Meredith cocked her head. “She called me a while after you guys caught us in the car—sometime in June. She asked me all these questions about me and your dad—if we were in love, when we started dating, if we’d done it yet. She made me feel awful.” She searched Aria’s face. “You didn’t put her up to it?”
“No . . .” Ali had tormented Aria about Meredith constantly, but she’d never told Aria that she’d called Meredith behind her back. What had Ali expected to accomplish? And why had she waited until June to call her? Aria and Ali had caught Meredith and Byron in April.
Suddenly, a horrible thought popped into her mind. “When in June did Alison call you?”
Meredith drummed her fingers on the table. “The morning of the fifteenth. I remember it because it was my brother’s birthday. I thought it was him calling, but it was her.”
The room began to spin. June fifteenth. That was the day of their end-of-seventh-grade sleepover with Their Ali. According to the events pieced together by letters, testimonies, public documents, and the police investigation, the secret DiLaurentis sister had been picked up from the Preserve the day before. An unhappy family reunion had occurred. Two twins who hated each other were together again.
The day of the sleepover, Aria, Spencer, Hanna, and Emily had gone into Ali’s room and discovered her sitting there, reading what looked like her diary with a big smile on her face. To this day, Aria wondered if it had been Their Ali in her bedroom . . . or her twin.
“Aria? Are you okay?”
Aria jumped. Meredith was staring at her with round blue eyes. Aria nodded faintly, feeling woozy. Ali had called Meredith all those years ago, all right—but it might not have been to make Meredith feel bad. It could have been to dig for dirt. And it wasn’t Her Ali, either.
It was Real Ali.
14
CATCHING UP
Thursday night, Emily walked into Belissima, the Italian bistro at the Devon Crest Mall across town, where she was meeting Isaac for dinner. The restaurant floor was made of bronze-colored terra-cotta tile, and the walls were painted to look as if they were part of an old, crumbling farmhouse. A shiny brass espresso machine sat behind the counter, bottles of wine were lined up on shelves around the big room, and the air smelled pungently of olive oil and mozzarella. Emily hadn’t been to this mall since two Christmases ago, when she’d agreed to be the mall’s Santa. She’d come to this restaurant with Cassie, one of Santa’s elves, and they’d bonded over their friendships with Ali.
Her phone beeped, and when she checked the screen, there was a Google Alert for Tabitha Clark. A lot of Tabitha-related news she didn’t read—it was just too painful—but because she was nervous and wanted something to do with her hands, she stared at the screen.
The alert linked to a message board from the Tabitha Clark Memorial website. The site mostly consisted of pictures of Tabitha and her friends. A prom video showed Tabitha in a purple satin dress, her gold necklace glinting in the strobe light as she danced with her boyfriend, a cute boy with longish brown hair and clear green eyes, to a Christina Aguilera song. There were some mournful posts from friends and rants about how The Cliffs resort should be shut down. But the most recent post was what caught Emily’s eye: Tabitha’s dad should conduct an autopsy. I don’t think she died from too much drinking.
A chill gripped Emily. With all of the drama about her baby and Gayle, she’d lost focus on the other horrible thing A knew. She shut her eyes and saw the picture A had sent to Spencer’s phone of Tabitha’s body, twisted and broken on the sand after they’d shoved her off the roof.
“Emily! Over here!”
Isaac was sitting in a banquette in the corner, a plate of fried calamari in front of him. His hair was pushed back off his face, and he wore a blue T-shirt that brought out his sapphire eyes. “Hey!” he called, gesturing for her to come over.
Emily’s stomach swooped, and she shoved the phone back into her bag. Then she stared down at the green wool skirt she’d picked out from the back of her closet. Was she honestly going to tell Isaac the truth? All afternoon, instead of paying attention in English, Calculus, and Bio II, she’d rehearsed how she’d broach the subject. So, you know how we had sex that one time last year? Well, it had a, um, lasting effect.
Even worse, Isaac looked so happy right now, like he was overjoyed she’d shown up. This was going to kill him. But she had to say something. She owed it to him. She certainly didn’t want A telling him first.
Her hands shook as she wound around the busy tables and dodged a waitress with a tray of tiramisu. Isaac half-stood as Emily approached. “I ordered calamari. I hope that’s okay. You used to like it back when we . . . you know.” His words rushed out in a nervous jumble.
“I still love calamari.” Emily slid into the cushy leather seat.
Isaac touched her arm, then pulled away, perhaps worried it was too forward. “Are you still swimming?”
Emily nodded. “I got a scholarship to UNC for next year.”
“UNC?” Isaac beamed. “That’s awesome. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Emily said. “Have you figured out where you’re going to go yet?” She reached over and speared a piece of calamari from the plate. The batter was perfect, and the dipping sauce was thick and tangy.
Isaac shrugged. “I’d love to go to Juilliard, but I’ll probably end up at Hollis.”
“You never know. You’re talented enough for Juilliard.” Emily thought of Isaac’s band performances. His voice was rich and full, and he sounded a lot like the lead singer of Coldplay. Plenty of girls had swooned over him at his show; Emily had been astounded when he’d singled her out.
Isaac took a long sip of sparkling water. “Nah. I didn’t even apply. I was terrified to audition. I’d probably freak out on stage.”
“Since when do you freak out on stage?” Emily asked, surprised. “Have you changed that much since I’ve last seen you?”
“Tons.” Isaac cupped his chin in his hands and smiled at her.