Her mother stopped, her mouth dropping open in shock. Someone close by gasped. Mrs. Hastings eyed Mr. Hastings, who had gone as pale as the eggshell-white walls. “Spencer…,” her father rasped.
“Forget it,” Spencer growled, wheeling around and heading down the back hall toward the media room. Her eyes burned with frustrated tears. It should’ve felt delicious, spouting out exactly what her parents deserved, but Spencer felt the same way she always did when her parents dissed her—like a Christmas tree after New Year’s, tossed to the curb for the trash truck to haul away. Spencer used to beg for her parents to rescue all the abandoned Christmas trees and plant them in their backyard, but they always said she was being silly.
“Spencer?” Andrew Campbell stepped out of the shadows, a glass of wine in his hand. Snappy little shivers danced up and down Spencer’s back. All day, she’d considered texting Andrew to see if he was coming tonight. Not that she was covertly pining for him or anything.
Andrew noticed Spencer’s flushed face and his eyebrows knitted together. “What’s wrong?”
Spencer’s chin trembled as she glanced back toward the main ballroom. Her parents were gone. She couldn’t find Melissa, either. “My whole family hates me,” Spencer blurted out.
“Come on,” Andrew said, taking her arm. He led her into the media room, flipped on the little Tiffany lamp on the end table, and pointed to the couch. “Sit. Breathe.”
Spencer plopped down. Andrew sat too. She hadn’t been in this room since Tuesday afternoon, when she and her friends had watched Ian’s bail hearing on TV. To the right of the TV was a line of Spencer’s and Melissa’s school pictures, from their very first year in Rosewood Day pre-K up to Melissa’s formal senior portrait. Spencer stared at her picture from this year. It had been taken right before school started, before the Ali and A mess started. Her hair was combed perfectly off her face, and her navy blazer had been ironed to perfection. The self-satisfied gloat on her face said, I’m Spencer Hastings, and I’m the best.
Ha, Spencer thought bitterly. How quickly things could change.
Next to the school pictures was the big Eiffel Tower statue. The old photo they’d found the other day, the one of Ali the day Time Capsule was announced, was still propped up against it. Spencer narrowed her eyes at Ali. The Time Capsule flyer dangled from Ali’s fingers, and her mouth was open so wide that Spencer could see her small, square, white molars. At what moment had this photo been taken? Had Ali just announced that Jason was going to tell her where one of the pieces was? Had the idea to steal Ali’s piece crept yet into Spencer’s mind? Had Ian already approached Ali and told her that he was going to kill her? Ali’s wide blue eyes seemed to be staring straight at Spencer, and Spencer could almost hear Ali’s clear, chirpy little voice now. Boo-hoo, Ali would tease, if she were still alive. Your parents hate you!
Spencer shuddered and turned away. It was eerie having Ali in here, gawking at her.
“What’s going on?” Andrew asked, chewing concernedly on his bottom lip. “What did your parents do?”
Spencer flicked the fringe detail on the hem of her dress. “They won’t even look at me,” she said, feeling numb. “It’s like I’m dead to them.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Andrew said. He took a sip of his wine and then put it down on the end table. “How could your parents hate you? I’m sure they’re really proud of you.”
Spencer quickly slid a coaster under the glass, not caring if she seemed OCD. “They’re not. I’m an embarrassment to them, an out-of-fashion decoration. Like one of my mom’s oil paintings in the basement. That’s it.”
Andrew cocked his head. “Are you talking about the…the Golden Orchid thing? I mean, maybe your parents are upset about that, but I’m sure they’re upset for you.”
Spencer bit back a sob, and something hard and sharp pressed down on her chest. “They knew I plagiarized the paper for the Golden Orchid,” she burst out, before she could control herself. “But they told me not to say anything. It would have been easier if I’d just lied and accepted it and lived with the guilt for the rest of my life, than for them to look like idiots.”
The leather couch groaned as Andrew sat back, aghast. He stared at Spencer for five long rotations of the overhead ceiling fan. “You’re kidding.”
Spencer shook her head. It felt like a betrayal to say it out loud. Her parents hadn’t exactly told her not to tell anyone that they’d known about the Golden Orchid mess, but she was pretty sure they thought she never would.
“And you were the one who admitted you plagiarized the paper, even though they told you not to?” Andrew sounded out. Spencer nodded. “Wow.” Andrew ran his hand through his hair. “You did the right thing, Spencer. I hope you know that.”
Spencer started crying, hard—like a hand inside her head had just turned on a faucet. “I was just so stressed,” she blubbered. “I didn’t understand econ at all. I thought it wouldn’t matter, taking that one little paper from Melissa. I thought no one would know. I just wanted to get an A.” Her throat caught, and she buried her face in her hands.
“It’s okay.” Andrew tentatively patted Spencer’s back. “I totally get it.”
But Spencer couldn’t stop sobbing. She bent over, the tears running into her nose, her eyes puffing shut, her throat closing and her chest heaving. Everything seemed so bleak. Her academic life was ruined. It was her fault that Ali’s murderer had slipped away. Her family had disowned her. Ian was right—she did have a pathetic little life.