When Hanna complained to her father about the page—she knew Kate was behind it—her dad just shrugged and said, “I can’t force you girls to get along.”
Hanna stood, straightened her clothes again, and elbowed through the mob. Naomi, Riley, and Kate had been joined by Mason Byers and James Freed. To Hanna’s surprise, Mike was also with them.
“It’s not true,” he protested. There were pink splotches on his face and neck.
“Whatever, dude.” Mason rolled his eyes. “I know this is your locker.” He flashed his iPhone screen toward Naomi, Kate, and Riley. They groaned and squealed.
Hanna squeezed Mike’s hand. “What’s going on?”
Mike’s gray-blue eyes were wide. “Someone sent Mason a photo of my lacrosse locker,” he said sheepishly. “But they weren’t mine, I swear.”
“Sure, skidmarks,” James teased.
“Skidz,” Naomi quipped. Everyone tittered.
“What wasn’t yours?” Hanna glanced briefly at Naomi, Riley, and Kate. They were still staring at Mason’s iPhone. “What wasn’t Mike’s?” she repeated firmly.
“Someone’s got a little skids problem,” Riley chimed gleefully. The lax boys chortled and nudged each other.
“I don’t,” Mike protested. “Someone’s messing with me.”
Mason snorted. “You’re messing yourself, more like it.”
Everyone giggled again and Hanna grabbed the iPhone from Mason. On the screen was a picture of a Rosewood Day sports locker. Hanna recognized Mike’s blue Ralph Lauren hoodie hanging from a hook, and nestled on the top shelf was his lucky Kellogg’s Corn Flakes stuffed rooster. Front and center was a pair of white D&G boxer-briefs that were blatantly…skidded.
She slowly untangled her hand from Mike’s and stepped away.
“I don’t even wear D&G underwear.” Mike stabbed at the screen, trying to delete the photo.
Naomi let out a screech. “Ew, Mason, Skidz touched your phone!”
“Purell!” James declared.
Mason took the phone from Hanna and held it tentatively between his thumb and forefinger. “Ugh. Skidz germs!”
“Skidz germs!” the girls echoed. A couple of blond, willowy freshman girls across the hall whispered and pointed. One of them took a picture with her camera phone.
Hanna glowered at Mason. “Who sent you this photo?”
Mason shoved his hands into the pockets of his pin-striped dress pants. “A concerned citizen. I didn’t recognize the number.”
Across the room, a poster for an upcoming French club food festival warped and wobbled before Hanna’s eyes. It was just the kind of text A would have sent. But A was Billy…and Billy had been arrested.
“You believe me, right?” Mike took Hanna’s hand again.
“Aw, they’re holding hands!” Riley elbowed Naomi. “Skidz found a girl who doesn’t mind his dirty undies!”
“Don’t they make a cute couple?” Kate giggled. “Skidz and Psycho!”
The group exploded into jeering laughter. “I’m not a psycho,” Hanna cried, her voice cracking.
The laughing continued unabated. Hanna looked around helplessly. A bunch of kids in the hall were staring. Even a student teacher ducked out of an earth science classroom and looked on with benign curiosity.
“Let’s get out of here,” Mike murmured in Hanna’s ear. He wheeled around and stormed down the hall. His shoelace was untied, but he didn’t stop to fix it. Hanna wanted to follow, but her legs felt fused to the polished marble floor. The giggles multiplied.
This was worse than the time in fifth grade when Ali, Naomi, and Riley called Hanna a “butterball” in gym, taking turns poking her stomach like the Pillsbury Doughboy. This was worse than when Hanna’s presumed best friend in the world, Mona Vanderwaal, sent her a six-sizes-too-small court dress to wear to her birthday party—the dress split down the butt as soon as she walked in. Mike was supposed to be popular. She was supposed to be popular. And now they were both…freaks.
Hanna swept through the lobby and outside. The brisk February air bit at her nose and set the flags in the center of the green flapping angrily against the flagpole. They were no longer at half-mast, but a couple of people had placed flowers honoring Jenna and Ali at the base of the pole. Buses groaned into the drive and idled at the curb, ready for afternoon pickup. A couple of crows hunched under a spindly limbed willow tree. A dark shadow slid behind an overgrown shrub.
Goose bumps rose on Hanna’s arms, the photo of her that had run in People popping into her mind. Hanna’s crazy roommate at the Preserve, Iris, had taken it in a secret attic room whose walls were decorated with doodles from patients past. The drawing right behind Hanna’s head, eerily close to her face, was a huge, unmistakable portrait of Ali. The girl in the drawing looked ominous and…alive. I know something you don’t, the Ali on the wall seemed to say. And I’m keeping a secret.
Just then, someone tapped Hanna’s shoulder. She screamed and whipped around. Emily Fields took a couple of defensive steps back, holding her hands in front of her face. “Sorry!”
Hanna ran her fingers through her hair, taking heaping breaths. “God,” she groaned. “Don’t do that.”
“I had to find you,” Emily said, out of breath. “I was just called into the office. Ali’s mom was on the phone.”
“Mrs. DiLaurentis?” Hanna wrinkled her nose. “Why would she bother you at school?”
Emily rubbed her bare hands together. “They’re holding a press conference at their house right now,” she said. “Mrs. DiLaurentis wants all of us to be there. She said she had something she needed to tell us.”
An icy shiver wriggled up Hanna’s spine. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” Emily’s eyes were wide and her freckles stood out on her pale skin. “But we’d better get over there. It’s starting now.”
4
THE BLOND BOMBSHELL
As the winter sun dipped low on the horizon, Emily sat in the passenger seat of Hanna’s Prius, watching Lancaster Avenue fly by. They were speeding to Yarmouth, where the DiLaurentises now lived. Spencer and Aria were meeting them there.
“Make a right here,” Emily instructed, reading from the directions Mrs. DiLaurentis had given her. They entered a subdivision called Darrow Farms. It looked like it had once been a real farm, with rolling green hills and lots of fields for crops and livestock, but a developer had subdivided it into identical plots of enormous homes. Each house had a stone facade, black shutters, and fledgling Japanese maples in the front yard.
It wasn’t difficult to find the DiLaurentises’ house—it had an enormous crowd at the curb, a large podium in the front yard, and swarms of cameramen, reporters, and producers. A phalanx of cops stood guard near the DiLaurentises’ porch, most with intimidating black pistols on their belts. Many of the people in the throng were journalists, but there were definitely some curiosity-seekers, too—Emily spied Lanie Iler and Gemma Curran, two girls on her swim team, leaning against a sequoia. Spencer’s sister, Melissa, loitered next to a Mercedes SUV.
“Whoa,” Emily whispered. Word had spread. Whatever was happening must be huge.
Emily slammed the car door and started with Hanna toward the crowd. She’d forgotten to bring mittens, and her fingers already felt fat and jointless from the cold. She’d been scatterbrained about everything since Jenna’s death, barely sleeping at night, hardly eating anything at meals.
“Em?”
Emily whirled around, signaling to Hanna that she’d catch up with her in a minute. Maya St. Germain stood behind Emily, wedged next to a boy in a Phillies snow hat. Under a black wool coat, Maya wore a striped boat-neck shirt, black jeans, and black leather ankle boots. Her curly hair was pinned back with a tortoiseshell clip, and her lips were coated in cherry-scented ChapStick. Emily spied a yellow wad of banana gum in her mouth, reminding her of the day she and Maya first kissed.
“Hey,” Emily said cautiously. She and Maya weren’t exactly on good terms—not since Maya had caught Emily kissing another girl.
Maya’s lip quivered, and then she burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she blubbered, covering her face. “This is so hard. I can’t believe Jenna’s…”
Emily felt a twinge of guilt. She’d seen Maya and Jenna together a lot lately—roaming the halls of Rosewood Day, walking through the atrium at the King James Mall, even at the diving competition of one of Emily’s swim meets.
A tiny movement at the DiLaurentises’ front window caught Emily’s eye, distracting her. It looked like someone had parted the curtain, and then dropped it again. For a moment, she wondered if it was Jason. But then she noticed him near the podium, tapping on his cell phone.
She turned back to Maya, who was pulling a plastic Wawa bag from her army-green knapsack. “I wanted to give you this,” Maya said. “The workers cleaning up the fire found it and thought it was mine, but I remember it from your room.”
Emily reached into the bag and extracted a pink patent-leather change purse. A swirly initial E was inscribed on the front, and the zipper was pale pink. “Oh my God,” she breathed. The pouch had been a gift from Ali in sixth grade. It had been one of the Ali artifacts Emily and her friends had buried in Spencer’s backyard before Ian’s trial. Their grief counselor claimed the ritual would help them heal from Ali’s death, but Emily had missed the purse ever since.
“Thank you.” She clutched it to her chest.
“No worries.” Maya snapped her bag shut and slung it across her chest. “Well, I should go be with my family.” She gestured through the crowd. Mr. and Mrs. St. Germain stood by the DiLaurentises’ mailbox, looking a little lost.
“Bye.” Emily faced front again. Hanna had joined Spencer and Aria near the barricades. Emily hadn’t seen her old friends together since Jenna’s funeral. Swallowing hard, she elbowed through the crowd until she was right next to them. “Hey,” she said softly to Spencer.
Spencer looked at Emily uneasily. “Hey.”
Aria and Hanna shrugged hellos. “How are you guys?” Emily asked.
Aria ran her fingers through the fringe of her long black scarf. Hanna stared at her iPhone, not answering. Spencer bit her bottom lip. None of them looked thrilled to be standing together. Emily turned the patent-leather change purse over in her hands, hoping one of her old friends would recognize it. She was dying to talk to them about Ali, but something had come between them ever since Jenna’s body was found. It had happened after Ali disappeared, too—it was simply easier to ignore one another than to rehash the terrible memories.
“What do you think this is all about?” Emily tried again.
Aria pulled out a tube of cherry ChapStick and smeared it across her lips. “You were the one Mrs. DiLaurentis called. She didn’t tell you?”
Emily shook her head. “She got off the phone really fast. I didn’t have time to ask.”