The words hit Ali like an icicle through the heart. What you did. But he meant what Ali did . . . to Courtney. Right? Not the switch. “I didn’t do anything,” she snapped.
Jason kept his eyes on the road. “We all did things we could have done differently. We could have helped her. Been more of a family.”
“That’s not how I see it,” Ali said sharply. “She’s crazy. She needs to be locked up. End of story.”
Jason bit his bottom lip and didn’t say anything. After a moment, he got out of the car and slouched into Kinko’s. Ali watched the door open and shut, her stomach turning over. The walls seemed to close in on her inside the car, and she suddenly felt squeezed into a seat that could no longer contain her.
She fumbled for the door handle and staggered onto the street. Cars and trucks whizzed past the busy thoroughfare. Students rushed by holding Starbucks coffee cups and textbooks. The clock tower let out four bongs. Ali took a few careful steps down the sidewalk, trying to find her balance again.
She walked to the end of the block and studied the skater-logo stickers someone had plastered to a stop sign. Then, a lilting giggle sounded from around the corner. Ali turned and cocked her ear. There it was again. It was coming from the alley.
She poked her head into the narrow strip of road between two university buildings. THESE SPACES RESERVED FOR ART HISTORY DEPARTMENT FACULTY ONLY read a placard in front of a parking spot. A Subaru was in the lot, its window cracked, two people inside. One of them had a blond ponytail and an earnest, college-girl smile. The other, the driver, had a craggy face and wild, professor-style hair.
Ali straightened up, recognizing the familiar PLANNED PARENTHOOD and VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS stickers on the Subaru’s bumper. There was that dent in the fender, too, the one Aria’s mom had made when she’d run over a decorative boulder in Ali’s front yard.
It was Aria’s dad who was in that car. But the other, the ponytail girl, was definitely not his wife.
“I love these after-class study sessions,” he was saying.
“Me, too,” the girl said, then pouted. “But I hate having to squeeze them into Tuesdays at four.”
Mr. Montgomery touched her cheek. “This is the only time we’re both around.”
The girl sighed. “I know, I know, but . . .”
Mr. Montgomery put his finger to his lips to silence her. Then he cupped her chin and brought her face toward his. Ali crept behind the brick wall as Aria’s father ran his hands through the girl’s hair. The girl pulled Aria’s dad closer and kissed his neck.
“Ali?”
The two heads shot apart. Ali whirled around. Jason stood behind her, a plastic Kinko’s bag in his hand. “You ready?” he asked.
Ali blinked hard. There was a rumbling sound behind her. “Uh . . . ,” she said, poking her head back into the alley.
But it was empty now. All that remained was a cloud of exhaust, like Mr. Montgomery’s car—and what he’d done inside it—had never been there at all.
But Ali knew what she’d seen.
13
DR. ALISON, AT YOUR SERVICE
Ali stepped up to Hanna’s front door and rang the bell. The opening strains to Beethoven’s Fifth played, then all was quiet. Ali knew Hanna was home, though. She’d texted Ali only a few minutes ago.
Ali turned around and stared at Hanna’s huge, elegantly manicured front yard. Ali had always liked Hanna’s house the best because it stood alone on a secluded street on top of Mount Kale, which was just outside Rosewood. It was heavily wooded and didn’t have that everyone-in-everyone’s-business suburban feeling that Ali’s neighborhood or other neighborhoods in Rosewood did. Often, when she slept over here, she’d see deer on Hanna’s front lawn in the morning, and it was dark enough up on the mountain to see tons of stars at night.
Hanna flung the door open. Her brown hair was mussed around her face, her eyes were red behind her glasses, and there were bright-orange Doritos crumbs on her shirt. Ali glanced behind her to a bunch of wrappers on the coffee table. Ho Hos. Twinkies. There was an empty cheese popcorn bag on the floor. A single pastry sat on a plate, bathing in a pool of cream.
Ali stared fixedly at those crumbs. For a long time, she’d wondered why Hanna ate the way she did, stuffing huge portions of Doritos into her mouth as though Frito-Lay had announced it was never making them again. She used to lead her friends in making fun of her—It’s not a race, Hanna, and Watch out, your teeth will turn orange. That was before they went to Annapolis a few months ago, though, and she saw what Hanna did with Kate’s toothbrush.
“Hey,” Hanna said woodenly, letting Ali in and tapping the keys of the burglar alarm, which was beeping. Whenever Hanna’s mom wasn’t home—which was always, since she worked at a high-powered job in the city—she made Hanna keep the alarm on at all times.
“What’s wrong?” Ali asked.