“Nana?”
“We have to make it convincing!” Iris sounded exasperated.
“And then what?” It was slowly dawning on Emily that Iris was serious. “Do you want to go home?”
“Actually, I was thinking I could stay with you.”
“Me?”
Iris crossed her arms over her chest. “No questions, okay? I’ve been cooped up in this hellhole for four years with no break. You can’t even imagine what that feels like. I have really good stuff on Ali, but you’re not going to hear a word of it if you don’t help me. Are you in or out?”
Emily bit her thumbnail. “Wait. You’ve been here for four years straight?”
Iris pointed at a folder hanging from a plastic slot on the door. “Check my records if you want.”
Her gaze remained on Emily. After a pause, Emily marched over to the door, ripped out the file, and leafed through it. Sure enough, there were patient records for Iris dating back four years ago. Nowhere were there signs that she’d ever been released, not even for a weekend. Iris was telling the truth.
Emily dropped the file back into the slot. If Iris had been here for four years without a break, that meant she couldn’t be Ali’s helper, killing all those people last winter and murdering Tabitha in Jamaica last spring. Feeling better, she cleared her throat. “You don’t have a vendetta against anyone on the outside, do you? You’re not going to go on some sort of rampage if I check you out?”
Iris scoffed. “They don’t allow people like that out ever. Why do you think Alison never went home?”
Emily had never thought of that. “Okay,” she said quietly. So Iris would stay with Emily for a few days. If it meant finding out more about Ali—about A—it would be worth it.
But her legs were still shaking as she walked back down the hall toward the lobby. The same woman who’d checked her in smiled from behind the desk. “Um, I forgot to mention,” Emily began, her voice trembling, “I’m Iris’s cousin. I’m taking her to see our grandma.”
She figured the receptionist wouldn’t buy it, but after a few quick checks with some nurses and Iris’s case manager, Iris was cleared to leave. When she appeared in the lobby, she’d changed into a pair of jeans that were slightly too short, as if she’d bought them a few years back. Coupled with a pink parka and a lumpy leather purse, she looked sort of . . . dorky, like a girl who sat alone in the cafeteria.
They exited the hospital together. The grass squished beneath their feet as they walked toward the parking lot. It was so quiet outside Emily could hear her own ragged, nervous breathing. She looked around, certain A was watching, but there wasn’t a single car on the road or pedestrian on the little trails that circled the property. The only sound was the bubbling fountain close by, the one dedicated to the memory of Tabitha Clark.
“Let’s do this, bee-yotch!” Iris whooped as Emily unlocked the Volvo. She climbed into the passenger seat, slammed the door shut, and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. “Okay. First stop, the Metropolitan Bar in Philly.”
“Excuse me?” Emily stared at her. “Why are we going there?”
Iris held up the paper. It looked like a list, written in craggy, frenzied script. Have cocktails at the Metropolitan Bar. Pretend-hump the dinosaurs at the Franklin Institute. Run up the Art Museum steps like Rocky. Find Tripp. “These are the things I’ve wanted to do for four years. And you’re going to take me to do them.”
“All of them?” Emily bleated, scanning the list. It was at least fifty items long.
Iris raised an eyebrow. “If you want intel on Ali, every single one.”
“Okay,” Emily said quietly. There was nothing like the promise of Ali secrets to shut her down. And she had a feeling Iris knew that, too.
She started the engine, gritting her teeth. This is all for a good cause, this is all for a good cause. Still, her throat was dry. She glanced at her new cell phone, certain A had sent a text about how she wasn’t going to get away with this.
But there was nothing.
8
A Monster in the Closet
Aria’s last class of the day was newspaper editing, which was held in the journalism barn. Even though the school paper had gone digital ages ago, the building still smelled like ink and newsprint. Old headlines of important Rosewood Day events decorated the walls, everything from the 1982 Rosewood Day Boys’ Soccer Team winning the state championship to a hundred trees being planted on the school’s perimeter to honor the victims of 9/11.
Ten minutes into class, Noel slunk through the back door. “Where were you?” Aria asked as he slid into the seat next to her.
Noel shrugged. “I tried to text you, but this message came on saying your phone was out of service.”