“Spencer?” Andrew Campbell stepped out of the shadows, a glass of wine in his hand. Snappy little shivers danced up and down Spencer’s back. All day, she’d considered texting Andrew to see if he was coming tonight. Not that she was covertly pining for him or anything.
Andrew noticed Spencer’s flushed face and his eyebrows knitted together. “What’s wrong?”
Spencer’s chin trembled as she glanced back toward the main ballroom. Her parents were gone. She couldn’t find Melissa, either. “My whole family hates me,” Spencer blurted out.
“Come on,” Andrew said, taking her arm. He led her into the media room, flipped on the little Tiffany lamp on the end table, and pointed to the couch. “Sit. Breathe.”
Spencer plopped down. Andrew sat too. She hadn’t been in this room since Tuesday afternoon, when she and her friends had watched Ian’s bail hearing on TV. To the right of the TV was a line of Spencer’s and Melissa’s school pictures, from their very first year in Rosewood Day pre-K up to Melissa’s formal senior portrait. Spencer stared at her picture from this year. It had been taken right before school started, before the Ali and A mess started. Her hair was combed perfectly off her face, and her navy blazer had been ironed to perfection. The self-satisfied gloat on her face said, I’m Spencer Hastings, and I’m the best.
Ha, Spencer thought bitterly. How quickly things could change.
Next to the school pictures was the big Eiffel Tower statue. The old photo they’d found the other day, the one of Ali the day Time Capsule was announced, was still propped up against it. Spencer narrowed her eyes at Ali. The Time Capsule flyer dangled from Ali’s fingers, and her mouth was open so wide that Spencer could see her small, square, white molars. At what moment had this photo been taken? Had Ali just announced that Jason was going to tell her where one of the pieces was? Had the idea to steal Ali’s piece crept yet into Spencer’s mind? Had Ian already approached Ali and told her that he was going to kill her? Ali’s wide blue eyes seemed to be staring straight at Spencer, and Spencer could almost hear Ali’s clear, chirpy little voice now. Boo-hoo, Ali would tease, if she were still alive. Your parents hate you!
Spencer shuddered and turned away. It was eerie having Ali in here, gawking at her.
“What’s going on?” Andrew asked, chewing concernedly on his bottom lip. “What did your parents do?”
Spencer flicked the fringe detail on the hem of her dress. “They won’t even look at me,” she said, feeling numb. “It’s like I’m dead to them.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Andrew said. He took a sip of his wine and then put it down on the end table. “How could your parents hate you? I’m sure they’re really proud of you.”
Spencer quickly slid a coaster under the glass, not caring if she seemed OCD. “They’re not. I’m an embarrassment to them, an out-of-fashion decoration. Like one of my mom’s oil paintings in the basement. That’s it.”
Andrew cocked his head. “Are you talking about the…the Golden Orchid thing? I mean, maybe your parents are upset about that, but I’m sure they’re upset for you.”
Spencer bit back a sob, and something hard and sharp pressed down on her chest. “They knew I plagiarized the paper for the Golden Orchid,” she burst out, before she could control herself. “But they told me not to say anything. It would have been easier if I’d just lied and accepted it and lived with the guilt for the rest of my life, than for them to look like idiots.”
The leather couch groaned as Andrew sat back, aghast. He stared at Spencer for five long rotations of the overhead ceiling fan. “You’re kidding.”
Spencer shook her head. It felt like a betrayal to say it out loud. Her parents hadn’t exactly told her not to tell anyone that they’d known about the Golden Orchid mess, but she was pretty sure they thought she never would.
“And you were the one who admitted you plagiarized the paper, even though they told you not to?” Andrew sounded out. Spencer nodded. “Wow.” Andrew ran his hand through his hair. “You did the right thing, Spencer. I hope you know that.”
Spencer started crying, hard—like a hand inside her head had just turned on a faucet. “I was just so stressed,” she blubbered. “I didn’t understand econ at all. I thought it wouldn’t matter, taking that one little paper from Melissa. I thought no one would know. I just wanted to get an A.” Her throat caught, and she buried her face in her hands.
“It’s okay.” Andrew tentatively patted Spencer’s back. “I totally get it.”
But Spencer couldn’t stop sobbing. She bent over, the tears running into her nose, her eyes puffing shut, her throat closing and her chest heaving. Everything seemed so bleak. Her academic life was ruined. It was her fault that Ali’s murderer had slipped away. Her family had disowned her. Ian was right—she did have a pathetic little life.
“Shhh,” Andrew whispered, making small circles on her back. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s okay.”
Suddenly, a noise came from the inside of Spencer’s silver clutch bag, which was sitting on the coffee table. Spencer raised her head. It was her phone.
She blinked through her tears. Ian?
Her eyes flickered toward the window. There was a single, yellow spotlight on their backyard, illuminating the big deck. Beyond that, everything was pitch-black. She strained to listen for anyone scuttling around in the bushes by the window, but there was nothing.