“And was it romantic?”
Spencer quickly tried to conjure up some cute scenes with Andrew. Sharing the appetizer. Drunkenly dancing to Shakira. She caught herself. What was the point? It didn’t matter anymore.
The clouds started to move out of her brain. Melissa was sitting here, so sweetly trying to make an effort to patch things up. The way she’d taken an interest in Foxy, the way she’d urged their parents to forgive her…and Spencer had repaid her by stealing Wren and ripping off her old econ paper. Even Melissa didn’t deserve this.
“I have something to tell you,” Spencer blurted out. “I…I saw Wren.”
Melissa barely flinched, so Spencer pressed forward. “This whole week. I’ve gone to his new apartment in Philly, we’ve talked on the phone, everything. But…I think it’s over now.” She curled into the fetal position, armoring herself for when Melissa started to hit her. “You can hate me. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you. You can go tell Mom and Dad to kick me out of the house.”
Melissa quietly held Spencer’s preppy seersucker pillow to her chest. It took a long time for her to answer. “It’s all right. I won’t tell them anything.” Melissa leaned back. “I actually have something to tell you. You remember Friday night, when you couldn’t reach Wren? You left five messages?”
Spencer stared at her. “H-How do you know that?”
Melissa gave her a tight, satisfied smile. A smile that suddenly made everything all too clear. I’ve been seeing someone else, Wren had said. It can’t be, Spencer thought.
“Because Wren wasn’t in Philly,” Melissa answered nonchalantly. “He was here, in Rosewood. With me.” She got up off the bed and pushed her hair behind her ears, and Spencer saw the hickey on Melissa’s neck, practically in the same spot where Spencer’s had been. Melissa couldn’t have been more deliberate if she’d circled it with a Sharpie.
“And he told you?” she managed. “You knew, all this time?”
“No, I only found out last night.” Melissa ran her hand over her chin. “Let’s just say I got an anonymous tip from a concerned individual.”
Spencer gripped her bedspread. A.
“Anyway,” Melissa lilted, “I was with Wren last night, too, when you were at Foxy.” She tilted her head down at Spencer, giving her the same haughty look she used to make when they played Queen, back when they were little. The rules of Queen never changed: Melissa was always Queen, and Spencer always had to do what she said. Make my bed, loyal subject, Melissa would say. Kiss my feet. You’re mine forever.
Melissa took a step toward the door. “But I decided this morning. I haven’t told him yet, but Wren’s really not for me. So I’m never going to see him again.” She paused, considered her words, then smirked. “And by the looks of things, I guess you won’t be seeing him ever again, either.”
34
SEE? DEEP DOWN, HANNA REALLY IS A GOOD GIRL
The first thing Hanna heard on Sunday morning was someone singing that Elvis Costello song “Alison.”
“ALLLLLison, I know this world is KILLING you!” It was a guy, his voice loud and grating like a lawn mower. Hanna threw her covers back. Was it the TV? Was it someone outside?
When she stood up, her head felt like it was full of cotton candy. She saw the Chloé jacket she’d worn last night thrown over her desk chair, and everything came flooding back to her.
After her mom retrieved her from the Four Seasons, they’d driven home in stony silence. When they pulled into the driveway, Ms. Marin jammed the Lexus into park and stormed crookedly into the house, drunk with anger. When Hanna got to the door, her mom slammed it in her face, and there was a loud, solid clunk. Hanna stood back, stunned. Okay, so she’d outed her mom’s worst parenting faux pas, and that was probably a bad move. But was her mom seriously locking her out?
Hanna pounded on the door, and Ms. Marin opened it a crack. Her eyebrows were drawn together. “Oh, I’m sorry. You want to come in?”
“Y-Yes,” Hanna squeaked.
Her mother guffawed. “You’re completely willing to insult and disrespect me in front of your father, but you’re not too proud to live here?”
Hanna had made some sort of blubbering attempt at an apology, but her mom stormed away. She did, however, leave the door open. Hanna had scooped up Dot and run to her room, too traumatized to even cry.
“Ohhhhh, ALLLLLison…I know this world is KILLLing YOU!”
Hanna tiptoed to her door. The singing was coming from inside the house. Her legs started to shake. Only a crazy person would be stupid enough to sing that “Alison” song in Rosewood right now. The cops would probably arrest you just for humming it in public.
Was it Toby?
She straightened her yellow camisole and stepped into the hall. At the same moment, the hall bathroom door opened and a guy stepped out.
Hanna put her hand to her mouth. The guy had a towel—her white, fluffy, Pottery Barn towel—wrapped around his waist. His blackish hair stood up in peaks. A silent scream got stuck in Hanna’s throat.
And then he turned around and faced her. Hanna took a step back. It was Darren Wilden. Officer Darren Wilden.
“Whoa.” Wilden froze. “Hanna.”
It was hard not to gawk at his perfectly formed abs. He was definitely not a cop who ate too many Krispy Kremes. “Why were you singing that?” she finally asked.