Would Jordan’s lawyer help? Emily remembered his name—Charlie Klose—and she’d looked up information on him after she left the prison. He was as renowned and respected as Jordan had purported. Maybe she could call Charlie and ask that he place a call to the prison. And then he could patch her through.
Propping herself up against several pillows, she pulled up Charlie’s law firm’s website and found the office number. Emily tapped her fingers nervously against the back of the phone as the line rang.
Finally, a man’s voice answered. “Charlie Klose.”
“Mr. Klose?” Emily’s voice squeaked. “Um, my name is Emily Fields. I’m a friend of Jordan Richards’s.”
“Emily Fields.” Charlie Klose’s voice hitched over her name. “Yes. Jordan told me a lot about you. You’re the girl who went through all that nonsense in Rosewood.”
“That’s right.” Emily’s heart was thudding hard. It seemed like an opening, though—at least he knew who she was. “Well, anyway, I have a favor to ask, if you don’t mind. Is there any way you can call up Ulster and patch me through? I know it’s not really allowed, but I really need to talk to her. It’s not about her case. And it will only take a few minutes—I promise.”
There was a long pause. A lump grew in Emily’s throat. He was going to tell her no. She could sense it. How could she be so stupid? In his eyes, she was a silly teenager.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Emily,” Charlie said, his voice cracking. “But something has happened at the prison. Jordan’s . . . gone.”
“Gone?” Emily shot to her feet. “What do you mean? She escaped?” It had happened before: Jordan had broken out of her prison in New Jersey and stowed away on the same cruise ship Emily was on. That was how they’d met. But why would Jordan bust out now? She’d seemed so optimistic about the case. And had she left Emily for good?
“No, she didn’t escape.” Klose sounded choked up. “I—I don’t know the details, so I can’t tell you everything, but she was . . . killed. Last night.”
Emily blinked hard. Her fingers loosened around her phone, and it slipped from her palm. “Pardon?” she asked faintly, lifting it back to her ear.
His words were hurried. “There was an altercation with an inmate named Robin Cook. . . . I don’t know who she is or what their relationship was. But Jordan is gone. Her parents have already identified her body.”
Bile rose in Emily’s throat. “Why would someone want to kill her?”
“I don’t know. But Robin Cook was found missing from her jail cell this morning. She’s the one who escaped.”
“What?” Emily shrieked.
“I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you this, Emily,” he said quietly. Then he hung up.
Spots formed in front of Emily’s eyes. It’s a lie, she thought. It had to be. Jordan couldn’t be dead. Emily had just seen her.
She stood in the silent, empty bedroom, staring at her bureau, then her desk, then her bed. She’d had this same stuff since she was a child, but it suddenly seemed so unfamiliar. Everything seemed so unfamiliar, even her shaking hands, even the old Rosewood Day T-shirt she was wearing.
Jordan is dead. Jordan is dead.
Like a zombie, she walked toward the closet and opened it. She kicked aside the shoes strewn at the bottom and ducked through her hanging pants and dresses. She sat down on the floor, curling her knees in. And then she pulled the door shut behind her. The closet was dark. It smelled like rubber. It felt like a grave. Her thoughts tried to veer to Jordan, but she couldn’t go there. Her mind actually stopped moving forward, as if a physical wall were up. Her body wasn’t remotely ready to cry, either. It wasn’t really even ready to breathe.
Then Spencer’s text from last night swirled back to her. Ali is in New York. Emily had received that text at about nine o’clock. Ulster Prison was only an hour or so away from the city . . . and according to the lawyer, Jordan had died last night. Emily’s heart began to pound.
None of that seemed like a coincidence.
17
THE LAIR
Hanna drove as fast as she could to Ashland, the back roads mercifully light on traffic. Many of the turns were sharp, and the CD she was listening to skipped when she sailed over the rickety covered bridge. She couldn’t think of a single thing on the drive, though there were several good reasons for that. One, she had a staggering hangover—she’d taken the latest Amtrak back to Rosewood last night and had gotten only four hours of sleep. In the only fitful dream she recalled, she’d been on a date with Mike and had leaned over to kiss him, but when she drew back, it had been Jared smiling at her instead. Why had she let Jared kiss her at all? What if Mike found out?
But more than that, she was distracted because of Emily’s tearful, blubbering, almost-unintelligible voice mail this morning: Jordan’s dead. I think Ali did it.
After what seemed like a zillion miles of highway, Turkey Hill loomed in the distance. Hanna flicked on her turn signal to pull into the gas station. The mini-mart was empty. Hanna searched the register area, hoping to see the same woman from the other day behind the counter, but there was a large guy with a long goatee instead. She wasn’t sure why Emily wanted to meet all of them here to discuss Jordan’s death, but she certainly wasn’t going to argue with a girl who’d lost her true love.
As she drove past the gas pumps, her phone beeped. It was Hailey. Last nite was so fun! Check it out!