What if that was because the visitor was Ali?
Emily’s thoughts started to whirl. Was it possible? Maybe, somehow, Ali knew this girl. And maybe she’d met with her that morning to plan how Robin was going to kill Jordan. Maybe Hanna and the others were right: Ali hadn’t broken into prison and killed Jordan. She’d had someone else do it—and then, presumably, she’d broken that someone out of jail.
Robin was an Ali Cat.
She placed her palms on the table and let out a scream. The sound echoed satisfyingly through the room . . . but it wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. Suddenly, she felt antsy, as if her clothes were made of hair. A harsh and dangerous feeling awoke inside her, something she barely recognized but immediately embraced. That was it. The final straw. She stood up and grabbed her keys. It was time to actually do something.
She was going to that house. She was going to find Ali, no matter what it took.
An hour later, Emily sat in her car, her fingers squeezing and squeezing the leather steering wheel like a stress ball. Trees, hills, open space, and occasional barns swept past, but she didn’t pause to look at the scenery. And her phone, which sat on the passenger seat, kept buzzing.
It was her friends, checking in on her. Maybe they’d seen the Jordan/Robin news on TV, too. But Emily couldn’t answer their calls—there was no way she could tell them she was driving to Ashland alone. They were already worried about her. Something about seeing Robin’s face—and knowing she’d been right next to Emily the day Jordan died, and that Emily could have stopped her, maybe—changed something in her. Now all she could imagine was seizing Ali and squeezing her hard around the neck. Harder, then harder still, until she couldn’t breathe. She pictured Ali’s eyes bulging wide, her mouth gasping for air she couldn’t breathe. Ali finally turning to Emily and begging her to stop.
And would Emily stop? No, she wouldn’t. At least, not in her fantasies. She wasn’t ashamed of feeling that way, either. She felt like she’d passed some point of no return, and couldn’t go back.
She turned at the red mailbox marked Maxwell and climbed the steep hill up the driveway. The main house stood tall and proud, a FOR SALE sign now in the front yard. Emily parked the car under one of the big birch trees, got out, and grabbed the metal baseball bat from the backseat, the only weapon-like item she could find in her house. Then she looked around. Leaves swished playfully on the branches. Somewhere, a dog barked. It was so quiet up here. So peaceful.
And so horrible.
Emily hurried around to the pool house. Adrenaline coursed vigorously in her blood as she marched up to the windows. She cupped her hands and peered inside. The room was dark. But Ali had to be here. Emily would accept nothing less.
Emily’s brain snapped and fizzed. When she kicked the door open, it felt like it wasn’t her body doing it, but someone else’s—someone strong and brave. The door swung open into the empty room, and she stepped inside, nostrils flaring, bat poised. The room still smelled sickeningly of vanilla soap. Emily never wanted to smell vanilla again.
“Ali?” Emily bellowed, prowling around the room like a cat. She pictured the sound registering on the surveillance cameras. But it didn’t matter: It was her shift now. No one else was watching. “Ali? Where are you?” she growled.
She stopped and listened. Nothing. But all she could picture was Ali hiding in a closet, holding her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Maybe Robin was with her—maybe they were laughing together. Emily poked her head into the second room on the first floor. That same empty bureau, that maddeningly dusty floor. She pulled open a closet door, then slammed it hard. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
She stormed up the stairs and glared into the two small rooms. Dark. Filled with spiderwebs. She could practically hear Ali’s cackles.
“Ali!” Emily screamed, spinning around, a pulse throbbing hard and fast in her brain. “I know you’re near! And I know what you did to Jordan! I know it was you!”
But she received no answer. The same as always—Ali was always ripping something away from them, and there was never, ever a way to truly get it back. How much had Emily lost since this ordeal began? How much had Ali ruined? How could one person continue to get away with this? How could such a sick, black, despicable soul continue to persevere?
It felt like there was a huge buildup of pressure inside her. She let out a keening wail and stumbled down the stairs, her vision blurred. First she darted toward the drawer in the makeshift kitchen, pulling it out. It felt satisfying to throw it to the floor and hit it with the baseball bat. She pulled at the cabinet next, grunting as she ripped it off its flimsy hinges.
She used the bat to smash a vase in the kitchen. Then she hacked away at the wooden railing. She yanked the only set of curtains off the walls, tossed them on the ground, and stomped on them.
There wasn’t much to trash, but she destroyed all she could. When she was finished, she stood in the center of the room, breathing hard. Sweat ran down her face. There was dirt under her fingernails and blood from the broken glass on her arms and legs. She could feel splinters in her hands. She looked around, still sensing Ali was close. “How did you do it?” she whispered to the ceiling. “Why did you do this to me?”
It was a stupid question to ask, because Emily already knew the answer. Sobs rippled through her body. “I will never love you!” she shrieked to the empty room. “Never, ever! And I will kill you! You will pay for this!”
The words rang out through the room, too true but also too raw. The bat slipped from her sweaty fingers. All at once, Emily felt horrified by what she’d said. It was what she wanted . . . and she knew she was capable. But she couldn’t believe she’d turned into this person.