Aria’s throat went dry. “W-what do you mean?” As if in answer, something made a ping inside her bag. Aria reached for her phone, her heart sinking. One new message, it said, followed by a jumble of letters and numbers.
Your dirty laundry, Aria? Time to get it dry-cleaned. —A
6
SPENCER GOES DOWNTOWN
At the same time on Tuesday, Spencer had just finished jogging five easy miles on the Marwyn Trail, an old train line turned nature walk. As she walked back to her car, pulling her hair up into a high ponytail, the wind stopped. The trail was clear of runners and bikers, but she swore she could see a human shape in the bushes. Ali?
A woman and three dogs appeared around the corner. A Rollerblader skated past, and a squirrel emerged from the bushes. Spencer pinched the inside of her palm. Ali isn’t everywhere. Only, did she really believe that anymore?
She climbed into the car, drained a bottle of coconut water, and switched on the radio. The first thing she heard was Noel Kahn’s name. She twisted the volume knob higher.
“. . . Though Mr. Kahn survived his attack, he is among a growing number of victims in Rosewood, along with socialite Gayle Riggs, who was murdered in the driveway of her new Rosewood home, and Kyla Kennedy, a burn patient who was found dead behind the hospital,” a deep baritone voice said. “New questions are swirling about a serial criminal on the loose. Authorities are also investigating a possible tie-in to the bombing of the Splendor of the Seas cruise ship a few weeks ago—students from Rosewood Day Prep and other surrounding schools were on board.”
Spencer shifted jerkily into reverse, nearly taking out a goose. If only they could hand over their texts from A. The texts would clear up this serial-killer thing in no time.
She turned onto her street, drinking in the late spring splendor. Tons of flowers had bloomed, and cherry blossoms floated down from the sky. But when she saw the news vans in front of her house, she hit the brakes. She was about to back out of the street and drive somewhere else—anywhere else—when the reporters descended on the car.
“Ms. Hastings, please!” The reporters banged on her window. “Just a few questions! What led you to Noel Kahn’s body?”
“Is it all just too much?” another reporter bellowed. “Are you girls thinking about killing yourselves?”
Spencer ducked her head and pulled into the driveway. The reporters had the good sense not to follow her, but they kept shouting. Mr. Pennythistle’s Range Rover loomed in front of her. That was odd: It was just past four, and usually Mr. Pennythistle didn’t get back from work until after six. And there was Mr. Pennythistle himself, standing on the porch, staring at Spencer as she drove in. Spencer’s mother, who wore knee-length khaki shorts and an old polo shirt from the Four Seasons Hotel in St. Barts, stood next to him, her expression grave. Spencer’s quasi stepsister, Amelia, sat on the steps, still in her St. Agnes school vest and plaid skirt—she was the only girl Spencer knew who wore her uniform after dismissal. There was a satisfied smirk on her face.
Spencer shifted into park and glanced at all three of them, feeling like something was up. “Uh, hi?” she asked cautiously as she walked up.
Mrs. Hastings guided her toward the door. “Good, you’re home,” she said through gritted teeth.
Spencer’s heart did a somersault. “W-what’s going on?”
Mrs. Hastings pulled her into the house. The family’s two Labradoodles, Rufus and Beatrice, lumbered up to greet them, but Mrs. Hastings paid them no mind—which meant something really must be wrong. She looked at her fiancé. “You tell her.”
Mr. Pennythistle, still in his business suit, sighed deeply and showed Spencer a picture on his phone. It was of a trashed living room. After a moment, Spencer recognized the heavy, copper-colored curtains and the marble-topped coffee table. “Your model home?” she squeaked. The model home had the panic room where she and her friends talked about A.
“A neighbor called last night,” Mr. Pennythistle said gravely. “They walked by with their dog and saw smears all over the window and broken glass on the floors. And Amelia said she saw you stealing the model’s keys from my office last week. Did you do this?”
Spencer shot a look at Amelia, who was now practically jumping up and down with glee. Narc. “Of course not. I mean—yes. I went into the model a few times. But I didn’t trash it last night. I was home last night.” She looked pleadingly at all of them, but then she realized—she’d been the only one home. Her mom and Mr. Pennythistle had gone to Amelia’s orchestra performance.
Mr. Pennythistle cleared his throat, then flipped to the next photo. In this one, a tall blond girl stood in the corner of the living room, her gaze on the front door. It was Spencer.
“This is impossible,” Spencer squeaked. “Someone Photoshopped me in.”
Mr. Pennythistle cocked his head. “Who would have done that?”
“The real person who did it, I guess.” Spencer sank onto the ottoman in the living room. And that, of course, was Ali or Helper A. But why? To send a message, loud and clear, that they’d always known what the girls were talking about in the panic room? To get her in trouble? She thought again of the presence she felt at the housing complex she and Chase had investigated. Maybe Ali had known they were there.
She handed the phone back to Mr. Pennythistle. “I know what this looks like. But it wasn’t me. Honest. Call the police. Have them dust for prints on all the stuff that was trashed.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Pennythistle said gruffly.
“Please?” Spencer begged. She needed him to do it—maybe Ali’s prints would turn up.