Her mind scattered in several different directions. She sure did know someone at the Ulster Correctional Facility. Only, that person wasn’t speaking to her . . . was she? Emily squinted at the handwriting on the envelope. Could it be? Emily had a postcard upstairs of the Bermuda international airport with the same loopy Es and spiky Fs. We’ll find each other someday, the love of her life, Jordan Richards, had written.
This couldn’t be from Jordan. There was no way.
Jordan’s presence swooped back to her. Her long, dark hair and soulful green eyes. Her bow-shaped lips, the way she smelled like tangerines, the eyelet dress she’d worn when Emily first saw her on the deck of the cruise ship. It’d felt so good to kiss her and hold her, and it had been so easy to talk to Jordan about her life, her worries, her fears. But Jordan had a checkered past: She had been wanted by the FBI because she stole cars, boats, and even an airplane in her former, bad-girl life. A had called the police on Jordan, but Jordan escaped the FBI at the last moment. Emily had reached out to Jordan afterward, desperate to maintain a connection, but somehow her Twitter messages had tipped the police off to Jordan’s hiding place in Florida. The worst part was that Jordan blamed her arrest on Emily’s foolishness. But Emily knew that A—Ali—had tipped the cops off to those Twitter messages. Ali was behind everything.
Emily had never loved someone like she loved Jordan, not even the girl she’d thought of as Ali. But because of Jordan’s troubling past, Emily hadn’t shared their relationship with many people. Her friends knew, obviously, and so did Iris, Ali’s old roommate from The Preserve. But there was no way she could tell her parents. They wouldn’t understand.
Her fingers shook as she opened the envelope. It’s a joke, she told herself. Someone else had contacted her, pretending to be Jordan. Maybe it was from Ali herself.
She unfolded a piece of lined paper.
Dear Emily,
I’m writing to you from prison. It’s taken me a while to work through my feelings, but I’ve watched your horrible ordeal on TV. My lawyer has told me about it, too. I feel awful for what you’ve gone through. I also understand why you were so desperate to leave and why you reached out even when you knew it was dangerous. I forgive you for those tweets, and I know now you never meant to hurt me. I would love for you to visit me here if you’re up for it. We have a lot to talk about. But I understand if you’ve moved on.
Much love,
Jordan
Emily read the letter three times before it sank in. It was Jordan’s handwriting. Jordan’s tone. Jordan’s everything. Emily’s nose felt peppery and hot. She fumbled for her cell phone in her pocket and dialed the number Jordan had written at the bottom of the piece of paper for the Ulster Correctional Facility. When a tired-sounding woman answered, Emily spoke in a shaky, quiet voice so her mother wouldn’t hear. “I’d like to schedule a visit.”
She gave Jordan’s name. Sure enough, Jordan had listed Emily as one of the guests she was willing to see. Emily was so overcome with emotion she almost couldn’t speak. It was incredible: Ten minutes ago, there hadn’t even been a possibility that Jordan would ever be back in her life. This felt like the fulfillment she needed.
She hung up, her smile stretching from ear to ear. But when her phone beeped again, she flinched, alarmed by the timing. ONE NEW TEXT MESSAGE, said the screen.
Emily’s heart started to pound. Was Ali lurking outside the window, listening? But the backyard was silent and still. Nothing moved in the cornfields; there wasn’t even traffic on the road.
She looked at her phone. ALERT FROM VERIZON WIRELESS: YOU HAVE USED 90% OF YOUR MOBILE DATA FOR THE MONTH.
Emily set her phone down and ran her hands down the length of her face. Maybe, just maybe, the others were right: Ali wasn’t watching.
And maybe Emily should try to live her life, like they’d said. She should try to be free.
5
A STAR IS BORN
“You have amazing skin.”
Hanna closed her eyes as a makeup artist named Trixie brushed blush over her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“And really pretty eyes, too,” Trixie added, her breath smelling like violet candies.
Hanna giggled. “Do you work on commission or something?”
“Nah.” There was a sharp click sound as Trixie closed a compact. “I just tell it like it is.”
It was Wednesday, and Hanna was sitting in the very same soundstage in West Rosewood where she and her father had filmed the drunk-driving PSA. Now the place was bustling with different interior sets, a million lights, cables, and microphones, and tons of writers, directors, and crew members. It was day three of Burn It Down production, and they were filming a scene where Spencer and Aria received a creepy postcard from New A about Jamaica. Hanna’s big scene as Naomi Zeigler was coming up soon.
The director, a portly man named Hank Ross who was apparently the guy in the movie business—Hanna hadn’t seen his latest conspiracy thriller, but she was definitely going to check it out—stood. “Cut!” he yelled. “I think we got it!”
Hanna watched on a video screen as Amanda, the girl who played Spencer, and Bridget, the girl who played Aria, relaxed. Hanna agreed with the director: The girls had nailed it, perfectly embodying her best friends’ personalities and mannerisms and expertly conveying how scary the situation with Ali had been without resorting to camp or melodrama. All the actresses in this movie were awesome, in fact. The woman who played Spencer’s mom had even won a Golden Globe.
Then Hank noticed Hanna behind him and gave her a big smile. “Doing okay?”