Aria’s throat went dry. “W-what do you mean?” As if in answer, something made a ping inside her bag. Aria reached for her phone, her heart sinking. One new message, it said, followed by a jumble of letters and numbers.

Your dirty laundry, Aria? Time to get it dry-cleaned. —A

6

SPENCER GOES DOWNTOWN

At the same time on Tuesday, Spencer had just finished jogging five easy miles on the Marwyn Trail, an old train line turned nature walk. As she walked back to her car, pulling her hair up into a high ponytail, the wind stopped. The trail was clear of runners and bikers, but she swore she could see a human shape in the bushes. Ali?

A woman and three dogs appeared around the corner. A Rollerblader skated past, and a squirrel emerged from the bushes. Spencer pinched the inside of her palm. Ali isn’t everywhere. Only, did she really believe that anymore?

She climbed into the car, drained a bottle of coconut water, and switched on the radio. The first thing she heard was Noel Kahn’s name. She twisted the volume knob higher.

“. . . Though Mr. Kahn survived his attack, he is among a growing number of victims in Rosewood, along with socialite Gayle Riggs, who was murdered in the driveway of her new Rosewood home, and Kyla Kennedy, a burn patient who was found dead behind the hospital,” a deep baritone voice said. “New questions are swirling about a serial criminal on the loose. Authorities are also investigating a possible tie-in to the bombing of the Splendor of the Seas cruise ship a few weeks ago—students from Rosewood Day Prep and other surrounding schools were on board.”

Spencer shifted jerkily into reverse, nearly taking out a goose. If only they could hand over their texts from A. The texts would clear up this serial-killer thing in no time.

She turned onto her street, drinking in the late spring splendor. Tons of flowers had bloomed, and cherry blossoms floated down from the sky. But when she saw the news vans in front of her house, she hit the brakes. She was about to back out of the street and drive somewhere else—anywhere else—when the reporters descended on the car.

“Ms. Hastings, please!” The reporters banged on her window. “Just a few questions! What led you to Noel Kahn’s body?”

“Is it all just too much?” another reporter bellowed. “Are you girls thinking about killing yourselves?”

Spencer ducked her head and pulled into the driveway. The reporters had the good sense not to follow her, but they kept shouting. Mr. Pennythistle’s Range Rover loomed in front of her. That was odd: It was just past four, and usually Mr. Pennythistle didn’t get back from work until after six. And there was Mr. Pennythistle himself, standing on the porch, staring at Spencer as she drove in. Spencer’s mother, who wore knee-length khaki shorts and an old polo shirt from the Four Seasons Hotel in St. Barts, stood next to him, her expression grave. Spencer’s quasi stepsister, Amelia, sat on the steps, still in her St. Agnes school vest and plaid skirt—she was the only girl Spencer knew who wore her uniform after dismissal. There was a satisfied smirk on her face.

Spencer shifted into park and glanced at all three of them, feeling like something was up. “Uh, hi?” she asked cautiously as she walked up.

Mrs. Hastings guided her toward the door. “Good, you’re home,” she said through gritted teeth.

Spencer’s heart did a somersault. “W-what’s going on?”

Mrs. Hastings pulled her into the house. The family’s two Labradoodles, Rufus and Beatrice, lumbered up to greet them, but Mrs. Hastings paid them no mind—which meant something really must be wrong. She looked at her fiancé. “You tell her.”

Mr. Pennythistle, still in his business suit, sighed deeply and showed Spencer a picture on his phone. It was of a trashed living room. After a moment, Spencer recognized the heavy, copper-colored curtains and the marble-topped coffee table. “Your model home?” she squeaked. The model home had the panic room where she and her friends talked about A.

“A neighbor called last night,” Mr. Pennythistle said gravely. “They walked by with their dog and saw smears all over the window and broken glass on the floors. And Amelia said she saw you stealing the model’s keys from my office last week. Did you do this?”

Spencer shot a look at Amelia, who was now practically jumping up and down with glee. Narc. “Of course not. I mean—yes. I went into the model a few times. But I didn’t trash it last night. I was home last night.” She looked pleadingly at all of them, but then she realized—she’d been the only one home. Her mom and Mr. Pennythistle had gone to Amelia’s orchestra performance.

Mr. Pennythistle cleared his throat, then flipped to the next photo. In this one, a tall blond girl stood in the corner of the living room, her gaze on the front door. It was Spencer.

“This is impossible,” Spencer squeaked. “Someone Photoshopped me in.”

Mr. Pennythistle cocked his head. “Who would have done that?”

“The real person who did it, I guess.” Spencer sank onto the ottoman in the living room. And that, of course, was Ali or Helper A. But why? To send a message, loud and clear, that they’d always known what the girls were talking about in the panic room? To get her in trouble? She thought again of the presence she felt at the housing complex she and Chase had investigated. Maybe Ali had known they were there.

She handed the phone back to Mr. Pennythistle. “I know what this looks like. But it wasn’t me. Honest. Call the police. Have them dust for prints on all the stuff that was trashed.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Pennythistle said gruffly.

“Please?” Spencer begged. She needed him to do it—maybe Ali’s prints would turn up.

Mrs. Hastings pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Spencer, do we need to get you another appointment with Dr. Evans?”

“No!” Spencer gasped. She and Melissa had visited Dr. Evans, a psychologist, last year, and though Spencer would love some headshrinking right now, going there and being forced to lie about most of her life seemed stressful. “I didn’t trash the model, but I’ll clean it up if that’ll make you happy,” she said wearily.

“Cleaning up the model is a good start,” Mr. Pennythistle said stiffly.

Knock.

Everyone’s head whipped up. Two shapes shifted behind the curtained windows. Mrs. Hastings lunged toward the door, her face a twist of fury. “I’m going to strangle those reporters.”

“Is anyone there?” a stern, deep voice shouted. “It’s the police.”

Mrs. Hastings froze. Spencer stared at Mr. Pennythistle. “I thought you said you weren’t going to call the cops,” she whispered.

Mr. Pennythistle blinked. “I didn’t.”

He angled past Spencer’s mom and gingerly opened the door. Two uniformed police officers stood on the porch. “I’m Officer Gates,” the taller of the cops said, flashing his badge. Spencer recognized him: He was the same person who’d asked her questions about Noel at the hospital. Her stomach swirled.

Officer Gates gestured to the man next to him. “This is my partner, Officer Mulvaney. We need to take Spencer to the station to ask her a few questions about a crime we’re investigating.”

They glared at Spencer. She shrank back on the ottoman. Had they come here because they knew she’d lied?

“What crime?” Mrs. Hastings was now standing by the side table of the couch, clutching the large, jade bear statue she and Spencer’s father had bought years ago in Japan.

Officer Mulvaney, who had steely gray eyes and thin lips, tucked his badge into his pocket. “We received an anonymous tip that Miss Hastings framed another girl for drug possession last summer.”

Spencer’s ears began to ring. What?

Mrs. Hastings burst out laughing. “My daughter doesn’t do drugs. And she was at the University of Pennsylvania doing a very intensive pre-college program last summer.”

The taller cop smirked. “The crime happened on the Penn campus.”

Mrs. Hastings’s cheek twitched. She looked at Spencer, whose head was spinning. Anonymous tip. Drug charge.

Ali.

Something in her face must have given her away, because Mrs. Hastings’s expression drooped. “Spencer?”

It felt like a hockey-puck-sized lump had grown in Spencer’s throat. All she pictured, suddenly, was a study session a few weeks into the pre-college program. Spencer and her friend Kelsey Pierce had sat on their beds in their dorm room, trying to cram too much information in their minds at once, and there had been a knock at the door. “Oh, thank God,” Spencer had said, leaping up from the bed.

It was Phineas O’Connell, another student in the pre-college program—and their dealer. She threw her arms around Phineas’s skinny frame, mussing his layered, emo-rock hair, and playfully poked fun at his vintage-looking Def Leppard T-shirt that had probably cost eighty bucks at Saks. And then she’d said in a serious voice, “Okay, hand ’em over.”

Phineas had dropped two Easy As into her palm—one for her, one for Kelsey. Spencer had paid him, and then he’d waltzed out the door. Kelsey kowtowed. Spencer blew him kisses. Then they popped the pills, studied like mad, and aced the exams the next day.

No wonder Spencer sought a dealer off-campus after Phineas left, though that was what had led to her and Kelsey’s arrest. Surely Phineas hadn’t told the cops, though—he was just as guilty. Had Kelsey? Would the cops really believe someone from a mental hospital?

“I’m sure it’s a mistake,” she said shakily as she walked toward the cops. “But, um, I’ll just answer their questions, okay?” She was eighteen, which meant she could go to the police station alone. There was no way she was having the discussion with her family right now. The longer she could hold off her mom from finding out the truth, the better.

As the cops walked her to the squad car, reporters outside the gate snapped photos and begged for comments. Over the din, Spencer heard her phone chime. She reached for it in her pocket and peered at the screen. As soon as she saw that the new text was anonymous, she wanted to smack herself. Of course.

This one was an easy A for me, Spence. You didn’t think I was going to keep your secret to myself forever, did you? —A

7

NO RESPECT FOR THE DEAD

Hanna had never been to the St. Bonaventure Church in Old City, Philadelphia, but it reminded her strongly of the Rosewood Abbey, where Ali’s memorial service had been held. The air also smelled like incense, dried flowers, and musty, wet Bibles. The same pointy-faced icons leered at her from their high windows. An organ stood at the front of the church, phallic-looking pipes protruded from the back wall, and there were even the same song books in the little slots on the backs of the pews. Graham’s closed casket stood at the front of the room. Hanna bit her lip and avoided looking at it.

Countless funeral goers filed wordlessly through the imposing doors and down the aisles. Hanna peered out the window again, taking in the police officers, reporters, and ogling pedestrians that clogged the busy city street. Beyond them, a crowd of middle-aged men and women marched up and down the front sidewalk, holding signs. Hanna squinted before she stepped into the lobby. Were those . . . protesters? Their signs had pictures of cruise ships and bombs.