Hanna couldn’t rely on Mona, either: She was still at that golf tournament in Florida. They’d spoken briefly on the phone, and Mona had admitted the police had called her about Sean’s car, but she’d played dumb, saying she’d been at the party the whole time and Hanna had been too. And the lucky bitch: They’d gotten the back of her head on the Wawa surveillance tape, but not her face, since she’d been wearing that disgusting delivery hat. That was yesterday, though, after Hanna got back from the police station. She and Mona hadn’t talked today, and they hadn’t discussed Alison yet.
And then…there was A. Or if A was Alison, would A be gone now? But the police said Alison had been dead for years….
As Hanna scanned the guide feature on TV for what else was on, her eyelids swollen with tears, she considered calling her father—this story might be on the Annapolis-area news, too. Or maybe he’d call her? She picked up the silent phone to make sure it was still working.
She sighed. The problem with being Mona’s best friend was that they had no other friends. Watching all this Ali footage made her think of her old group of friends. They’d had their rocky, horrible moments together, but they used to have a lot of fun, too. In a parallel universe, they’d all be together now, remembering Ali and laughing even though they were crying, too. But in this dimension, they’d grown too far apart.
They’d split up for valid reasons, of course—things had started to go rotten way before Ali went missing. In the beginning, when they were doing that charity drive stuff, it was wonderful. But then, after The Jenna Thing happened, things got tense. They were all so afraid that what happened to Jenna could be linked to them. Hanna remembered being jumpy even when she was on the bus and a cop car would pass by them, going in the other direction. Then, that next winter and spring, whole topics were suddenly off-limits. Someone was always saying, “Shhh!” and then they all fell into an uncomfortable silence.
The eleven-o’clock newscasters signed off and The Simpsons came on. Hanna picked up her BlackBerry. She still knew Spencer’s number by heart, and it probably wouldn’t be too late to call. As she dialed the second digit, she cocked her ear, her Tiffany earrings jangling. There was a scratching noise at the door.
Dot, who had been lying by her feet, picked up his head and growled. Hanna took the Cheez-It bowl off her lap and stood.
Was it…A?
Knees shaking, Hanna crept into the hall. There were long, dark shadows at the back door, and the scratching noise had grown louder. “Oh my God,” Hanna whispered, her chin trembling. Someone was trying to get in!
Hanna looked around. There was a round jade paperweight on the little hall table. It had to weigh at least twenty pounds. She heaved it up and took three tentative steps for the kitchen door.
Suddenly, the door burst open. Hanna jumped back. A woman stumbled through the entranceway. Her tasteful, gray pleated skirt was up around her waist. Hanna held up the paperweight, about to throw it.
Then she realized. It was her mom.
Ms. Marin bumped into the telephone table as if she were wasted. Some guy was behind her, trying to unzip her skirt and kiss her at the same time. Hanna’s eyes widened.
Darren Wilden. Mr. April.
So that was what her mom meant by “taking care of it”?
Hanna’s stomach clenched. No doubt she looked a little insane, tenaciously clutching the paperweight. Ms. Marin gave Hanna a very long look, not even bothering to turn away from Wilden.
Her mother’s eyes said, I’m doing this for you.
34
FANCY MEETING YOU HERE
On Monday morning, instead of sitting in first-period bio, Emily stood next to her parents in the high-ceilinged, marble-floored nave of Rosewood Abbey. She tugged uncomfortably at the black, pleated, too-short Gap skirt she’d found in the back of her closet and tried to smile. Mrs. DiLaurentis stood in the doorway, clad in a cowl-neck black dress, heels, and tiny freshwater pearls. She walked up to Emily and engulfed her in a hug.
“Oh, Emily,” Mrs. DiLaurentis sobbed.
“I’m so sorry,” Emily whispered back, her own eyes watering. Mrs. DiLaurentis still wore the same perfume—Coco Chanel. It instantly brought back all kinds of memories: A million rides to and from the mall in Mrs. DiLaurentis’s Infiniti, sneaking into her bathroom to steal TrimSpa tablets and to experiment with her expensive La Prairie makeup, going through her enormous, walk-in closet and trying on all her sexy size-2 black Dior cocktail dresses.
Other kids from Rosewood streamed around them, trying to find seats in the high-backed wooden pews. Emily hadn’t known what to expect at Alison’s memorial service. The abbey smelled like incense and wood. Simple cylinder-shaped lamps hung from the ceiling, and the altar was covered with a billion white tulips. Tulips were Alison’s favorite flower. Emily remembered Ali helped her mom plant rows of them in their front yard every year.
Alison’s mom finally stood back and wiped her eyes. “I want you to sit up in the front, with all of Ali’s friends. Is that okay, Kathleen?”
Emily’s mom nodded. “Of course.”
Emily listened to every click of Mrs. DiLaurentis’s heels and the shuffling of her own chunky loafers as they walked down the aisle. Suddenly it hit Emily why she was here again. Ali was dead.
Emily clutched Mrs. DiLaurentis’s arm. “Oh my God.” Her field of vision narrowed, and she heard a waaaah noise in her ears, the sign that she was about to faint.
Mrs. DiLaurentis held her upright. “It’s okay. Come on. Sit down here.”