She swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure what this cop knew. A could have tipped the cops off that she was hiding something. And it was brilliant—if Spencer told him, Yes, I do know someone who hated Ali, really hated her enough to kill her, she’d have to confess her involvement in The Jenna Thing. If she said nothing and protected herself, A still might punish her friends…and Wren.
You hurt me, so I’m going to hurt you.
Sweat prickled on the back of her neck. But then there was more: What if Toby was back to hurt her? What if he and A were working together? What if he was A? But if he was—and he killed Ali—would he go to the cops and incriminate himself? “I’m pretty sure I told them everything,” she finally said.
There was a long, long pause. Wilden stared at Spencer. Spencer stared at Wilden. It made Spencer think about the night after The Jenna Thing happened. She’d dozed into a fitful, paranoid sleep, her friends quietly crying around her. But all of a sudden, she was awake again. The cable box clock said 3:43 A.M., and the room was still. She felt unhinged, and found Ali, sleeping sitting up on the couch with Emily’s head in her lap. “I can’t do this,” she said, shaking her awake. “We should turn ourselves in.”
Ali got up, led Spencer into the hall bathroom, and sat down on the edge of the tub. “Get a grip, Spence,” Ali said. “You can’t spaz if the police ask us questions.”
“The police?” Spencer shrieked, her heart picking up speed.
“Shhh,” Ali whispered. She drummed her nails against the tub’s porcelain edge. “I’m not saying the police are definitely going to talk to us, but we have to make a plan in case they do. All we need is a solid story. An alibi.”
“Why can’t we just tell them the truth?” Spencer asked. “Exactly what you saw Toby do, and that it surprised you so much, you set the firework off by accident?”
Ali shook her head. “It’s better my way. We keep Toby’s secret, he keeps ours.”
A knock on the door made them stand up. “Guys?” a voice called. It was Aria.
“Fair enough,” Wilden finally said, breaking Spencer from her memory. He handed her a business card. “Call me if you think of anything, all right?”
“Of course,” Spencer whimpered.
Wilden put his hands on his hips and looked around the room. At the Chippendale furniture; the exquisite stained-glass window; the heavy, framed art on the walls; and her father’s prized George Washington clock that had been in the family since the 1800s. Then he canvassed Spencer, from the diamond studs in her ears to the delicate Cartier watch on her wrist to her blond highlights, which cost $300 every six weeks. The smug little smile on his face seemed to say, You seem like a girl who has a lot to lose.
“You going to that benefit tonight?” he asked, making her jump. “Foxy?”
“Um, yeah,” Spencer said quietly.
“Well.” Wilden gave her a little salute. “Have fun.” His voice was totally normal, but she could’ve sworn the look on his face said, I’m not through with you yet.
24
$250 GETS YOU DINNER, DANCING…AND A WARNING
Foxy was held in Kingman Hall, an old English countryside mansion built by a man who’d invented some new-fangled milking machine in the early 1900s. In fourth grade, when they learned about the hall in the All About Pennsylvania social studies unit, Emily nicknamed it “Moo Mansion.”
As the check-in girl scrutinized their invites, Emily looked around. The place had a labyrinthine garden in its front yard. Gargoyles leered from the arches of the mansion’s stately front. Ahead of her was the tent where the actual event was being held. It was lit up with fairy lights and full of people.
“Wow.” Toby came up beside her. Beautiful girls swished by them toward the tent, wearing elaborate, custom-made dresses and carrying bejeweled bags. Emily looked down at her own dress—it was a simple, strapless pink sheath Carolyn had worn to prom last year. She’d done her hair herself, put on a lot of Carolyn’s ultra-girly Lovely perfume—which made her sneeze—and was wearing earrings for the first time in a while, poking them forcefully through the holes in her ears that had almost closed up. Even with all that, she still felt plain next to everyone else.
Yesterday, when Emily called Toby to ask him to Foxy, he’d sounded so surprised—but really excited. She was psyched, too. They would go to Foxy, share another kiss, and who knew? Maybe become a couple. In time, they would visit Jenna at her school in Philadelphia, and Emily would somehow make it all up to her. She’d foster Jenna’s next Seeing Eye dog. She’d read to her all the books that hadn’t yet come out in Braille. Maybe, in time, Emily would confess her involvement in Jenna’s accident.
Or maybe not.
Except now that she was at Foxy, something just felt…wrong. Emily’s body kept feeling hot, then cold, and her stomach kept clenching up in pain. Toby’s hands felt too scratchy, and she’d been so nervous, they’d barely said anything to each other on the way over. Foxy itself didn’t seem to be very calming, either; everyone was so stiff and poised. And Emily was sure someone was watching her. As she inspected every girl’s made-up, glossy face and every guy’s scrubbed, handsome one, she wondered, Are you A?
“Smile!” A flashbulb popped in Emily’s face, and she let out a little scream. When the spots faded from her eyes, a blond girl in a merlot-red dress with a press badge over her right boob and a digital camera slung over her shoulder was laughing at her. “I was just taking photos for the Philadelphia Inquirer,” she explained. “Wanna try that again, without the freaked expression this time?” Emily clutched Toby’s arm and tried to look happy, except her expression was more of a petrified grimace.
After the press girl whirled away, Toby turned to Emily. “Is something wrong? You seemed so relaxed in front of a camera before.”
Emily stiffened. “When have you seen me in front of a camera?”