Ruthless pll-10 Read online

  That’s what you think, Spencer thought, rolling back her shoulders. Her decision was a good one. She had to look out for herself. And with Hanna on her way, she’d get away with this scot-free.

  It was only later, after Hanna had planted the drugs, after her call came into the central switchboard, and after Spencer overheard two cops talking about going to the Friedman dorm to search room 413, that Spencer found out the truth: Kelsey hadn’t said a single word to implicate either herself or Spencer for the crimes they’d been accused of. Spencer wished she could undo everything, but it was too late—admitting she’d lied would get her into worse trouble. It was better to keep quiet. There was no way to trace what the cops had found back to her.

  Shortly after that, the cops let Spencer go with a warning. As she was leaving the holding room, two officers marched Kelsey through the hall, their meaty hands gripping her arm like she was in big, big trouble. Kelsey glanced at Spencer fearfully as she passed. What’s going on? her eyes said. What do they have on me? Spencer had shrugged like she had absolutely no clue, then walked into the night, her future intact.

  Her life went on. She took her APs and aced every single one. She returned to Rosewood Day at the top of her class. She got into Princeton early decision. As the weeks and months flew by, the nightmarish evening faded and she rested easy, knowing her secret was safe. Only Hanna knew the truth. No one else—not her parents, not the Princeton admissions board, not Kelsey—would ever find out.

  Until the following winter. When someone discovered everything.

  Chapter 1

  EVERY KILLER DESERVES A NIGHT OUT

  On a Wednesday evening in early March, Emily Fields lay on the carpet in the bedroom she used to share with her sister Carolyn. Swimming medals and a big poster of Michael Phelps hung on the walls. Her sister’s bed was littered with Emily’s warm-up jacket, tons of oversized T-shirts, and a pair of boyfriend jeans. Carolyn had left for Stanford in August, and Emily relished having a space all her own. Especially since she was spending almost all her time in her room these days.

  Emily rolled over and stared at her laptop. A Facebook page blinked on the screen. Tabitha Clark, RIP.

  She stared at Tabitha’s profile picture. There were the pink lips that had smiled so seductively at Emily in Jamaica. There were the green eyes that had narrowed at all of them on the hotel’s crow’s-nest deck. Now Tabitha was nothing but bones, her flesh and innards eaten away by fishes and pounded clean by the tides.

  We did that.

  Emily slammed down the lid of her computer, feeling the urge to throw up. A year ago, on spring break in Jamaica, she and her friends had sworn that they’d come face-to-face with the real Alison DiLaurentis, back from the dead and ready to kill them once and for all, just like she’d meant to do at her family’s house in the Poconos. After a series of bizarre encounters in which this new, enigmatic stranger had uttered secrets that only Ali had known, Aria had pushed her over the edge of the crow’s nest. The girl had fallen several stories to the sandy beach, and her body had disappeared almost instantly, presumably carried out to sea by the tide. When the four of them saw the newscast on TV two weeks ago that this very same girl’s remains had washed up on the shores of the resort, they thought the whole world would discover what they already knew: that Real Ali had survived the fire in the Poconos. But then, the bomb dropped: The girl Aria pushed wasn’t Real Ali at all—her name was Tabitha Clark, just as she’d told them. They’d killed an innocent person.

  As the newscast ended, Emily and her friends received a chilling note from an anonymous person known only as A, in the tradition of the two stalkers who’d tormented them before. This new A knew what they had done and was going to make them pay. Emily had been holding her breath ever since, waiting for A’s next move.

  The realization cascaded over Emily daily, startling her anew and making her feel horribly ashamed. Tabitha was dead because of her. A family was ruined because of her. It was all she could do to keep from calling the police and telling them what they had done. But that would ruin Aria, Hanna, and Spencer’s lives, too.

  Her phone bleated, and she reached for it on her pillow. ARIA MONTGOMERY, said the screen. “Hey,” Emily said when she picked up.

  “Hey,” Aria said on the other end. “You okay?”

  Emily shrugged. “You know.”

  “Yeah,” Aria agreed softly.

  They fell into a long silence. In the two weeks since a new A had emerged and Tabitha’s body had been found, Emily and Aria had begun calling each other every evening, just to check in. Mostly, they didn’t even talk. Sometimes, they watched TV together—shows like Hoarders or Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Last week, they’d both caught a rerun of Pretty Little Killer, the TV movie depicting Real Ali’s return and killing spree. Neither Emily nor her friends had seen the movie the night it originally aired—they’d been too shell-shocked from the revelation about Tabitha to change the channel from CNN. But Emily and Aria had watched the rerun quietly, gasping at the actresses who played their roles and squirming at the overdramatized moments where their doppelgangers found Ian Thomas’s body or ran from the fire in Spencer’s woods. When the movie hit its climax in the Poconos and the house exploded with Ali inside it, Emily shivered. The producers gave the show a definitive ending. They killed the villain and gave the girls their happily-ever-after. But they didn’t know that Emily and her friends were once again being haunted by A.

  As soon as they’d begun receiving notes from New A—on the anniversary of the horrible fire in the Poconos that had almost killed all of them—Emily was sure that Real Ali had survived the fire in the Poconos and the push off the balcony in Jamaica and was back for revenge. Her friends slowly began to believe that as well—until the news came out about Tabitha’s true identity. But even that didn’t rule out the possibility that Real Ali was still alive. She still could be New A and know everything.

  Emily knew what her old friends would say if she voiced such a theory: Get over it, Em. Ali’s gone. More than likely they’d reverted back to their old assumption that Ali had perished inside the burning house in the Poconos. But there was something all of them didn’t know: Emily had left the front door unlatched and ajar for Ali before the house exploded. She could have easily escaped.

  “Emily?” Mrs. Fields called out. “Can you come downstairs?”

  Emily sat up fast. “I have to go,” she told Aria. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

  She hung up the phone, crossed to the bedroom door, and looked over the railing. Her parents, still dressed in the matching gray sweat suits they wore for their evening power walks around the neighborhood, stood in the foyer. A tall, freckled girl with reddish-blond hair just like Emily’s was next to them, a bulging duffel over her shoulder that said UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA SWIMMING in big red letters.

  “Beth?” Emily squinted.

  Emily’s older sister, Beth, craned her neck up and spread her arms wide. “Ta-da!”

  Emily raced down the stairs. “What are you doing here?” she cried. Her sister rarely visited Rosewood. Her job as a teaching assistant at the University of Arizona, where she’d gone to college, kept her busy, and she was also assistant-coaching the U of A swim team, of which she’d been captain her senior year.

  Beth dropped the duffel to the hardwood floor. “I had a couple days off, and Southwest was running a special. I thought I’d surprise you.” She looked Emily up and down and made a face. “That’s an interesting outfit.”

  Emily stared down at herself. She was wearing a stained T-shirt from a swimming relay carnival and a pair of too-small Victoria’s Secret sweatpants with the word PINK written across the butt. The pants had been Ali’s—her Ali’s, the girl who was actually Courtney, whom Emily had confided in, giggled with, and adored in sixth and seventh grades. Even though the sweats were fraying at the hems and had long ago lost the string that cinched the waist, they’d become Emily’s go-to after-school uniform in the past two weeks. For s
ome reason, she felt that as long as she had them on, nothing bad would happen to her.

  “Dinner’s about ready.” Mrs. Fields turned on her heel toward the kitchen. “Come on, girls.”

  Everyone followed her down the hall. Comforting smells of tomato sauce and garlic swirled through the air. The kitchen table had been set for four, and Emily’s mother scuttled to the oven as the timer started to beep. Beth sat down next to Emily and took a long, slow sip of water from a Kermit the Frog tumbler that had been Beth’s special glass since she was little. She had the same freckles across her cheeks and strong swimmer’s body as Emily did, but her reddish-blondish hair was cut in a choppy bob below her ears, and she wore a small silver hoop earring at the top of her earlobe. Emily wondered if it had hurt to get it done. She also wondered what Mrs. Fields would say when she noticed it—she didn’t like her children looking “inappropriate,” piercing their noses or navels, dyeing their hair weird colors, or getting tattoos. But Beth was twenty-four; maybe she was beyond her mother’s jurisdiction.

  “So how are you?” Beth folded her hands on the table and looked at Emily. “It feels like ages since we’ve seen each other.”

  “You should come home more often,” Mrs. Fields chirped pointedly from the counter.

  Emily studied her chipped nails, most of which were bitten down to the quick. She couldn’t think of a single innocuous thing to tell Beth—everything in her life was tainted with strife.

  “I heard you spent the summer with Carolyn in Philly,” Beth prompted.

  “Uh, yeah,” Emily answered, balling up a chicken-print napkin. The summer was the last thing she wanted to talk about right now.

  “Yes, Emily’s wild summer in the city,” Mrs. Fields said in a half-touchy, half-joking voice as she placed a ceramic dish of lasagna on the table. “I don’t remember you taking a summer off from swimming, Beth.”

  “Well, it’s all water under the bridge.” Mr. Fields sat down at his regular seat and grabbed a piece of garlic bread from the basket. “Emily’s all set for next year.”

  “That’s right, I heard!” Beth punched Emily playfully on the shoulder. “A swim scholarship to UNC! Are you psyched?”

  Emily felt her family’s gaze and swallowed a huge lump in her throat. “Really psyched.”

  She knew she should be happy about the swim scholarship, but she’d lost a friend, Chloe Roland, because of it—Chloe had assumed Emily was hooking up with her well-connected father in order to score a spot on UNC’s squad, but the truth was that Mr. Roland had come on to her, and she’d done everything she could to avoid him. There was also a part of Emily that wondered if she’d even get to go to UNC next year. What if A told the police about what they did to Tabitha? Would she be in jail by the time freshman year started?

  Everyone worked their way through the lasagna, their forks scraping against the plates. Beth started talking about a tree-planting charity group she was working with in Arizona. Mr. Fields complimented his wife on the sautéed spinach. Mrs. Fields chattered about a new family she’d visited as part of the Rosewood Welcome Wagon committee. Emily smiled and nodded and asked her family questions, but she couldn’t bring herself to contribute much to the conversation. She couldn’t manage more than a few forkfuls of lasagna, either, even though it was one of her favorite dinners.

  After dessert, Beth jumped up and insisted she’d do the dishes. “Wanna help, Em?”

  Truthfully, Emily really wanted to go back to her room and burrow under her covers, but she didn’t want to be rude to a sister she rarely saw. “Sure.”

  Together they stood at the sink, both of them staring out at the dark cornfield that bordered the backyard. As the basin filled with suds and the smell of lemon Dawn wafted around the room, Emily cleared her throat. “So what are you going to do while you’re home?”

  Beth glanced over her shoulder to make sure she and Emily were alone. “I have all kinds of fun things planned, actually,” she whispered. “There’s a costume party tomorrow that’s supposed to be awesome.”

  “That sounds . . . nice.” Emily couldn’t conceal her surprise. The Beth she knew wasn’t into partying. From what she remembered, Beth was a lot like Carolyn—she never broke curfew, never skipped a swim practice or class. Her senior year at Rosewood Day, when Emily was in sixth grade, Beth and her prom date, Chaz, a wiry swimmer with white-blond hair, hung out at the Fieldses’ house after the dance instead of going to an after-party. Ali had been sleeping over that night, and they’d snuck down the stairs and spied on Beth and Chaz, hoping to catch them making out. But they’d been sitting on opposite sides of the couch, watching reruns of 24. “No offense, Em, but your sister’s really lame,” Ali had whispered.

  “Good, because you’re coming, too.” Beth splashed Emily with soapy water, getting some all over her U of A hoodie as well.

  Emily quickly shook her head. Going to a party right now sounded about as fun as walking over hot coals.

  Beth flipped the switch to the garbage disposal, and the water in the sink began to bubble. “What’s up with you? Mom said you’ve been mopey, but you seem catatonic. When I asked you about your swim scholarship, you looked like you were about to burst into tears. Did you just break up with a girlfriend?”

  A girlfriend. The chicken-silkscreened dish towel slipped from Emily’s grasp. It always jolted her when one of her prim-and-proper family members mentioned Emily’s sexual orientation. She knew they were trying to be understanding, but their chipper it’s-okay-to-be-gay attitude sometimes made Emily feel embarrassed.

  “I didn’t break up with anyone,” Emily mumbled.

  “Is Mom still being really hard on you?” Beth rolled her eyes. “Who cares if you took a summer off from swimming? That was months ago! I don’t know how you deal, living under this roof all by yourself.”

  Emily looked up. “I thought you liked Mom.”

  “I do, but I was dying to get out of here by the time senior year was over.” Beth wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Now, c’mon. What’s bugging you?”

  Emily slowly dried a dish, looking into Beth’s kind, patient face. She wished she could tell her sister the truth. About the pregnancy. About A. Even about Tabitha. But Beth would freak. And Emily had already alienated one sister.

  “I’ve been stressed,” she mumbled. “Senior year is harder than I thought it would be.”

  Beth pointed a fork at Emily. “That’s why you need to come with me to this party. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  Emily traced her fingers over a plate’s scalloped edge. She desperately wanted to say no, but something deep inside her made her pause. She missed having a sister to talk to—the last time she’d seen Carolyn, over Christmas break, Carolyn had made every effort to avoid being alone with Emily. She’d even slept on the couch in the den, saying she’d gotten used to falling asleep in front of the TV, but Emily knew it was really to avoid their shared bedroom. Beth’s attention and affection felt like a gift Emily shouldn’t refuse.

  “I guess I could go for a little bit,” she mumbled.

  Beth threw her arms around her. “I knew you’d be up for it.”

  “Up for what?”

  They both turned. Mrs. Fields stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. Beth stood up straighter. “Nothing, Mom.”

  Mrs. Fields padded back out of the room. Emily and her sister faced each other and burst into giggles. “We’re going to have so much fun,” Beth whispered.

  For a moment, Emily almost believed her.

  Chapter 2

  SPENCER HAS A DOPPELGANGER

  “Move it a little bit to the left.” Spencer Hastings’s mother, Veronica, stood in the foyer of the family’s grand house, one hand on her slim hip. Two professional picture-hangers were positioning a large painting of the Battle of Gettysburg under the curving double staircase. “Now it’s a little too high on the right. What do you think, Spence?”

  Spencer, who had just walked down the stairs, shrugged. “Tell me again why we
took down the portrait of Great-great-grandpa Hastings?”

  Mrs. Hastings gave Spencer a sharp look and then glanced worriedly at Nicholas Pennythistle, her fiancé, who had moved into the Hastingses’ house a week and a half ago. But Mr. Pennythistle, still clad in his flawlessly fitting suit and shiny wingtips from work, was busy tapping away on his BlackBerry.

  “Everyone needs to feel comfortable and welcome here, Spence,” Spencer’s mother answered quietly, pushing a lock of ash blond hair behind her ear. The four-carat diamond engagement ring Mr. Pennythistle had given her glinted under the overhead lights. “Besides, I thought Great-great-grandpa’s portrait scared you.”

  “It scared Melissa, not me,” Spencer mumbled. In truth, she liked the kooky family portrait—several sad-eyed spaniels perched on Great-great-grandpa Hastings’s lap. Great-great-grandpa was also the spitting image of Spencer’s father, who’d moved out of the Hastings abode after her parents’ divorce and bought a loft in downtown Philadelphia. It had been Mr. Pennythistle’s idea to swap out the portrait with the grisly Civil War tableau, surely wanting to expunge all evidence of Spencer’s father from his new house. But who wanted to walk through the front door and be greeted by a bunch of rearing, angry steeds and bloodied Confederates? Just looking at the battle scene stressed Spencer out.

  “Dinner is served!” a voice trilled from the kitchen.

  Melissa, Spencer’s older sister, popped her head into the hall. She’d offered to cook the family dinner tonight, and she wore a black apron that said GREEN GOURMET across the front and silver oven mitts on her hands. A thin black velvet headband held back her chin-length blond hair, a pearl necklace encircled her throat, and understated Chanel ballet flats adorned her feet. She looked like a younger, fresher version of Martha Stewart.

  Melissa caught Spencer’s eye. “I made your favorite, Spence. Lemon chicken with olives.”