Pretty Little Liars #9: Twisted Page 6

  “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  Mike crumpled up the Tokyo Boy bag in his hands. “If you do, you can forget about me coming to any more of your dad’s campaign events.”

  Hanna couldn’t believe it. Mike had never issued an ultimatum before. The whole time they’d been dating, he’d treated her like a queen. Now, it looked like someone had forgotten his place.

  “In that case . . .” Hanna swept into the aisle. “How about we just forget about everything?”

  The skin around Mike’s mouth slackened. Obviously he’d been bluffing. But before he could protest, Hanna was already out the door.

  She marched past the office, the nurse’s station, and Steam, the school’s upscale coffee bar, which always smelled like burnt coffee beans this time of day, finally stopping at the double doors to the Commons. It had a tiny alcove where you could make a cell phone call without teachers noticing. Hanna dug her phone out of her purse and dialed Patrick’s number.

  The phone rang three times, and a groggy voice answered. “Patrick?” Hanna said in her most professional-sounding voice. “This is Hanna Marin. We met at my father’s photo shoot on Saturday.”

  “Hanna!” Patrick suddenly sounded much more awake. “I’m so happy you called!”

  In less than a minute, everything was arranged: Hanna would meet Patrick in Philadelphia tomorrow after school, and he would take some test shots of her for his portfolio. He sounded perfectly respectable, speaking to her without even the slightest tinge of flirtatiousness. When they hung up, Hanna held the phone between her palms, her heart pounding hard. Take that, Mike. Patrick wasn’t a skeev. He was going to make Hanna a star.

  As she dropped her phone back into her bag, she saw a shadow flicker in the corner. Reflected in the glass door to the Commons was a blond girl. Ali.

  Hanna whipped around, half expecting to see Ali standing at a locker behind her, but it was only poster of Ali’s seventh-grade school picture on the wall. There were smaller pictures of Jenna Cavanaugh and Ian Thomas, and then a larger photo of Real Ali after her return as her dead twin. ALL IT TOOK WAS ONE LIT MATCH, said a headline under the images. Below it were details of the made-for-TV program, Pretty Little Killer.

  Unbelievable. Even Rosewood Day was in on the hype. Hanna ripped down the poster and balled it up in her hands.

  Suddenly, a teasing, familiar voice from Jamaica echoed in her ear: I feel like I’ve known you girls forever. But that’s impossible, right? Followed by an eerie giggle.

  “No,” Hanna whispered, purging the voice from her head. She hadn’t heard it in a long time—not since right after they’d returned from the trip. She wasn’t about to let the voice—or the guilt—invade her mind again.

  A trio of girls clad in North Face jackets and Ugg boots crossed the Commons. An English teacher flitted down the hall with an armful of books. Hanna tore up the photo of Ali until it was in a thousand satisfying pieces. She brushed off her hands into the wastebasket. There. Ali was gone.

  Just like the Real Ali. Of that, Hanna was absolutely sure.

  Chapter 7

  Touchy-feely

  On Monday evening, Emily pulled her family’s Volvo station wagon into the driveway of the Rolands’ house and yanked up the emergency brake. Her palms were sweating. She couldn’t believe she was about to go into the house where Jenna and Toby had lived.

  In the side yard was the stump of what used to be Toby’s old tree house, the site of the awful prank that had blinded Jenna. There was the big bay window through which Ali and the others spied on Jenna when they had nothing better to do. Ali was ruthless with Jenna, picking on her high-pitched voice, her pale skin, or how she brought tuna sandwiches to lunch and then had tuna breath for the rest of the day. But unbeknownst to them, Ali and Jenna shared a secret: Jenna knew that Ali had a twin. It was why, in the end, Real Ali had killed her.

  Suddenly, the red-painted oak door whipped open, and Chloe appeared. “Hey, Emily, come on in!”

  Emily stepped inside tentatively. The house smelled like apples, the walls had been painted deep reds and oranges, and bejeweled Indian tapestries hung on the big space under the stairs. The furniture was a mismatch of Stickley chairs, threadbare sixties-upholstered divans, and a coffee table made out of one large slab of curly maple. It was like walking into a funky junk shop.

  She followed Chloe into the back room, which had big floor-to-ceiling doors that opened out onto the patio. “Here’s Gracie,” Chloe said, pointing to the baby in a swing in the corner. “Gracie, remember your best friend Emily?”

  The baby made a cooing noise and went back to chewing on a rubber giraffe. Emily felt something rise up inside her chest, a feeling she wasn’t quite ready to face. She pushed it down again. “Hi, Grace. I like your giraffe.” She gave it a squeeze, and it squeaked.

  “Want to come up to my room for a sec?” Chloe called from the stairs. “I just have to get a couple of things for my interview. Grace will be fine in her swing for a minute.”

  “Uh, sure.” Emily walked through the living room. The grandfather clock in the foyer bonged seven. “Where are your parents?”

  Chloe dodged a bunch of boxes in the second floor hall. “Still at work. They’re both lawyers—always super busy. Oh, I told my dad about you, by the way. He said he’d help with the scholarship thing. He says UNC is still looking for good swimmers.”

  “That’s amazing.” Emily wanted to hug Chloe, but she didn’t know her well enough yet.

  Chloe pushed into her bedroom, which was decorated with posters of famous soccer players. A shirtless David Beckham kicked a ball. Mia Hamm was caught midstride on the field, her abs looking amazing. Chloe picked up a paddle brush from the bureau and ran it through her long hair. “You said you quit swimming this summer, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

  Emily was surprised by the directness of the question. She certainly couldn’t tell Chloe the truth. “Oh, I just had some stuff to deal with.”

  Chloe walked to the window and looked out. “I played soccer until last year, in case you couldn’t tell.” She gestured around at the posters. “But then, suddenly, I hated it. I couldn’t stand going on the field. My dad was, like, ‘what’s wrong with you? You’ve loved soccer since you were a little girl!’ But I couldn’t explain it. I just didn’t want to play anymore.”

  “How are your parents about it now?”

  “Better.” Chloe opened her closet. Clothes hung neatly on racks, and there were a bunch of old-school board games—Clue, Monopoly, Mousetrap—piled messily on the top shelf. “But it took a long time for them to get there. Some other stuff happened, though, and that put it in perspective.”

  She shut the closet door again. Suddenly, Emily noticed faded pencil writing on the wall to the left of the closet. Jenna. Lines on the wall demarcated height, date, and age.

  Emily sank back down to the bed. This must have been Jenna’s room once.

  Chloe saw what Emily was looking at and flinched. “Oh. I keep meaning to paint over that.”

  “So you . . . know?” Emily asked.

  Chloe pushed a piece of brown hair away from her mouth. “I argued with my parents about buying this place—I worried there would be a bad vibe here. But they convinced me it would be okay. This is, like, the best neighborhood or something, and they didn’t want to pass up the good deal on the house.” She pulled the red sweater over her head, then glanced at Emily. “You knew them, right? The kids that lived here?”

  “Uh-huh.” Emily lowered her eyes.

  “I figured.” Chloe bit her bottom lip. “I recognize you, actually. But I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.”

  Emily swung her feet, not knowing what to say. Of course Chloe recognized her. Everyone did.

  “Are you okay?” Chloe asked softly, sinking next to her on the bed. “That stuff with your old friend sounded awful.”

  Headlights on the street outside cast long shad
ows across the room. The scent of lavender and hair spray wafted through Emily’s nose. Was she okay? After she’d said her good-byes, after she’d understood that the Ali they’d reconciled with wasn’t the Ali she’d loved, she was as good as she could be. The Ali that had returned was dangerous, psychotic—it was a blessing that she was gone.

  But then Jamaica happened.

  Emily had been so excited to go. Spencer made the plans, picking The Cliffs resort in Negril and booking them massages, yoga classes, snorkeling trips, and sunset dinners in the caves. It was going to be the perfect escape, an ideal place to slough off all the horrible stuff that had happened. Emily had hoped the tropical air would cure the stomach flu that she hadn’t been able to kick, too.

  The first afternoon had been perfect—the warm water, the welcoming fish-fry lunch, the soothing sun. But then she’d seen that girl on the stairs of the roof deck that first night.

  When the girl stepped in the doorway, her blond hair blowing, her yellow halter dress fluttered around her legs. Emily’s vision tunneled. The girl was the only thing she saw. Her oval face, pointed nose, and slightly chunkier frame looked nothing like Ali’s, but Emily just . . . knew. In the back of her mind, she’d somehow known she and Ali would meet again, and here she was. Alive. Staring straight at her.

  She’d turned to her friends. “That’s Ali,” she whispered.

  They just stared at her. “What are you talking about?” Spencer said. “Ali’s dead, Em.”

  “She died in the fire, remember?” Aria urged. She watched Emily suspiciously, like she worried Emily might make a scene.

  “Did she?” Emily thought back to that night in the Poconos, guilt and anxiety rising inside of her. “What if she escaped? No one found her body.”

  Hanna turned to the girl in yellow. She had moved off the landing and was walking over to the bar. “Em, that looks nothing like her. Maybe you have a fever.”

  But Emily wasn’t going to give up that easily. She watched as the girl ordered a drink, shooting one of the bartenders an I’m-Ali-and-I’m-fabulous smile. How many times had Emily cherished that smile? Yearned for it? Her heart sped up even more. “If Ali survived the fire, she would’ve had reconstructive surgery for the burns,” she whispered. “That could be why she looks totally different. And that’s why she has those marks on her arms.”

  “Emily . . .” Aria clutched Emily’s hands. “You’re making something out of nothing. It’s not Ali. You have to get over her.”

  “I am over her!” Emily roared.

  Emily snapped back to the present, reaching into the pocket of her corduroys and feeling for the silky orange tassel. If anyone ever asked, if anyone recognized it, she would say she’d found it on the lawn of the DiLaurentises’ Poconos house after the explosion, even though it wasn’t the truth.

  Suddenly, Chloe leapt to her feet. “Mom! Dad! What are you doing here?”

  A young couple appeared in the hall. Chloe’s father, an athletic, dark-haired guy with smooth, flawless skin, wore a gray suit and polished leather shoes. Her mother, who had an angular brown bob and wore dark-framed hipster glasses, had on a tight pencil skirt, a shiny pink blouse, and pointy patent-leather heels. There was something edgy about them, like they went to buttoned-up jobs all day but attended indie bands and poetry readings at night. It was a nice change from the stuffy horsey types that overran Rosewood.

  “We live here, remember?” Chloe’s dad joked. Then he noticed Emily and smiled. “Hello . . . ?”

  “Hi, I’m Emily Fields.” Emily stepped forward and offered her hand.

  “The coat check girl, right?” Mrs. Roland asked, shaking Emily’s hand next. She wore a huge diamond ring Emily recognized from the party.

  “And the swimmer,” Mr. Roland added.

  “And the babysitter while I go to my Villanova interview,” Chloe told them. “She’s wonderful with Grace, I promise.”

  Mr. Roland leaned on the banister. “Actually, Chlo, I don’t think we really need a babysitter. We’re both in for the night.” He turned to Emily. “We’ll still pay you for your trouble, of course.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Emily said quickly. “It was nice to come over.” As soon as she said it, she realized it was true. She’d spent the past fall and winter holed up in her room without anyone to talk to. Worrying. Brooding. She felt like she was waking up from a long nap.

  “We insist!” Mrs. Roland cried. “Henry, go get your wallet.”

  Chloe’s mom retreated to the master bedroom, and Chloe and her dad started down the stairs. Emily followed them. “What lunch period do you have?” Chloe asked over her shoulder.

  “First on Tuesdays and Thursdays, second on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” Emily answered.

  “I have second lunch on Wednesdays and Fridays, too!” Chloe grabbed her coat from the closet. “Want to eat together? If you’re not busy, of course.”

  “I would love that,” Emily breathed. Lately, she’d been eating lunch off-campus—seniors were allowed to leave for the hour. But it was awfully lonely.

  They made a plan to meet in front of Steam on Wednesday. Then Chloe rushed off to her interview, and Emily faced Mr. Roland again. He had pulled out a sleek leather wallet. “Really. You don’t have to pay me.”

  Mr. Roland waved away her offer. “So Chloe told me about your swimming conundrum. You’re serious about competing at the college level?”

  “Of course.”

  He paused on her for a moment, studying her face. “Good. I have a lot of pull at UNC. If you give me your times, I can get in touch with the recruiter. I know they’re still looking for kids to fill out the team.”

  Emily pressed her hand to her chest. “Thank you so much.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” Mr. Roland handed her a twenty. His piercing blue eyes twinkled. “Is this enough?”

  Emily pushed it away. “That’s way too much.”

  “Please.” Mr. Roland placed the bill in her hand and closed her fist. Then, as he steered her toward the door, his hand snaked up her arm, slid down her shoulder, and rested on her hip.

  Emily stopped walking, her mouth falling open. She wanted to tell Mr. Roland to stop it, but the nerves around her lips felt paralyzed.

  Then Mr. Roland moved away and nonchalantly pulled out his BlackBerry. “Well, see you around, Emily. I’ll be in touch.” He spoke like nothing inappropriate just happened. All of a sudden, Emily wasn’t sure. Had it?

  She staggered out of the house, skidded down the driveway, and leaned against her car. The night was still and cold. The wind gusted, making the tree branches shake. Then, something shifted along at the border of the Hastingses’ house and the DiLaurentises’ old house. Emily shot up. Was that a person sneaking around? Who?

  Beep. Emily jumped. It was her cell phone, buried deep in her bag. She dug it out and looked at the screen. ONE NEW TEXT. Emily blinked in surprise. The sender was Spencer Hastings. She quickly pressed READ.

  Meet me in front of Ali’s mailbox. I have something for you.

  Chapter 8

  You’ve got mail!

  Aria sat cross-legged on the floor of her father’s den, listening to a podcast called Find Your Inner Zen she’d downloaded from Ella’s computer. “Envision your third eye,” a gravelly voiced man whispered in her ears. “Let your past blow away in the breeze. Be in the moment, now.”

  The past is blowing away in the breeze, Aria repeated silently, willing herself to believe it was true. After Jamaica, she’d listened to tons of relaxation recordings, but none of them did the trick. Maybe she didn’t have a third eye. Or maybe the past was just too heavy to blow away.

  “Damn it!” Her brother, Mike, said next to her, gripping the PlayStation controller. He was playing Gran Turismo, and every time he crashed his Lamborghini Murcielago into a chicane, he swore violently and beat the controller on the couch. That certainly wasn’t helping Aria find her third eye, either.

  “I hope you don’t drive like that in real life,” M
eredith, her father’s fiancée, murmured as she passed down the hall. Lola, her baby, was strapped to a BabyBjörn holder that wound around her arms and connected at her lower back. It looked like a torture device.

  “Shut up, both of you,” Mike snapped.

  “Got something on your mind, Speed Racer?” Aria asked.

  “No,” Mike said agitatedly. “I’m fine.”

  But Aria knew better—something was definitely up with him. For one thing, Mike had gotten a ride with her this morning instead of waiting for Hanna to pick him up. Then, on her walk from biology to photography, Aria noticed that the little couch in the lobby where Mike and Hanna snuggled between periods was glaringly unoccupied.

  When the game ended, Mike laid down his control paddle. “So you’ve met the Nordic goddess, right?”

  Aria glanced up at him warily. “Excuse me?”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Duh. Klaudia, which I’m pretty sure is Scandinavian for sex vixen.”

  “Scandinavian isn’t a language.” Aria groaned.

  Mike reached to the coffee table and took a big handful of Smartfood popcorn from the ceramic bowl. “You have to tell me everything about her. Take a picture of her in the gym showers . . .”

  Aria wound her iPod headphone around the device, trying not to overreact. “I don’t think she’d appreciate that. And anyway, no one showers after gym.”

  “They don’t?” Mike looked disappointed, and Aria stifled a laugh. Why did every guy have a secret fantasy of a bunch of butt-naked girls frolicking under the school’s communal shower spray? Like girls ever did that!

  “Well, whatever,” Mike said, undeterred. “Get invited to Noel’s for a sleepover and take pictures there. I bet Klaudia walks around the house naked twenty-four/seven. I heard Finns do that. They’re huge sex addicts, too—there’s nothing else to do there.”

  “Mike, ew.” Aria threw a piece of popcorn at him. “And what would Hanna think about your new little obsession?”

  Mike shrugged and didn’t answer.

  A-ha. “Did something happen with you and Hanna?” Aria pressed.