Hanna actually felt physical pain shoot through her. Align myself. It sounded so clinical. “Are you serious?”
His gaze was on the protesters out the window again. “I’ve given you chance upon chance. I’ve tried to be there for you. But right now, it’s campaign suicide. You’re on your own.”
“You’re worried about the campaign?” Hanna squeaked. She took a few steps toward him. “Dad, please listen to me. I didn’t kill anyone. The video the news has been showing of me beating that girl is fake. You know me—I wouldn’t do that. I’m not that kind of person.”
She continued to walk toward him, her arms outstretched, but Mr. Marin backed away from her, a guarded look on his face. Then the phone at the front desk rang, and Mr. Marin motioned to the receptionist to pick it up. She murmured something, then looked at him. “Tom,” she said, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s that reporter from the Sentinel.”
Mr. Marin looked pained. “I’ll take it in my office.” He glowered at Hanna. “You have to go now.”
He turned and plodded down the hall, not even saying good-bye. Hanna stood very still for a moment, suddenly feeling like every molecule in her body was about to implode and turn her to vapor. A protester blew a whistle. Someone else cheered. Hanna squeezed her eyes shut and tried to cry, but she felt too stunned.
She felt Mike’s fingers curl around hers. “Come on,” he whispered, leading her back to the elevator. She said nothing as he pushed the CALL button, and they rode to the first floor. She said nothing as Mike pulled her out of the elevator and across the empty atrium to the front door. Only when she saw the protesters marching in a circle right in front of the doors did she stop and give Mike a nervous look. “He told us to go out the back way.”
“Do you actually give a shit what he wants you to do?” Mike’s cheeks were red. He gripped her hand harder. “I could kill him, Hanna. You don’t owe him anything.”
Hanna’s jaw wobbled. Mike was totally, absolutely right.
Tears flowed down her cheeks as she stepped onto the curb. As the protesters surrounded her once more, she let out a single, piercing sob. Mike grabbed her immediately and hugged her tight, pulling her through the throng. And over all the shouting, one thought was clean and crisp in Hanna’s mind. She didn’t owe her dad anything. She’d thought it had sucked, all those years, when her father had chosen Kate over her.
But nothing compared to him choosing the whole state of Pennsylvania.
23
NOT ON THE LIST
That same Friday, Emily stood in the lobby of the Rosewood Memorial Hospital. Doctors swept past, looking busy and important. Emily walked over to the directory on the wall and found the cardiac unit, where her mother was recovering after her emergency heart surgery. Not that her dad or her sister had given her an update on her daily progress—they’d barely been home. Emily had had to find out through a nebulous network of doctors and nurses, who’d all seemed shocked that she couldn’t just get the information from her family. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to leave the house, but what could the police say if they caught her here? That she wasn’t allowed to see her ailing mother?
Emily was trying to put a good face on it. It sucked that her bail cost so much money that they had to do without their cars—and a few other things, which various rough-looking dudes had removed from the house over the past two weeks, including an antique baby carriage of Emily’s grandmother’s and a baby Jesus statue Emily had helped her mom recover from a group of vandals last year. But Emily was still part of the family, for goodness’ sake. Besides, she’d finally gotten hold of Mr. Goddard this morning, and he’d told her that after the trial, no matter the verdict, the bail money would be returned to her parents. They’d get their car back. Everyone would be able to return to college. They’d be okay.
Her heart thudded hard as she boarded the elevator and rode it to the third floor. As soon as she stepped onto the ward, she spied her dad and Carolyn slumped in chairs in the waiting room, asleep. There was an open Sports Illustrated magazine in her dad’s lap. Carolyn’s coat was half on, half off. Emily smiled faintly at them, noticing how sweet and friendly they looked in sleep. It gave her hope. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.
A newscast played on the TV overhead: Arraignment in One Week, read a headline. Emily’s school picture appeared on the screen, followed by Spencer’s, Aria’s, and Hanna’s. Then Tabitha’s father, whom Emily had come face-to-face with quite a few times in the past few months, popped on the screen. “I’m deeply saddened by the outcome of this investigation,” the man said, his eyes lowered. “I want justice for these girls, but it still won’t bring my daughter back.”
Emily flinched. Poor Mr. Clark. She imagined him lying in bed at night, alone in his big house, thinking of that horrible video on the beach again and again. Ali wasn’t just hurting the four of them by releasing that video. There were so many other victims, too. So many lives ruined. Iris flashed in Emily’s mind again. Would she be another victim? And if she was, would Emily somehow get blamed for it? She’d been blamed for everything else, after all.
The news switched to a commercial about a new Ford pickup. Emily checked on her father and sister, but they hadn’t stirred. Spinning around, she marched over to the nurse’s station. A tired-looking woman in balloon-printed scrubs drank from a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Can you tell me which room Pamela Fields is in?” Emily asked. “I’m her daughter.”