Then a flicker on the surveillance screen caught her eye. Spencer’s heart lurched, and she snatched the laptop from the seat and brought it closer to her face, gazing hard at the black-and-white images on the screen. The camera pointed at the porch was picking up some movement. Something big shifted in the corner. It seemed like a person.
Her heart started to pound. She checked the other screens; no one was inside the house, and there was nothing going on in the yard. Then the figure moved again to stand by a window, providing Spencer with a clear view. It was a person, dressed in a dark coat with the hood pulled tight. By their height and build, it seemed like a guy.
Dominick. Hadn’t he been wearing a dark jacket at the panel interview? This would prove it for sure—he was stalking her.
She jammed the key into the ignition and gunned the car into reverse, almost taking out a pickup truck on its way to the gas pumps. If Dominick was an Ali Cat, maybe he could lead her straight to Ali.
She cut the lights of the car and pulled up the driveway five minutes later. There were no cars parked by the house; Dominick must have parked somewhere else. She glanced at the surveillance screens again. He still stood at the window. Was he looking for something? Waiting for someone?
Spencer slipped out of the car as quietly as she could. The wet grass seeped through her canvas shoes as she trudged through the grass, but she paid it no mind. The pool house came into view. Dominick still stood by the window. Spencer halted in her tracks, unsure what to do next. Dominick froze, too, maybe sensing that someone was nearby. Spencer stepped as quietly as she could behind a big juniper bush. She tried not to breathe.
Beep.
It was her phone. She fumbled for it in her pocket to shut it up, then gazed at the screen. It was an email for her bullying site, from a completely unrelated contributor. If only she’d remembered to silence the ringer.
Leaves crunched. Twigs snapped. She looked up. Suddenly, Dominick was slipping into the woods, as if he’d heard the phone.
Spencer took off after him as silently as she could, smacking stray branches out of the way. It was almost too dark to see where she was going. By the time she reached the top of the hill to see where he’d gone, the woods were empty.
She stood still and silent, listening for footsteps, but there were none. The only sound was the wind whistling through the branches. Spencer wheeled around, wondering if she’d gotten turned around in the woods, but all she saw were trees and stumps and bushes. Nothing else. He had just . . . disappeared.
Disappointed, she tramped back to the shack, thorns hitting her the whole way. The sky was completely dark, the only lights dim flickers from the road far below. Spencer fumbled in the darkness until she found the window Dominick had been standing at, then reached into her pocket for her phone and shone it on the sill. It was filthy with cobwebs and dirt. Something made of glass had broken on the sill, too; when she picked it up, a bubble of blood appeared on her thumb.
She shone the phone light along the jamb, but she still didn’t see anything. She aimed the beam into the room, but it was empty, too. Maybe she would never know what Dominick had been doing there.
But the bigger deal was that he’d been doing something at all.
24
SET ’EM FREE, THEN KILL ’EM OFF
The following morning, Emily sat in her Volvo in the Rosewood Day parking lot before chemistry class, on a conference call with Spencer and the others. Mostly, Spencer was doing all the talking.
“There was someone at the pool house,” Spencer said hurriedly after describing her heckler. “I ran up to catch him.”
“But how could you follow him through the woods?” Hanna shrieked. “You could have gotten really hurt, Spence! You should have called the police!”
Emily murmured in agreement, but she felt guilty—Spencer was getting the lecture she also deserved. Her friends didn’t know about her freak-out the other day at the pool house, and hopefully, they never would. They could, technically: They could rewind the footage themselves and see everything she’d done. Even thinking about it made Emily feel prickly and embarrassed. All those things she’d trashed. All those awful things she’d said.
“Look, I know it was crazy, but I wasn’t thinking straight,” Spencer said. “And anyway, I’m fine. But the guy got away.” She sighed dramatically. “Which sucks, because I’m almost positive it was Dominick. I don’t know who else it could have been.”
“So who is he?” Aria asked.
Spencer briefly described the guy who’d heckled her online and at her panel in New York. “It’s part of the reason why I ran up there—I thought it was him, but the camera image wasn’t clear, and he ran off too quickly for me to get a better look. I even rewound the surveillance tape, but I still couldn’t see his face.”
“So how can we find this Dominick guy?” Hanna asked, her voice high and thin. “Do you know where he lives?”
“All I have is the screen name he used to torment me on my blog. He says he’s from Philly, but who knows if that’s true?”
“What do you think he was looking for?” Aria asked.
“Well, when I watched the surveillance tape again, he seemed to be just standing there,” Spencer said. “So I don’t know. Maybe he was waiting for Ali. Why else would he be there unless she’d been there?”
“So where does this leave us?” Aria asked. “If the Ali Cats are real, and Ali trusts a few of them, does that mean that they’re all after us?”
Emily shut her eyes. For the past few days, after her foolish trashing of the pool house, she’d lived in fear that Ali and Robin Cook would break into her house while she was sleeping and stand over her, laughing, before they smothered her to death. She’d barely slept a wink. “How can we fight something when we don’t even know what the something is?” she said weakly.
“Let’s not panic,” Spencer said firmly. “Maybe I can find Dominick and ask him questions. Or maybe we could report him to the police, saying he was trespassing on the Maxwells’ property.”
“And what if the cops ask us how we knew Dominick was there?” Hanna reminded her. “We’ll have to tell them about our cameras. And then we’ll be in trouble for trespassing, too.”
Everyone was silent for a while. Then Aria sighed heavily. “We’re all meeting at the Rosewood Rallies charity thing tonight?”
Spencer groaned. “I don’t want to.”
“I don’t, either,” Emily said.
“Please come, Em,” Aria said quickly—so quickly, in fact, that it annoyed Emily a little. She’d noticed how tweaky and twitchy her friends had been around her lately. They were probably worried about her—she knew she’d been acting a little unhinged. But on some level, she wished they’d just leave her alone.
After that, there wasn’t really much more to say, and everyone hung up. Emily gripped the steering wheel for a while, a hot feeling welling in her stomach. Several girls crossed the parking lot on the way to class, their ponytails bouncing. For all she knew, they could be Ali Cats, too. The whole school could be.
Then she looked at the box that sat next to her on the passenger seat. It was Jordan’s possessions from the prison—she still hadn’t looked at it, but she also didn’t like the idea of leaving it at home, where her parents could snoop. One of the flaps stuck up slightly, daring her to peek inside. But she feared the pain she’d feel when she did. Chances were, she’d recognize some of the items in that box: a pair of Jordan’s earrings, her driver’s license, the shoes she’d been wearing when they caught her. Other people might think that reuniting with these items might make her feel closer to Jordan, but Emily disagreed. They would only make her feel even more disconnected, so much further away.
When her phone rang again, she let out a yelp. An unfamiliar number popped up on the screen. Emily answered with a nervous hello.
“Miss Fields,” said a gruff voice. “My name is Mark Rhodes, and I’m a detective from the Ulster County PD. Agent Fuji from the Philly FBI branch gave
me your number. I’m investigating Jordan Richards’s death.”
Emily sat up straighter. “Investigating?” she repeated. “Robin Cook was charged with that, wasn’t she?”
The detective cleared his throat. “Well, there have been some rumors around prison that Miss Cook was put up to it somehow, or even framed. And this morning, her body was found in the woods outside a shopping mall in New Jersey.”
Emily blinked hard. “She’s dead?”
“We suspect there was more at play here than we first thought. You visited Miss Richards the morning she was killed. Did she say anything to you? Mention she wasn’t getting along with someone?”
“No . . .” Emily’s mind whirled.
“And you don’t know of anyone on the outside who might have, say, tracked Miss Cook down, in revenge for killing Jordan?”
Emily shot up. She hated what the detective was getting at. “Absolutely not,” she almost shouted. “Jordan—or her people—had nothing to do with Robin’s death. Alison DiLaurentis killed her.”
There was a long pause. “Excuse me?” the detective finally said.
Emily knew she couldn’t stop now. “Ali arranged for Robin to kill Jordan—they met the morning of Jordan’s death. Then she broke Robin out of jail and killed her to close the loop.” Her heart thrummed hard. It totally made sense. This was how Ali was going to keep her Ali Cats from talking. She murdered them.
There was static on the line. “I’m sorry. You’re talking about Alison DiLaurentis, the girl who killed her sister and died in that fire?”
“Yes, her,” Emily practically shrieked. “She’s not dead, okay? She’s out there. I saw her.”
“Did Jordan mention Ms. DiLaurentis when you two talked?” the detective asked. “Had she seen her? And I don’t understand—you’re saying that Ms. DiLaurentis was in the Ulster women’s prison?” There were sounds of rustling papers.
Emily made a fist. He so didn’t get it. “Of course Jordan didn’t mention her—Jordan never saw her. And no, Alison wasn’t in the prison. Robin was her contact on the inside, and Ali broke her out somehow. She killed Cook once she was on the outside and they were alone because she couldn’t have her telling anyone what happened.”
“So Ms. Cook was Ms. DiLaurentis’s killing machine.”
Now the detective’s tone wasn’t inquisitive—it was mocking. Emily felt a jolt of frustration. “I know how it sounds,” she said. “But look into it, okay? Look at the log of Ms. Cook’s visitors—I know for a fact that Ali saw her on Tuesday. Check the surveillance cameras. Dust for fingerprints. Do something. Because right now I feel totally unprotected. Just like Jordan was. Do you know I haven’t even seen Agent Fuji or anyone else at the school where I was attacked, trying to figure out who did do it if it wasn’t Alison?”
“Is that so?” The agent sounded worried.
Emily hadn’t even thought of it when she said it, but now she stared at the double doors to the natatorium, realizing it was true. She’d been here every day for chemistry class since her attack, and she hadn’t seen anyone dusting for prints or asking questions once.
And then it hit her. Maybe Fuji didn’t believe her about that, either. Maybe she thought Emily had made up the attack for attention.
A growl rose from the back of Emily’s throat. She tossed her phone into the backseat even though the detective hadn’t hung up. They didn’t believe her. No one believed her. Meanwhile, there could be hundreds of Ali Cats looming around them, watching, knowing everything. And the police didn’t care. Not one bit. No one cared about her anymore—not in the way Jordan had.
And she was pretty sure no one ever would again.
25
FAME DOES FUNNY THINGS TO A GIRL. . . .
On Friday afternoon, Hanna sat in her trailer on the movie set, taking deep breath after deep breath. Her phone buzzed. MIKE, said the caller ID. When she answered, Mike sounded happy and relaxed.
“The Amtrak café worker let me order a beer!” he whispered on the staticky line.
Hanna giggled. “So you’re going to be drunk for the party tonight, huh?” He had boarded a train from soccer camp and was due in Rosewood shortly after four, which gave him enough time to get ready for the Rosewood Rallies fund-raiser.
“Nah, only buzzed.” Mike sighed wistfully. “I can’t wait to see you, Han. What are you doing right now? Primping? Getting beautiful?”
Hanna stared at her silver dress, which hung in dry cleaner’s plastic on a hook on the closet door. She’d picked it up just before coming to the set, but she wasn’t quite ready to put it on yet. “Um, I’m about to start getting ready,” she said, feeling too jittery and superstitious to tell Mike about what she was really about to do. “I’ll call you in a little bit, okay?” She made a kissing sound and hung up.
Then she stared at herself in the mirror, pushing her auburn hair behind her shoulders. “You can talk to Hank,” Hanna whispered to her reflection. “You deserve to be the next Hanna.”
Shortly after Jared put the bug in her ear about taking over Hailey’s role, Hanna had crept up the stairs to Hailey’s dressing room and knocked lightly on the door. Hailey had let her in, and she’d immediately started railing about what a stupid movie Burn It Down was. “The plot is dumb,” she said, tossing her possessions into a bunch of cardboard boxes she’d dragged out of the small closet. “The characters are dumb. It won’t go anywhere at the box office.” She peeked at Hanna. “No offense.”
Hanna had shrugged, letting the comment roll off her back. “Well, maybe it’s a good thing this happened, then,” she’d tried. “You seemed really unhappy.”
Hailey nodded vehemently. “Damn right,” she said. “I was miserable. This the best career move in a while. I’m so happy this is done.”
“And you’ll find something else,” Hanna added.
“Naturally!” Hailey crowed, raising a fist in the air. “I’m just sorry I’m leaving you behind, sweetie.” Then she told Hanna that she was going to get on the phone with her manager the very next day and have him arrange to fly Hanna out to LA for a visit as soon as possible. “We are going to have so much fun,” Hailey whooped, tossing a bunch of dresses into an open suitcase. “The clubs in LA are a zillion times better than the lame-ass ones in New York. And the shopping? To die for!”
Hanna had left Hailey’s dressing room with a sense of accomplishment. Hailey was out—and was happy to be out. Chances were, she’d have a new film offer by tomorrow.
And Hanna? Well, maybe, just maybe, she could be in. She just had to ask Hank first.
But before she could move, her phone buzzed again. This time, Emily was calling. Hanna hit the green ANSWER button and cleared her throat. “What’s going on?”
Emily took a shaky breath. “Jordan’s murderer is dead.”
Hanna frowned. “Is that good?”
“Of course it’s not good!” Emily screeched. “Hanna, Ali killed her! She recruits these crazy minions to work for her, and then she disposes of them like Kleenexes!”
Hanna chewed on her thumbnail. Every time she heard Emily’s twitchy, unhinged tone lately, her stomach hurt a little bit worse. “Are you sure Ali did it?” she asked tentatively. “Is there any evidence?”
Emily sighed. “That would be too easy. You just don’t understand.” With a groan, she hung up.
Hanna stared at her phone. Then she dialed Emily’s number again, but it rang and rang and rang. Was Emily actually mad at her? Should Hanna have just agreed without asking questions? Thank goodness Emily had already agreed to go to the Rosewood Rallies tonight—at least there they could keep an eye on her.
Then she glanced at herself in the mirror once more, trying her best to push her worry aside. Rolling her shoulders, she stepped out of the trailer, teetered down the steps in her high, strappy sandals, and walked into an adjacent trailer that served as Hank’s office—Hanna had chosen to visit him that afternoon because she knew they had a break in shooting and he wouldn’t be busy.
She took another deep breath and knocked on the door. There was a cough, and Hank opened it, the smell of cigarette smoke swirling out of the small, cramped space. “Hanna!” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Come in, come in.”
Hanna climbed the steps and walked into his trailer, which had a desk, an expensive-looking leather couch, and a bunch of framed awards and accolades on the walls. Hank’s computer was humming, and the latest script was on the screen. Papers littered his desk along with what looked like union forms, a collection of Starbucks paper cups, and several black-and-white head shots of pretty girls about Hanna’s age. Several of them Hanna recognized from other TV shows and movies. She knew why Hank was looking at them: He was trying to find a new Hanna.
“So.” Hank sat down in his chair and placed his hands on his thighs. “What can I do for you?”
Hanna averted her gaze from the head shots, trying not to feel unnerved by how professional they all looked—she didn’t even have a head shot. “I’d like to take Hailey’s place as Hanna. I want to play myself in the movie.”
For a moment, Hank’s face was blank, and Hanna wondered if she’d made a total mistake. She was an amateur, a silly girl they’d probably only brought in because it was a fun publicity stunt. Those head-shot girls were the real actresses. But then Hank leaned back in his chair. “Interesting.”
Hanna heard herself say the lines she’d rehearsed all morning. “We haven’t shot many Naomi scenes yet, so if you recast someone as her, you wouldn’t have lost much time. And I know I’m pretty green at all this, but I’ll work really hard, and I won’t give you the trouble Hailey did. I know the part because of running lines with Hailey, I’ve heard all your notes for her, and I think I know what sort of character you’re looking for. Plus, I’m way cheaper than those girls.” She gestured to the head shots, which she hoped wasn’t presumptive. “I just want the chance.”