Emily’s throat felt dry as she walked up the block and took a right at Hyacinth. More pretty stucco houses lined the block, all painted in cheerful pastels. Emily gazed at the sprayed-on numbers on the curb—8879 . . . 8881 . . . 8893 . . . and suddenly, there was 8901, just ahead. It was a cheerful pink house with white shutters and a white fence. A sprinkler sprayed the green grass in the yard, and tropical plants grew in a few flower beds near the windows. On the porch was the same statue of a droopy-eyed dog that the old lady who lived three doors down from Emily back in Rosewood had on her porch. The driveway was empty of cars.
Emily crouched behind a giant palm. Was this right? The place seemed like a retirement community. What if Ali had planted that envelope in the trash can for Emily to find? What if she was watching from somewhere, laughing her head off?
Emily thought about her friends’ faces on the news again. Prison. It was unthinkable. They were going through hell, and she wasn’t by their side. What if this was a trap and she was caught? She’d go to jail and probably get double the sentence for faking her death. Her friends would hate her. Her family would hate her. Everyone would hate her. They’d think she was even more nuts than before. Maybe she would end up at The Preserve.
But then the front door opened.
Emily crouched down. A figure stepped down the front path and crossed the lawn toward the driveway. It was a woman, her hips swinging and her hair bouncing, and she didn’t look nearly as old as the other residents in the neighborhood. Her hair was still a fresh, buttery blond. Her body was trim and young, as if she did lots of yoga. She was wearing a sundress, blue espadrilles, and a sparkling diamond pendant at her throat.
Emily frowned. That diamond pendant looked familiar—really familiar. Just then, she got the strangest memory: It was seventh grade, and she and the other girls were dressing up Ali to go to the high school’s Valentine’s Dance—she’d been asked by a cute freshman boy named Tegan. Emily had thrown herself into helping Ali get ready, fussing over her hair and makeup, oohing and ahhing over the teardrop-shaped diamond necklace Ali got to wear that night, on loan from her mother.
Day. All of a sudden, Emily knew why that name was significant. Before the DiLaurentises moved to Rosewood, they’d been known as the Day-DiLaurentises. But when they’d moved away because of their daughter’s violent outbursts, wanting to change over and start fresh, they’d dropped the first half of their name.
Could it be?
The woman strode toward the back of the house, that familiar diamond pendant thumping at her throat. As she opened the gate, the sun struck her face, illuminating her fine-boned features, from her slanted nose to her big blue eyes to her bow-shaped lips. Emily’s mouth dropped open. A scream froze in her throat.
It was Ali’s mother.
Emily was so stunned that her knees gave way. But suddenly, it made so much sense. This was why Mrs. D hadn’t attended the trial. This was why she hadn’t commented to the press. Maybe the press didn’t know where she was. And Ali might have been insane, and Mrs. D might have fully understood that, but Ali was still her daughter. And as her mother, Mrs. D probably felt an obligation to protect her. It was something Emily could easily empathize with: She had a daughter, too, little Violet. It hadn’t been that long ago that A had hinted that Violet might be in danger. Emily had gone crazy with worry, desperate to keep Violet safe.
Maybe that’s what Mrs. D was doing, too. Not quite thinking things through, Emily shot across the street and onto the property. She unlatched the white metal gate at the front and crept through the side yard, her heart pounding. It was cooler in the backyard, the area shady with palm trees, and a water feature bubbled noisily near the sliding door.
Mrs. D stood with her back to Emily. A white curl of cigarette smoke snaked above her head, and a glowing red cigarette tip extended from between her fingers. She looked so vulnerable, standing there, having no clue Emily was behind her. Emily felt vulnerable, too. She still had no idea what she was going to say or do.
Taking a deep breath, she covertly pressed the CALL screen of the burner cell. Fingers trembling, she dialed 911. Someone answered immediately. “What’s your emergency?” a woman’s voice blared.
Mrs. D’s head shot up, and she turned at the noise. When she spied Emily, her eyes narrowed, then widened.
“H-hi,” Emily heard herself say, her voice so small.
“What’s your emergency?” the voice said again. Emily just hoped the dispatcher wouldn’t hang up before certain things were said. Didn’t they record 911 calls?
The color drained from Mrs. D’s face. Up close, she looked older than Emily remembered. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin seemed drawn against her face, her body too gaunt.
“What are you doing here?” Mrs. D finally hissed, backing up. “Didn’t you . . . drown?”
She sounded scared, Emily realized. Maybe trapped. “I’m looking for Alison,” Emily said in the steadiest voice she could manage, her gaze on Ali’s mom. “I think you’ve seen her.”
Mrs. D looked at Emily crazily. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
“I think you know where she is,” Emily went on. “I understand what you’re doing, Mrs. DiLaurentis. I have a daughter, too. If I thought she was in danger, I’d do anything to help her. But you need to do what’s right. Your daughter has hurt a lot of people and ruined a lot of lives.”
Mrs. D dropped the cigarette to the pavers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spat. “My daughter is dead. You killed her.”