Enraged, Spencer grabbed his wrist. “Do you have anything to say?”
“Spencer,” Mr. Hastings said in an even voice, wrenching his hand away. The spicy smell of red wine filled Spencer’s nose. “You’re being dramatic. We’ve been talking about turning in your car for a long time, remember? You don’t need a car of your own.”
“But how am I supposed to get around?” Spencer wailed.
Mrs. Hastings kept chopping the carrots into smaller and smaller bits. The knife made a gnawing sound against the cutting board. “If you want to buy a new car, do what plenty of other kids your age do.” She brushed the carrots into the pot. “Get a job.”
“A job?” Spencer sputtered. Her parents had never made her work before. She thought about the people at Rosewood Day who had jobs. They worked at the Gap at the King James. At Auntie Anne’s pretzels. At Wawa, making sandwiches.
“Or borrow our car,” Mrs. Hastings said. “Or I hear there’s a wonderful new invention that takes you places the same as a car does.” She laid the knife on the cutting board. “It’s called the bus.”
Spencer gaped at both of them, her ears ringing. Then, to her surprise, a peaceful feeling settled over her. She had her answer. Her parents truly didn’t love her. If they did, they wouldn’t be trying to take away everything from her.
“Fine,” she said tersely, whirling around. “It’s not like I’ll be here much longer, anyway.” As she strode out of the kitchen, she heard her father’s glass clink against the granite countertop. “Spencer,” Mr. Hastings called. But it was too little, too late.
Spencer ran upstairs to her bedroom. Usually, after her parents dissed her, tears would stream down her face, and she’d fling herself on the bed, wondering what she’d done wrong. But not this time. She marched over to her desk and picked up the expandable file Olivia had been lugging around yesterday. Taking a deep breath, she peered inside. Just as Olivia said, it was filled with papers about the apartment Olivia and her husband had purchased, things like dimensions of rooms, floor and cabinet materials, and the amenities in the building—a pet groomer, an indoor Olympic-length swimming pool, and an Elizabeth Arden salon. Clipped to the front of the file was a business card. Michael Hutchins, Real Estate.
Michael, our Realtor, could find you something really special, Olivia had said at dinner.
Spencer looked around the room, assessing its contents. All the furniture, from her four-poster bed to her antique writing desk to the mahogany armoire and Chippendale vanity table, was hers. She’d inherited it from her great-aunt Millicent—apparently she didn’t have the same animosity toward adopted children. Of course she’d have to take her clothes, shoes, bags, and collection of books, too. It would probably fit in a U-Haul. She could even drive the thing herself if she had to.
Her phone buzzed, and Spencer flinched. She eagerly reached for it, hoping Andrew was calling to make up, but when she saw it was a text from Caller Unknown, her heart plummeted to the floor.
Dear Little Miss Spencer-Whatever-Your-Name-Is,
Shouldn’t you know by now what happens if you don’t listen to me? I’ll use small words this time, so even you’ll understand. Either give Long-Lost Mommy a rest and keep searching for what really happened…or pay my price. How does disappearing forever sound?—A
17
JUST LIKE OLD TIMES…
Later that night, after swimming practice ended, Emily slid into her favorite booth at Applebee’s, the one with the old-fashioned tandem bicycle suspended from the ceiling and the colorful license plates on the walls. Her sister Carolyn, Gemma Curran, and Lanie Iler—two other Rosewood Day swimmers—piled in beside her. The dining room smelled like salty french fries and burgers, and an old Beatles song was playing loudly on the stereo. When Emily opened the menu, she was pleased to see that mozzarella sticks and hot wings were still featured appetizers. The southwest chicken salad still came with spicy ranch dressing. If Emily closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was last year at this time, when she used to come to Applebee’s every Thursday night—back when nothing bad had happened yet.
“Coach Lauren had to be smoking crack when she wrote that set of five hundreds,” Gemma whined, flipping through the laminated menu.
“Seriously,” Carolyn echoed, shrugging out of her Rosewood Day Swim Team jacket. “I can barely lift my arms!”
Emily laughed with the others, then saw a flash of blond hair out of the corner of her eyes. She stiffened and glanced toward the bar, which was packed with people watching an Eagles game on the flat-screen TVs. There was a blond guy at the very end of the bar, talking animatedly to his date. Emily’s heart slowed down. For a second, she’d thought he was Jason DiLaurentis.
Emily couldn’t get Jason off her mind. She hated that Aria had brushed off her warnings about him in the courtyard on Tuesday, making excuses for his anger. And she really didn’t know what to make of the strange photo A had sent her yesterday, the one of Ali, Naomi, and Jenna all together, presumably friends. If Jenna was Ali’s friend, Ali might’ve opened up to her truthfully, right? She might’ve told Jenna a deep, dark secret about her brother, having no idea that Jenna was going to reveal something similar.
A few months ago, before the cops arrested Ian for Ali’s murder, Emily had seen an interview with Jason DiLaurentis on TV. Well, it was sort of an interview—a reporter had tracked him down at Yale, asking him what he thought of the investigation into his sister’s murder, and he’d waved them away, saying he didn’t want to talk about it. He stayed away from his family as much as possible, he said—they were too messed up. But what if Jason was the one who was messed up? The summer between sixth and seventh grade, Emily had been over at Ali’s house when the DiLaurentises were packing up to go to their mountain house in the Poconos. While the whole family industriously carried suitcases to the car, Jason slumped on the recliner in the den, flipping through the TV channels. When Emily asked Ali why Jason wasn’t helping, Ali just shrugged. “He’s in one of his Elliott Smith moods.” She rolled her eyes. “They should put him in the mental ward, where he belongs.”