Hanna liked to believe that if Ali were alive, she’d be rooting for her, now that her life was so perfect. That was the scene she replayed in her mind constantly—Ali impressed by her size 2 jeans. Ali oohing over her Chanel lip gloss. Ali congratulating Hanna on how she’d planned the perfect pool party.
With shaking hands, Hanna typed, Is this Alison?
“Wilden,” a cop shouted. “We need you in the back.”
Hanna looked up. Darren Wilden rose from his desk, excusing himself from Hanna’s mom. Within seconds, the whole precinct burst into action. A cop car flew out of the parking lot; three more followed. Phones rang maniacally; four cops sprinted through the room.
“It looks like something big,” said Brad, the drunk trespasser sitting next to her. Hanna flinched—she’d forgotten he was there.
“A donut shortage?” she asked, trying to laugh.
“Bigger.” He jiggled his handcuffed hands excitedly. “Looks like something very big.”
29
GOOD MORNING, WE HATE YOU
The sun streamed in through the barn’s window, and for the first time in Spencer’s life, she was awakened by the chirping of high-on-life sparrows instead of the frightening ’90s techno mix her dad blasted from the main house’s exercise room. But could she enjoy it? Nope.
Although she hadn’t drunk a drop last night, her body felt achy, chilled, and hungover. There was zero sleep in her fuel tank. After Wren left, she’d tried to sleep, but her mind spun. The way Wren held her felt so…different. Spencer had never felt anything remotely like that before.
But then that IM. And Melissa’s calm, spooky expression. And…
As the night wore on, the barn creaked and groaned, and Spencer pulled the covers up to her nose, shaking. She chided herself for feeling paranoid and immature, but she couldn’t help it. She kept thinking of the possibilities.
Eventually, she’d gotten up and rebooted her computer. For a few hours, she searched the Internet. First she looked at technical websites, searching for answers on how to trace IMs. No luck. Then she tried to find where that first e-mail—the one titled “covet”—had come from. She wanted, desperately, for the trail to end at Andrew Campbell.
She found that Andrew had a blog, but after scouring the whole thing, she found nothing. The entries were all about the books Andrew liked to read, dorky boy philosophizing, a couple of melancholy passages about an unrequited crush on some girl he never named. She thought he might slip up and give himself away, but he didn’t.
Finally, she plugged in the key words missing persons and Alison DiLaurentis.
She found the same stuff from three years ago—the reports on CNN and in the Philadelphia Inquirer, search groups, and kooky sites, like one showing what Ali might look like with different hairstyles. Spencer stared at the school picture they’d used; she hadn’t seen a photo of Ali in a long time. Would she recognize Ali if she had, for instance, a short, black bob? She certainly looked different in this picture they’d created.
The main house’s screen door squeaked as she nervously pushed through it. Inside, she smelled freshly brewed coffee, which was odd, because usually her mom was already at the stables by now and her dad was riding or at the golf course. She wondered what had happened between Melissa and Wren after last night, praying she wouldn’t have to face them.
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
Spencer jumped. At the kitchen table were her parents and Melissa. Her mother’s face was pale and drained and her dad’s cheeks were beet red. Melissa’s eyes were redrimmed and puffy. Even the two dogs didn’t jump up to greet her as they normally did.
Spencer swallowed hard. So much for praying.
“Sit down, please,” her father said quietly.
Spencer scraped back a wooden chair and sat next to her mother. The room was so still and silent, she could hear her stomach, nervously on spin cycle.
“I don’t even know what to say,” her mother croaked. “How could you?”
Spencer’s stomach dropped. She opened her mouth, but her mother held up her hand. “You have no right to talk right now.”
Spencer clamped her mouth shut and lowered her eyes.
“Honestly,” her father said, “I am so mortified you’re my daughter right now. I thought we raised you better.”
Spencer picked at a rough cuticle on her thumb and tried to stop her chin from wobbling.
“What were you thinking?” her mother asked. “That was her boyfriend. They were planning to move in together. Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I—” Spencer started.
“I mean…,” her mother interrupted, then wrung her hands and looked down.
“You’re under eighteen, which means we’re legally responsible for you,” her father said. “But if it were up to me, I’d lock you out of this house right now.”
“I wish I never had to see you again,” Melissa spat.
Spencer felt faint. She half-expected them to set down their coffee cups and tell her they were just kidding, that everything was all right. But they couldn’t even look at her. Her dad’s words stung in her ears: I am so mortified you’re my daughter. No one had ever said anything like that to her before.
“One thing’s for certain; Melissa will be moving into the barn,” her mother continued. “I want all of your stuff out and back into your old bedroom. And once her town house is ready, I’m turning the barn into a pottery studio.”
Spencer balled up her fists under the table, willing herself not to cry. She didn’t care about the barn, not really. It was what came with the barn that mattered. It was that her dad was going to build shelves for her. Her mom was going to help her pick out new curtains. They’d said she could get a kitten and they’d all spent a few minutes thinking up funny names for it. They were excited for her. They cared.