“Come on,” Mike said, heading to the elevator and pushing the CALL button. He held her hand the whole way up, squeezing it every so often. When they reached the fourth floor, Hanna peered out the long windows in the hallway to center herself. One of them didn’t face the protesters but the thick, untended forest to the left of the property. Trees jutted every which way. Poking above them was what looked like the crumbled remains of a stone chimney. The Main Line was full of old wrecks—the historical commission protected them if a famous general ever slept there or if it was the site of an important battle. There might even be an old building hidden back there somewhere, forgotten in time, vines curling around it until they made a cocoon. Hanna could definitely relate. She felt overwhelmed and choked, too. If only she could disappear into the trees as well.

Hanna took a deep breath and faced the glass door that led to her father’s office, then pushed through. Her father’s receptionist, Mary, took one look at Hanna and jumped to her feet. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Hanna squared her shoulders. “It’s important.”

“Tom’s in a meeting.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow. “Tell him it will only take a second.”

Mary set aside the pen she was using and scuttled down the hall. In moments, Mr. Marin appeared. He had on a navy-blue suit with a little American flag pin on the lapel. It struck Hanna as petty, suddenly—his daughter was going to be tried for murder, but he’d still remembered to put the flag pin on his jacket this morning.

“Hanna.” Mr. Marin’s tone was restrained anger. “You’re not supposed to leave the house.”

“I wanted to talk to you, and you weren’t calling me back,” Hanna said, hating how mouselike she sounded. “I want to know why you didn’t come to the police station when I was released. Or why you haven’t spoken to me since then.”

Mr. Marin crossed his arms over his chest. He gestured to the picketers through the front window. The woman carrying the huge picture of Hanna’s face passed by. “Did they see you come in?”

Hanna blinked. “No. I had a hoodie on.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Go out the back way when you leave.”

He wheeled around and started back to his office. Hanna’s mouth hung open. Then Mike stepped forward. “She’s still your daughter, Mr. Marin,” he shouted.

Mr. Marin stopped and gave him a vicious glare. “This is none of your business, Mike.”

He looked at Hanna. “I can’t align myself with you right now. I’m sorry.”

Hanna actually felt physical pain shoot through her. Align myself. It sounded so clinical. “Are you serious?”

His gaze was on the protesters out the window again. “I’ve given you chance upon chance. I’ve tried to be there for you. But right now, it’s campaign suicide. You’re on your own.”

“You’re worried about the campaign?” Hanna squeaked. She took a few steps toward him. “Dad, please listen to me. I didn’t kill anyone. The video the news has been showing of me beating that girl is fake. You know me—I wouldn’t do that. I’m not that kind of person.”

She continued to walk toward him, her arms outstretched, but Mr. Marin backed away from her, a guarded look on his face. Then the phone at the front desk rang, and Mr. Marin motioned to the receptionist to pick it up. She murmured something, then looked at him. “Tom,” she said, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s that reporter from the Sentinel.”

Mr. Marin looked pained. “I’ll take it in my office.” He glowered at Hanna. “You have to go now.”

He turned and plodded down the hall, not even saying good-bye. Hanna stood very still for a moment, suddenly feeling like every molecule in her body was about to implode and turn her to vapor. A protester blew a whistle. Someone else cheered. Hanna squeezed her eyes shut and tried to cry, but she felt too stunned.

She felt Mike’s fingers curl around hers. “Come on,” he whispered, leading her back to the elevator. She said nothing as he pushed the CALL button, and they rode to the first floor. She said nothing as Mike pulled her out of the elevator and across the empty atrium to the front door. Only when she saw the protesters marching in a circle right in front of the doors did she stop and give Mike a nervous look. “He told us to go out the back way.”

“Do you actually give a shit what he wants you to do?” Mike’s cheeks were red. He gripped her hand harder. “I could kill him, Hanna. You don’t owe him anything.”

Hanna’s jaw wobbled. Mike was totally, absolutely right.

Tears flowed down her cheeks as she stepped onto the curb. As the protesters surrounded her once more, she let out a single, piercing sob. Mike grabbed her immediately and hugged her tight, pulling her through the throng. And over all the shouting, one thought was clean and crisp in Hanna’s mind. She didn’t owe her dad anything. She’d thought it had sucked, all those years, when her father had chosen Kate over her.

But nothing compared to him choosing the whole state of Pennsylvania.

23

NOT ON THE LIST

That same Friday, Emily stood in the lobby of the Rosewood Memorial Hospital. Doctors swept past, looking busy and important. Emily walked over to the directory on the wall and found the cardiac unit, where her mother was recovering after her emergency heart surgery. Not that her dad or her sister had given her an update on her daily progress—they’d barely been home. Emily had had to find out through a nebulous network of doctors and nurses, who’d all seemed shocked that she couldn’t just get the information from her family. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to leave the house, but what could the police say if they caught her here? That she wasn’t allowed to see her ailing mother?

Emily was trying to put a good face on it. It sucked that her bail cost so much money that they had to do without their cars—and a few other things, which various rough-looking dudes had removed from the house over the past two weeks, including an antique baby carriage of Emily’s grandmother’s and a baby Jesus statue Emily had helped her mom recover from a group of vandals last year. But Emily was still part of the family, for goodness’ sake. Besides, she’d finally gotten hold of Mr. Goddard this morning, and he’d told her that after the trial, no matter the verdict, the bail money would be returned to her parents. They’d get their car back. Everyone would be able to return to college. They’d be okay.

Her heart thudded hard as she boarded the elevator and rode it to the third floor. As soon as she stepped onto the ward, she spied her dad and Carolyn slumped in chairs in the waiting room, asleep. There was an open Sports Illustrated magazine in her dad’s lap. Carolyn’s coat was half on, half off. Emily smiled faintly at them, noticing how sweet and friendly they looked in sleep. It gave her hope. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

A newscast played on the TV overhead: Arraignment in One Week, read a headline. Emily’s school picture appeared on the screen, followed by Spencer’s, Aria’s, and Hanna’s. Then Tabitha’s father, whom Emily had come face-to-face with quite a few times in the past few months, popped on the screen. “I’m deeply saddened by the outcome of this investigation,” the man said, his eyes lowered. “I want justice for these girls, but it still won’t bring my daughter back.”

Emily flinched. Poor Mr. Clark. She imagined him lying in bed at night, alone in his big house, thinking of that horrible video on the beach again and again. Ali wasn’t just hurting the four of them by releasing that video. There were so many other victims, too. So many lives ruined. Iris flashed in Emily’s mind again. Would she be another victim? And if she was, would Emily somehow get blamed for it? She’d been blamed for everything else, after all.

The news switched to a commercial about a new Ford pickup. Emily checked on her father and sister, but they hadn’t stirred. Spinning around, she marched over to the nurse’s station. A tired-looking woman in balloon-printed scrubs drank from a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Can you tell me which room Pamela Fields is in?” Emily asked. “I’m her daughter.”

The nurse examined Emily carefully. “Her daughter Beth?”

Emily blinked. “No. Her daughter Emily.”

The nurse’s eyes widened. “You’re not on Mrs. Fields’s list. You can’t visit.”

“But I’m her daughter.”

The nurse picked up a phone on her desk. “I’m really sorry about this. But I was told if you came . . .” She lifted the receiver to her ear. “I need security.”

Emily backed away from the desk. Security? For a split second, she didn’t understand . . . and then she did. Her family had asked to keep her away.

She wheeled around, suddenly numb. “I’m leaving,” she said, just as a figure appeared in the doorway of the waiting room. Mr. Fields was upright now, his sparse, graying hair standing in peaks atop his head, his eyes still sleepy. It looked like he’d heard the whole exchange. Emily stared at him plaintively, begging silently that he would set the nurse straight.

Mr. Fields glanced at the nurse, then back at Emily. His gaze was cold and dead but also firm and purposeful. Then he turned and walked back to the waiting room.

Well then. Swallowing a sob, Emily brushed past him for the elevator. She barely recalled the ride down, and she ran with her head lowered toward her bike.

As she unlocked her bike from the rack, her phone beeped. She pulled it out and saw Jordan’s name. A news story had just broken on CNN: Preppy Thief Apprehended in Caribbean.

Emily suddenly couldn’t breathe. She stabbed at the link. There was a picture of Jordan, tanned and beautiful but also looking stunned and upset, being led in handcuffs through a parking lot. Katherine DeLong, on the lam since March, finally caught in a small fishing village in Bonaire. Twitter activity led to her arrest.

Twitter activity. Emily inspected Jordan’s picture again. She was staring straight at the camera, seemingly right into Emily’s eyes. Her expression was rife with fury. I know you did this to me, her eyes seemed to be saying to Emily and only Emily. That photo of you cheating led them right to where I was hiding.

Emily sank into the bike’s seat, feeling like everything was spinning too fast. Suddenly, her phone beeped again. A voicemail had landed in her mailbox, but she hadn’t even heard the phone ring.

She dialed the voicemail access number and punched in her code. When the first and only message played back, the phone almost slipped from Emily’s fingers. A piercing giggle echoed through the receiver. It stopped her heart. She’d know that laugh anywhere. It was mocking. Teasing. Tormenting. Ali’s.

She looked around anxiously, considering heading straight to the FBI office and playing this for Fuji. But Fuji wouldn’t listen. She believed what she wanted to believe. She thought Ali was dead, that the girls were liars.

It explained why Ali was laughing so hard. She knew she had them beat. And to her, it was simply hilarious. Hanna was right. They were just sitting back, letting it happen.