Unless…someone was scaring Melissa into silence. Spencer had called her sister repeatedly over the past forty-eight hours, eager to ask Melissa if there was anything more that she knew. But Melissa hadn’t returned any of her calls.
The door that connected two train cars clattered open, and a woman in a navy business suit teetered down the aisle, carrying a cardboard container of burnt-smelling coffees and bottled waters. Spencer leaned her head against the window, watching the bare trees and weathered telephone poles slide by. And what did Ian mean when he wrote they hated me? Did it have anything to do with the picture message Emily had forwarded to Spencer about a half hour ago, the old photo of Ali, a partially concealed Naomi Zeigler, and Jenna Cavanaugh in Ali’s yard? A’s accompanying text implied that the photo was a clue…but to what? Okay, it was weird that Ali was hanging out with dorky Jenna Cavanaugh, but Jenna herself had told Aria that she and Ali were covert friends. And what did that have to do with Ian?
Only one incident of anyone hating Ian stuck out in Spencer’s mind. When Spencer and the others sneaked into Ali’s backyard to steal her Time Capsule piece, Jason DiLaurentis had stormed out of the house and frozen in the middle of the yard, glaring at Melissa and Ian, who were sitting at the edge of the hot tub. They’d just started dating—Spencer remembered how Melissa had agonized over choosing the perfect first-day-of-school bag and shoes a few days before, eager to impress her new boyfriend. After Ali ditched them and Spencer returned home, she heard the new couple whispering in the living room. “He’ll get over it,” Melissa was saying. “It’s not him I’m worried about,” Ian answered. Then he mumbled something Spencer didn’t catch.
Were they talking about Jason…or someone else? From what Spencer understood, Jason and Melissa weren’t really friends. They had some classes together—sometimes when Melissa was sick, Spencer had to go next door and collect her class assignments from Jason—but Jason was never part of the big clique that rented stretch Hummer limos for school formals or spent spring breaks in Cannes, Cabo San Lucas, or Martha’s Vineyard. Jason ran around with some of the other soccer boys—they were famous for making up the “Not It” game that Ali, Spencer, and the others played—but Ali’s brother also seemed to need a lot of personal space. Half the time, Jason didn’t even hang out with his family. The Hastings and the DiLaurentis families were both members of the Rosewood Country Club, and both faithfully attended the weekly Sunday jazz brunches…except for Jason, who faithfully didn’t. Spencer recalled Ali mentioning that their parents let Jason go to their lake house in the Pocono Mountains alone on the weekends; was that where he was all those Sundays? Whatever the answer, the DiLaurentises didn’t even seem to mind he was gone, going on about their brunch happily, savoring their eggs Benedict, drinking mimosas, and doting on Ali. It was almost as if they only had one child, not two.
Spencer shut her eyes, listening as the train blew its whistle. She was so tired of thinking about this. Maybe the farther away she got from Rosewood, the less everything would matter.
After a while, the train slowed. “Penn Station,” the conductor called. Spencer grabbed her purse and stood, her knees quivering. This was really happening. She followed the line of passengers down the narrow aisle, onto the platform, and up the escalator to the main hall.
The station smelled like soft pretzels, beer, and perfume. An anonymous announcer blared over the PA system that the train to Boston had pulled into gate 14 East. A crush of people ran for 14 East at the same time, nearly knocking Spencer over. She looked around fretfully. How could she find Olivia in this crowd? How would Olivia know it was her? What on earth were they going to say to each other?
Somewhere in the throng of people, Spencer heard a familiar, high-pitched giggle. And then she considered the worst of the possibilities: What if Olivia didn’t exist? What if this was some cruel joke orchestrated by A?
“Spencer?” cried a voice.
Spencer whirled around. A young blond woman in a gray J. Crew cashmere sweater and brown riding boots was walking toward her. She carried a petite snakeskin clutch and a large accordion folder stuffed with papers.
When Spencer raised her hand, the woman grinned. Spencer’s heart stopped. The woman had the same broad smile Spencer saw whenever she looked in a mirror.
“I’m Olivia,” the woman announced, taking Spencer’s hands. Even her fingers were similar to Spencer’s, small and slender. And Olivia had her same green eyes and a familiar clear, mid-range voice. “I knew it was you as soon as you stepped off the train. I just knew it.”
Spencer’s eyes filled with giddy tears. Just like that, her fears began to melt away. Something about this seemed so…right.
“Come on.” Olivia pulled Spencer toward one of the exits, skirting a bunch of NYPD officers and a drug-sniffing dog. “I have lots of things planned for us.”
Spencer beamed. It suddenly felt like her life was beginning.
It was an unusually warm January night, and the streets teemed with people. They took a cab to the West Village, where Olivia had just moved, and stopped into Diane von Furstenberg, one of Olivia’s—and Spencer’s—favorite stores. As they sifted through the racks, Spencer learned that Olivia was an art director at a new magazine dedicated to New York City nightlife. She was born and raised in New York City, and had gone to school at NYU.
“I’m going to apply to NYU,” Spencer chirped. Admittedly, it was her safety school—or it had been, back when she was first in the class.