Hanna climbed out, almost tripping over her ankle chains. “Are we going to be ambushed with something? You have an obligation to tell us, you know.”
“Y-yeah,” Aria said shakily. “If this is bad, you have to let us know now.”
But the reporters had already descended upon Rubens and were bombarding him with questions. “What’s going on in there?” they shouted. “Why was everyone called back to court?” “What’s happened?”
“No comment, no comment,” Rubens said, gripping Spencer’s hand hard and pulling her up the steps. The other girls followed. Spencer was acutely aware of all the flashes going off, getting pictures of her in her orange jumpsuit and messy hair and, most likely, filthy-sweaty-grimy face. But she was far too curious about what was happening inside to worry. Guards whisked her through the metal detector, and soon enough she was standing just outside the courtroom.
Rubens stood in front of them, his hand on the doorknob. There was a jittery expression on his face, but Spencer couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. “Okay, ladies,” he said breathlessly. “Brace yourselves.”
“For what?” Hanna squeaked.
The door swung open, and several people who were already in the courtroom, including the judge, swiveled around and clapped eyes on them. Then Hanna gasped. Aria made a small breathy sound that was a cross between a hiccup and a sob. A tall, familiar girl stood at the front of the courtroom. It was a girl Spencer had thought she’d never see again. A girl she’d thought about far too many times, who’d appeared in far too many dreams, who’d haunted her endlessly since she vanished.
“E-Emily?” Spencer managed to say, shakily pointing at the girl at the front of the courtroom. She looked at Rubens.
He smiled. “I just got the call an hour ago. She was escorted here this morning.”
Spencer looked again. Tears filled Emily’s eyes. She broke into a wide, careful smile. “H-hey,” she said. And it was, indeed, Emily’s voice. Emily’s everything.
She was alive.
28
BACK ON DUNE STREET
One week, two days earlier
Cape May, NJ
“Do you smell that?” Emily said excitedly, gesturing into the garage of the closed-up beach house that belonged to Betty Maxwell, Nick’s grandmother.
She watched as her friends stuck their heads into the garage and sniffed. “Is that . . . vanilla?” Aria finally said.
Emily nodded, feeling like she was going to burst. “We should call the police. This is proof she’s still alive!”
But her friends just shifted, looking uncomfortable. Spencer peered back into the empty house. “Em, that’s not enough to get the police here.” She sighed. “Besides, she’s not here now.”
Emily couldn’t believe it. Okay, okay, Ali wasn’t here now—but it was still an amazing lead, right?
They all just shrugged and looked at her like she was nuts. And maybe she was nuts—the Ali voice in her head was cackling so loudly Emily could barely think straight. She couldn’t believe that, once again, Ali had gotten the best of them. It was yet another slap in the face.
Emily tried to tell herself this was the end. But she couldn’t just let it go so easily.
Emily heard her friends say they should stay here for the day, catch some rays, have a nice dinner. She felt herself nod along only because fighting would worry them more. But as they walked away, she felt detached from her body—from the whole scene, really. Her entire mind, her whole being was back in that house. There had to be a bigger clue there, something they’d missed.
She had to find it.
As they headed to the beach, Emily mentally reviewed the places in the house they’d searched. There was nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the bedrooms, nothing in the closets. But what about that vanilla-stinky garage? They’d only poked their heads in. Sure, the place had looked empty . . . but maybe it wasn’t.
It haunted her as they played in the waves and listened to music through Spencer’s iPod speakers. It plagued her as they changed for dinner. It needled her as they ate fresh seafood and ordered margaritas and tried to act upbeat. Her friends kept trying to pull her into the conversation, but she could only reply with stiff, one-word answers. We have to go back, she wanted to tell them. Something is there. I just know it.
But she knew her friends wouldn’t go back to that house. They’d already taken a huge risk breaking in this afternoon. They were taking a huge risk even being there. No. If she wanted to satisfy her hunch, she would have to do it alone.
They tumbled into their shared hotel room that night and turned on the TV to Comedy Central. Emily bided her time, watching as each of her friends had settled into bed, Spencer turning on the AC, Hanna pulling her eye mask over her face. After a while, the room grew silent, and someone turned down the TV volume. Emily waited an extra half hour to make sure they were all asleep, then crept out of the hotel room, key in hand.
The walk to Betty Maxwell’s house took fifteen minutes, her flip-flops smacking loudly on the sidewalk in the quiet night. It had to be about two in the morning, and Emily worried a cop car might stop her, wondering what she was doing out so late. But luck was on her side. She didn’t see any cars at all.
The beach house was eerier after dark, the walls creaking, strange shadows skittering in the corners, an odd clanking sound coming from somewhere in the back. Armed with a flashlight, Emily headed straight to the garage. It still smelled strongly of vanilla—of Ali. She stepped into the dark, small space, leftover sand gritting under her flip-flops. Hands shaking, she felt around the metal shelves along the garage walls, desperate to find something other than dust bunnies. Her fingers grazed spider webs. She pressed against the cinder-block walls, hoping for a loose brick that was concealing something secret. In the corner of the garage was an industrial-looking tool chest; she opened it and felt to the very back, but there was nothing inside.