He handed her three glossy five-by-sevens. They were various images from parts of what she assumed was Real Ali’s life. The first one was a picture of blond twin girls of about five. Both wore purple overalls, had pink ribbons in their hair, and were smiling. Spencer could see a hint of Ali in both their faces. It was impossible to tell who was who.
“I think this is from when they lived in Connecticut,” Chase explained. “It doesn’t really tell us much about the case, just that the twins didn’t always hate each other.” He sniffed. “They sounded psycho, didn’t they? Then again, those parents must have been whack-jobs, too. Who doesn’t notice when their daughters switch places?”
“Seriously,” Spencer mumbled, wondering what Chase would say if he knew those very twins were her half sisters.
She flipped to the next photo and gasped at the familiar image. Two blond girls stood in the DiLaurentises’ Rosewood backyard. Ali—or was it Courtney?—faced the camera, and the second blonde, who they’d all thought was Naomi Zeigler once upon a time, turned away. An innocent-looking Jenna Cavanaugh was next to them, a trapped expression on her face. Spencer had seen this photograph before: Real Ali-as-A had sent it to Emily along with a note that said, One of these things doesn’t belong. Figure it out quickly . . . or else. They’d never quite figured out why Ali had sent it to Emily. To frame Jenna, perhaps—she’d died shortly after and probably knew way too much for her own good.
Spencer looked up. “Are you going to post these on your blog?”
Chase shook his head. “I’m not posting anything until I have more proof.”
“I wish you knew who sent you these. There wasn’t a note with them? Nothing?”
Chase shrugged. “They just showed up.”
Spencer shivered. Had Real Ali sent them? Only, why? To tease them? To show them how invincible and evasive she was?
She flipped to the last photo. In this one, Ali faced the camera. She looked older, nearly as old as the girl they’d met last year, and she wore a pair of white pajamas. She stood in The Preserve’s dayroom—Spencer recognized the construction-paper cutouts on the wall. Someone stood next to her, too, but Ali’s raised palm blocked out his face. Was it another patient? Her boyfriend? Helper A?
Chase’s phone beeped again. He typed a response, then put the phone away. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”
“Already?” she blurted.
Chase seemed surprised by her reaction. “W-would you want to hang out more?” he asked, a note of hope in his voice.
Spencer nodded quickly, then felt like a desperate idiot. “To talk about the Ali case, I mean. You have some really good ideas.”
For a split second, Chase almost seemed disappointed, but then he smiled. “Definitely,” he said. “I’d like that . . . a lot.” He stuck out his hand for Spencer to shake, but Spencer pulled him in and gave him a hug. He smelled like leather and citrus-scented deodorant. It took all of Spencer’s willpower not to run her fingers through his hair.
Chase pulled away from Spencer, studied her once more, and let his thumb trail across her cheek. Tingles shot up Spencer’s spine. “Maybe next time you’ll tell me who you are, Britney,” he teased. And then he turned around and strode out of the museum, his sneakers barely making a sound.
Spencer followed him from a distance and watched as he strolled up the side street and made a right on Market. When he was gone, she melted to the stoop of a building in a full-on swoon. That. Was. Amazing.
Crack. Something sounded across the street. Spencer shot up, suddenly alert. An empty Diet Coke bottle rolled under a car. A face appeared in the windshield of a van to her right, but when she turned to see, there was no one there.
When her phone beeped, she almost expected it. But it was her old phone ringing—she’d received an e-mail on her school account. Although it wasn’t from A, Spencer blinked hard at the words.
Spencer, I have a few more questions for you. I’m coming by tomorrow to have a chat. Your house, 4 PM. Please reply to let me know you got this message.
Sincerely,
Jasmine Fuji
Spencer’s finger hesitated over the REPLY button. But then, swallowing a lump in her throat, she pressed DELETE.
17
And the Winner Is . . .
On Wednesday morning, just three days before prom, all of the Rosewood Day Upper School students gathered in the auditorium. Girls were texting and playing Plants vs. Zombies and a group of drama kids near the left exit were acting out a duel from Macbeth, which the school had put on the month before. A big banner over the stage read MAY DAY PROM KING AND QUEEN. Two ancient-looking, gold-plated, fake-jeweled crowns that had adorned the heads of kings and queens from years past waited on a table. Two royal scepters, which the king and queen carried to prom, sat on the stage, too. Voting had occurred that morning, and Rosewood Day had tallied the votes immediately. The assembly was to announce the winners.