Aria shifted her weight, fiddling with the cuff of her hooded sweater. Wilden was speaking to them like he was a South Philly cop and they were meth dealers. But what had they done that was so wrong?
“This isn’t fair,” Emily protested. “She needs our help.”
Wilden raised his hands to the white popcorn ceiling in defeat. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing a tattoo of an eight-pointed star. Emily was glancing at the star too. From her narrowed eyes and wrinkled nose, Aria guessed she wasn’t a fan.
“I’m going to tell you something that’s supposed to be top secret,” Wilden said, lowering his voice. “The DNA results for the body the workers found in the hole are at the station. It’s a perfect match for Alison, girls. She’s dead. So do what I say, okay? I really am looking out for your best interest.”
At that, he flipped open his phone, strode out of the room, and slammed the door hard. The foam cups on the food tray wobbled precariously. Aria turned back to her friends. Spencer’s lips were pressed together fretfully. Hanna chewed anxiously on a thumbnail. Emily blinked her round, green eyes, stunned into speechlessness.
“So now what?” Aria whispered.
Emily whimpered, Spencer fiddled with her IV, and Hanna looked like she was going to keel over. All their perfectly crafted theories had gone up in smoke—literally. Maybe Wilden hadn’t set the fire—but Aria had seen someone out there in the woods. Which unfortunately meant only one thing.
Whoever had lit that match was still out there. Whoever had tried to kill them was still on the loose, maybe waiting for a chance to try it again.
Chapter 3
If Only Someone had Scammed Spencer Years Ago . . .
As the dim, midwinter Sunday sun disappeared over the horizon, Spencer stood in her family’s backyard, surveying the fire’s destruction. Her mother stood next to her; her eye makeup was smudged, her foundation blotchy, and her hair limp—she hadn’t gotten her daily blowout from Uri, her hairdresser, this morning. Spencer’s dad was there too, for once without his Bluetooth headset fastened to his ear. His mouth wobbled slightly, as if he was trying to hold in a sob.
Everything around them was ruined. The towering, old-growth trees were blackened and battered, and a stinky gray haze hung over the treetops. The family’s windmill was now not much more than a carcass, the blades charred, the latticework splintered and crumbled. The Hastingses’ lawn was crisscrossed with tire treads from the emergency vehicles that had rushed to the fire. Cigarette butts, empty Starbucks cups, and even a drained can of beer were strewn across the grass, remnants of the rubberneckers who had swarmed the scene and lingered long after Spencer and the others had been taken to the ER.
But the worst, most heartbreaking result of the fire was what it had done to the family’s barn apartment, which had been standing since 1756. Half the structure was still intact, though the wood siding, once cherry red, was now a charred, toxic gray. Most of the roof was missing, all of the leaded glass in the windows had blown out, and the front door was a pile of ash. Spencer could see straight through the empty shell into the barn’s great room. There was a huge puddle of water on the Brazilian cherrywood floor, left over from the gallons of water the firemen had pumped into the barn. The four-poster bed, plush leather couch, and mahogany coffee table were ruined. So was the desk where Spencer, Emily, and Hanna had gathered just the night before, IMing Ian about who really killed Ali.
Only, it looked like Jason and Wilden weren’t Ali’s murderers. Which meant Spencer was back to knowing absolutely nothing.
She turned away from the barn, her eyes tearing up from the gas fumes. Closer to the house was the spot where she and her friends had collapsed on the lawn after running from the flames. Like the rest of the yard, it was littered with trash and soot, and the grass was scrubby and dead. There was nothing special about it at all, no magical indication that Ali had been there. Then again, Ali hadn’t been there—they’d hallucinated her. It had been nothing more than a side effect of inhaling too much smoke. Workers had found her decomposed body in the DiLaurentises’ old backyard months ago.
“I’m so sorry,” Spencer whispered as a piece of red roofing dislodged itself from the barn and tumbled to the ground with a thud.
Slowly, Mrs. Hastings reached out and grabbed Spencer’s hand. Mr. Hastings touched her shoulder. Before Spencer knew it, both her parents were wrapping their arms around her, engulfing her in a shaking, blubbering hug. “I don’t know what we would have done if something had happened to you,” Mrs. Hastings cried.
“When we saw the fire, and then when we heard you might be hurt . . .” Mr. Hastings trailed off.
“None of this matters,” Mrs. Hastings went on, her voice thick with sobs. “All of this could’ve burned down. At least we still have you.”
Spencer clung to her parents, her breath catching in her bruised throat.
In the past twenty-four hours, her parents had been beyond wonderful to her. They’d sat by her hospital bed all night, hyper-vigilantly watching Spencer’s chest rise and fall with every ragged breath. They’d bugged the nurses about getting Spencer water as soon as she wanted it, pain pills as soon as she needed them, and warmer blankets when she felt cold. When the doctor discharged her this afternoon, they’d taken her to the Creamery, her favorite ice cream parlor in Old Hollis, and bought her a double scoop of maple chip. It was a big change—for years, they’d treated her like the unwanted kid they begrudgingly let live in their home. And when she’d recently come clean about plagiarizing her award-winning Golden Orchid essay from her perfect sister, Melissa, they’d basically excommunicated her.