Spencer hefted her cream-colored Mulberry tote onto the brown leather couch, pulled the CD of her dad’s computer from the front pocket, sat down at Melissa’s desk, and slid the CD into the drive of her sister’s laptop.
The disc took a while to load, and Spencer clicked on her e-mail while she waited. At the top of her in-box was a message from Olivia Caldwell. Her potential mother.
Spencer raised her hand to her mouth and opened the message. It was a link to a prepaid ticket on Amtrak’s Acela line, the bullet train to New York City. Spencer, I’m thrilled you’ve agreed to meet me! said the accompanying note. Can you come to New York tomorrow night? We have so much to talk about. Much love, Olivia.
She peered out the window to the main house, not sure what to do. The lights in the kitchen were still on, and her mother passed from the fridge to the table, saying something to Melissa. Despite how pissed her mom had been just moments before, there was now a loving, comforting smile on her mother’s face. When was the last time she had smiled like that at Spencer?
Tears welled in Spencer’s eyes. She’d been trying so hard for her parents for so long…for what? She turned back to the computer. The Acela ticket was for 4 P.M. tomorrow. That sounds great, she wrote back. See you then. She hit send.
Almost immediately, a little bloop sound filled the room. Spencer closed her in-box and checked to see if the CD had finished loading, but the program was still running. Then, she noticed a flashing IM window. Instant Messenger must have automatically logged on to Melissa’s account when Spencer had turned on the computer. Hey Mel, a new message said. You there?
Spencer was ready to type, Sorry, not Melissa, when a second message came in. It’s me. Ian.
Her stomach flipped. Right. Whoever wrote this didn’t have a very good sense of humor.
Another bloop. You there?
Spencer looked at the unfamiliar IM screen name. USCMidfielderRoxx. Ian had gone to USC, and he played midfield in soccer. But that didn’t mean anything. Right?
The bloops kept coming. I’m sorry I left without telling you…but they hated me. You know that. They found out that I knew. That’s why I had to run. Spencer’s hands began to shake. Someone was messing with her, just like they’d messed with Ian’s parents. Ian didn’t run. He was dead.
But why was there no trace of his remains in the woods? Why hadn’t the cops found a single thing?
Spencer waved her fingers over the keys. Prove it’s really you, she typed, not bothering to explain that it wasn’t Melissa. She shut her eyes, trying to think of something personal about Ian. Something that Melissa and Spencer would know. Something that wasn’t in Ali’s diary, either. The press had done an exposé of everything Ali had written in her diary about Ian, like how they’d gotten together after a soccer game the fall of seventh grade, how Ian had crammed for the SATs using a Ritalin pill a friend had given him, and how he hadn’t been sure if he really deserved being named the Rosewood Day varsity soccer team’s MVP—Ali’s brother, Jason, was far more talented. Whoever was pretending to be Ian would know all that. If only she could think of something super private.
Then the perfect thing came to her. Something she was pretty sure that even Ali didn’t know. What’s your real middle name? she typed.
There was a pause. Spencer leaned back, waiting. When Melissa was a senior in high school, she’d gotten drunk on eggnog on Christmas Day and confessed that Ian’s parents wanted him to be a girl. When Mrs. Thomas popped out a boy, they decided his middle name would be the girl’s name they’d chosen for him. Ian never, ever used it—in old Rosewood Day yearbooks Spencer had leafed through when she was yearbook editor, he hadn’t even listed a middle initial.
There was a bloop. Elizabeth, said the message.
Spencer blinked hard. This wasn’t possible.
The light in the kitchen in the main house snapped off, enveloping the backyard in darkness. A car slid down the cul-de-sac, schussing loudly over the wet pavement. Then Spencer began to hear noises. A sigh. A snort. A giggle. She jumped up and pressed her forehead to the cold, thick windowpane. The porch was bare. There were no shadows by the pool, the hot tub, or the deck. There was no one creeping around the windmill, although the newly painted word LIAR seemed to glow.
Her Sidekick buzzed. Spencer jumped, her heart hammering. She glanced at the computer again. Ian had signed off Instant Messenger.
One new text message. With shaking hands, Spencer pressed Read.
Dear Spence, When I told you that he had to go, I didn’t mean he had to die. Still, there’s something really sketchy in this case…and it’s up to you to figure out what it is. So better get searching, or the next one “gone” is you. Au revoir!—A
10
SOMETHING’S SKETCHY, INDEED
The following morning, Emily cinched the hood of her pale blue anorak tight and ran across the icy blacktop to the Rosewood Day Elementary School swings, her friends’ special meeting spot. For the first time all week, the long driveway was free of news vans. Since everyone now thought Emily and the others had made up seeing Ian’s body in the woods, the press had no reason to interview students.
Across the courtyard, Emily’s friends were gathered around Spencer, staring at a sheet of computer paper and her cell phone. Last night, Spencer had called Emily to tell her that Ian had IM’ed her and that A had sent a text. Afterward, Emily hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. So A was back. And Ian…maybe…wasn’t dead.
Something hard hit her shoulder, and Emily whirled around, her heart leaping to her throat. It was only an elementary-school boy pushing past her, running for the ball field. She placed one hand in the other, trying to stop it from trembling. Her hands had been shaking like crazy all morning.