“So I drove by the burn clinic, and it was swarming with cops,” Mike said. “That means they’re probably looking for Ali clues, don’t you think?”
“Probably,” Hanna said. The cops would surely find traces of Ali in no time. There was lots of DNA evidence—hairs, skin follicles, drawn blood—from her time as Kyla. “Are there tons of news vans?”
“Yeah, but I heard a report. The cops gave a statement that Kyla’s killer was an escaped mental patient. They aren’t breathing a word about Ali.”
“That’s good,” Hanna said, relieved.
Then Mike cleared his throat awkwardly. The phone line crackled. “So . . . are you feeling okay?”
Hanna giggled. “You mean, like, am I sore?” She and Mike had been able to steal some time last night together when her mom wasn’t home. They hadn’t left Hanna’s bed for two hours.
“No . . .” Mike cleared his throat. “I was worried after your text.”
“What text?” Hanna hadn’t texted all day.
“Uh, the one that said you were having a really bad morning and you wanted to kill yourself?”
“What?” Hanna hit the brakes hard, and the Prius made a squealing sound. Her bodyguard almost rammed her bumper. “You got a note that said that from my phone?”
“Uh, yeah. At about eight forty-five.”
Hanna’s mind spun. She was in English then. Not thinking about killing herself.
She pulled over and yanked up the clutch. The Suburban pulled over, too. “Mike, I didn’t write that. Someone must have gotten hold of my phone and sent you a text just to mess with us.”
Static crackled on the other end. “The thing is, Hanna, it’s not the first time I’ve heard about you guys wanting to kill yourselves. The rumors are everywhere. And you do have a lot going on. You’d tell me if something was bothering you that much, right?”
Hanna rested her forehead against the steering wheel. The interior of the car suddenly smelled overwhelmingly like coffee. “I’m not even dignifying that with a response. You need to forward that note to Agent Fuji.”
She gave him Fuji’s information, then hung up. As she pulled back into traffic, her head was pounding like it had the time she and Mona Vanderwaal, her old-best-friend-turned-lunatic, had drank too much Patrón Silver. Why would A send Mike a fake suicide note?
But when she pulled into the driveway of her father’s new house, her worries took a sharp turn. Something had occurred to her last night, after everything at the police station went down. Ali and Helper A weren’t going to sit idly by once they found out the girls had involved the cops. Even if all their charges had been dropped, police could do nothing to prevent the A-team from spilling their secrets to the public. And if A released Hanna’s car-crash photos, her dad’s future would be over.
Hanna had to do damage control, and fast. She parked under the weeping willow and stared at her dad’s new house, mustering up the courage.
Legs shaking, she pushed through the door into the house. She glanced at herself in the big mirror in the powder room just off the pantry. Her auburn hair was bouncy and full, her eyes were bright, and her makeup was perfect. At least she looked fabulous.
Her dad and Isabel, his new wife, were in the kitchen. Isabel, whose skin had paled considerably in the past few months—she used to fake-tan nonstop, but Hanna suspected campaign advisers had told her she looked too orange on camera—was loading dishes into the dishwasher. Mr. Marin was at the island, flipping through pictures. He looked up at her and smiled broadly. “Hanna!” he cried, as if he hadn’t seen her in months. “How are you?”
Hanna gave him a suspicious look. It wasn’t every day that her dad was so happy to see her. Don’t tell him, a voice in her head goaded.
But she had to . . . before A did.
She walked over to him. “Dad, I need to talk to you.”
He sat back on the stool, looking suddenly scared. Isabel paused at the sink. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Hanna glared at her. “I said I wanted to talk to my dad, not you.”
Mr. Marin glanced at Isabel uncertainly, then back at Hanna. “Whatever you have to tell me you can say in front of Isabel.”
Hanna squeezed her eyes shut. Seconds later, there were footsteps in the hall, and Hanna’s stepsister, Kate, appeared, her hair wet from the shower. Perfect. The whole family was here to listen to her latest screwup.
“Hanna?” Mr. Marin encouraged gently. “What’s up?”
Hanna bit the inside of her cheek. Say it. “I’ve been keeping something from you,” she said quietly. “Something I did last June.”
She couldn’t look at her dad as the words spilled out of her mouth. She could literally feel his confusion leading to shock leading to disappointment. Isabel made little gasps. At one point, she even grabbed her chest like she was having a heart attack.
“And you’re telling me this . . . why?” her father said, when Hanna was finished.
Hanna paused. She couldn’t tell him about A. “Well, a few people know about it. And if they wanted to ruin your campaign, they could tell on me.” She swallowed hard. “I thought I was doing the right thing at the time—Madison was so drunk. If she drove herself home, she would have definitely gotten hurt—and hurt someone else, too. And, I mean, someone swerved into my lane—I didn’t know what to do. But when I crashed, I freaked. And I didn’t stand and take the rap because I wanted to protect you and your campaign. I know now that was wrong, though.”