Carolyn yanked the cordless phone from its cradle on the desk. Her fingers shook as she dialed 911. “Help!” she said, when someone answered. “My mother is having a heart attack!”
Emily knelt by her mother helplessly. She took her mom’s pulse. It was racing fast. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” she said tearfully, staring into her mother’s widened, desperate eyes.
Mr. Fields appeared from behind, pushed a baby aspirin into his wife’s mouth, and made her swallow. Seconds later, sirens blared from up the street. EMTs burst through the front door in a swirl of boots and reflective jackets. They elbowed Emily and the others out of the way and started to attach Mrs. Fields to monitors and an oxygen tank. Two strong men lifted her onto a stretcher, and before Emily knew it, they were carrying her out the door.
Everyone ran outside to where the ambulance was parked. A couple of neighbors stood on the adjacent lawns to gawk. “Only two can ride with us,” the head EMT was saying to Mr. Fields. “The other can follow along behind.”
Mr. Fields looked at Emily. “Stay here,” he growled at her. “Come on, Carolyn.”
Emily shrank back into the house like he’d kicked her. Her father had never spoken to her like that in her life.
She pushed the door shut and leaned against the back of it, breathing hard. In the kitchen, everything was still as they’d left it. Forks protruded out of bowls. The coffeemaker beeped loudly, indicating that the pot had finished brewing. In the living room, the Hummel cabinet lay ruined on the floor, broken Hummels scattered across the carpet. Emily walked over to them and knelt down. Her mom’s favorite milkmaid had a severed head. There was a single arm holding a water bucket by the vent. The little ballerinas were now legless, the tranquil-looking cows were hornless and without tails.
She wanted to find Ali and strangle her with all her might. But all she could do now was look at the shattered remains of her mother’s prized possessions and cry.
21
CLOSED DOORS
A week later, Spencer crept through the woods behind her house to meet Aria, Hanna, and Emily. It was almost too dark to see anything, so she used her cell-phone light to guide the way. Thick roots jutted up from the earth. A fallen log lay across her path. Before long, she came upon the old wishing well, a stone relic left behind from farmers in the 1700s. Moss grew over the sides. Some of the rock had crumbled away. Spencer peered over the edge and threw a pebble down the hole. There was an empty-sounding echo as it plopped into shallow water.
Then she turned and gazed down the hill at her house. Most of the lights were off. The basement window she’d snuck out of was ajar. The spot where her family’s barn apartment had been before Ali burned it down still had no grass. She counted seven news vehicles at the curb, staking out the house. They’d been parked there around the clock since their arrest.
“Hey.” Emily’s head appeared over the other side of the hill. It was a chilly night, and she had on a black hoodie and jeans. She glanced at the well and made a small whimper. “Do you think she really used to come here?”
“I guess.” Spencer dared touch the slimy curved stones. The frame was half-rotted, there was a fuzz of moss on the top and sides, and a rusted metal bucket lay a few feet away. “The top of this hill gave her the perfect vantage of my house.”
Emily clucked her tongue. A twig snapped, and they turned. Aria and Hanna trudged up the hill. When they got to the top, the girls just stood under the moon, staring at one another.
“Well?” Spencer finally blurted. “We’d better start talking. There will be a witch hunt for me soon.” There had been too much turmoil for the four of them to meet after they’d returned home, but finally, tonight, Hanna had sent a text that they needed to talk. But it was true about the witch hunt: The reporters camped outside Spencer’s house were so nosy and clever that they’d figure out she was missing before Spencer’s family did. In the week since the arrest, her mother had barely gotten out of bed, and Mr. Pennythistle had tiptoed around her nervously, as if afraid she was going to freak out and do something crazy. “I’m not actually a murderer!” Spencer had cried out to him once, but it hadn’t done any good.
“Yeah, I shouldn’t stay out long, either,” Aria mumbled. “But it is good to see you guys.”
“Seriously.” Emily looked at them, her eyes wet. “It’s awful, though, isn’t it?”
Hanna nodded despondently. “I’m going to lose my mind if I have to sit in my house another day.” That was part of their punishment: Until they were extradited to Jamaica, they were to remain in their homes full-time. Rosewood Day hadn’t expelled them, but the school didn’t allow the girls to come back, either.
“Everyone ready for finals?” Aria said in a not-so-joking voice. They were allowed to take their exams at home.
“I don’t see the point,” Spencer said sadly. She looked at the others. “I got a letter from Princeton this week. They don’t want an alleged murderer in their freshman class.”
Emily winced. “I heard from NC State, too.” She made a thumbs-down sign.
“Yep, I’m out of FIT,” Hanna mumbled. She squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her shoulders. “This isn’t fair, guys. That’s what I keep thinking. This. Just. Isn’t. Fair.”
“Tell me about it,” Aria murmured, shuffling her feet through the dry leaves. “But it’s not like we can do anything.”
Hanna pounded a fist into an open palm. “Yes, we can. I say we look for Ali again ourselves.”