Ali screamed and tried to roll off the mattress, but then Mr. DiLaurentis appeared and grabbed her around the waist. Her feet kicked as they hauled her down the stairs. She screamed so loud, she was sure the workers in the back would come running, but no one did.
“You don’t understand!” she moaned to her parents. “I’m Ali!”
But they didn’t listen. She caught snippets of things as they dragged her to the car: the calligraphy lettering on her sister’s seventh-grade diploma on the kitchen island, her sister’s field hockey stick propped up in the corner of the laundry room, the whirling mixer in the backyard. The sky was so perfectly blue, the yards so pristinely manicured.
“I’m Ali!” she howled again in the garage, a desperate plea to the Cavanaughs, the Vanderwaals, even the Hastingses. But still no one came to her rescue. Her father shoved her into the backseat, and her head hit the opposite window hard. She tried to scramble out the door again, but her parents had already climbed inside the car and child-locked the doors. Then the engine growled. Then they were going in reverse. Ali’s vision was clouded by tears now. Her throat felt sore from screaming. She peered out the window at the impassive houses all along the cul-de-sac. No one cared about her. She hated everyone on this stupid street.
And with that, they were gone. “You don’t understand, I’m Ali,” she repeated a few more times, but as they pulled out of the driveway, she realized it was futile. They didn’t believe her. Her plan had backfired. She’d never, ever be Alison DiLaurentis again.
And worse, they’d somehow figured out what she’d done. Perhaps they thought they were being kind. They could have called the police, could have had her locked up in jail.
But it didn’t seem kind to her. She would have preferred jail. At least she would have gotten a trial. At least she would have gotten her name back.
Mr. DiLaurentis’s face was splotchy as he pivoted to the right and started down the street. Shell-shocked, Ali cranked her neck to the side and watched as the cement truck topped off the hole, leveling it with the rest of the yard. She’s buried forever. Her sister’s words spiraled through her head: I just want a sister again. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. It had stopped her, at least for a moment. They passed the Hastingses’ house. Spencer stood on the porch, looking worriedly into the yard—maybe she’d heard Ali’s calls. “Get down,” Mr. DiLaurentis barked, roughly shoving Ali’s head into the footwell just as Spencer noticed the car.
After they passed, Ali sat up again and stared at Spencer’s back. She was Ali’s sister, too. Except all Ali felt for her was hate. When you got down to it, this was all Spencer’s fault—and Aria’s, Emily’s, and Hanna’s. They were the ones who’d intercepted her sister in the yard that day a year and a half ago. They were the ones who’d facilitated Courtney’s ascent into Ali-dom. A new batch of hate flooded her body. It was no longer her sister she was angry at. It was them.
Mr. DiLaurentis put on his blinker at the corner. Mrs. DiLaurentis let out a tormented sniff as they turned onto the main road, leaving their quiet, happy little street behind. Ali peered out the back window, wondering if she’d ever see it again. She would, she decided. She would find a way to come back here, to clear her name. And once she did, she would get her revenge—for real this time. She’d make those bitches pay. She’d make them wish they were never Alison DiLaurentis’s friends in the first place. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know when, but at least she had one person she could count on to help her carry it out. Together, they were going to make it happen.
Even if it killed her.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This was such a pleasure to write! I’ve wanted to get inside Ali’s head for a long time now, and I had a great time doing so. I have many people to thank for making this book such a success: my wonderful editorial team, which includes Lanie Davis, Sara Shandler, Katie McGee, Josh Bank, and Les Morgenstein at Alloy, and Farrin Jacobs and Kari Sutherland at Harper. (Thanks especially to Kari for all of her PLL sleuthing, sifting through previous books to make sure all of the details matched up. It’s tough to go through all those books again, so you’re a lifesaver!) Thanks also to the awesome people who work on the Pretty Little Liars show on ABC Family—the fantastic writers and crew, the talented actors, and Marlene King, who has stayed true to the series while also pushing it in new directions. I love watching Ali on the show, so it was fun to bring a little bit of that into this book.
Thanks also to my family and friends, especially all of the people in Pittsburgh, including the Shepard family and the Lorence family. A huge hug to Samantha Cairl, who gives me a bit of time to write every day. And a really, really big hug for Kristian. Pretty Little Secrets was dedicated to you as well, but when I was writing it, you weren’t even here yet. Now you’re a happy, walking, playing, “wow”-saying busy boy who has utterly changed my life. So, again, “wow!” I love you, big guy.