“No, I didn’t.” She started to shake all over. “I definitely didn’t.” It had been scary enough to admit who she really was. She wasn’t stupid enough to tell him about Jamaica on top of that.
Chase drained his flute in one sip, his eyes not leaving hers for a second. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed. Slowly, he reached into his pocket for something. It was the same way someone threatened might reach for a knife, a gun. An entirely new reality formed in Spencer’s mind. What if Chase knew Spencer was in Jamaica because he had been there, too?
Suddenly, Spencer’s blood went cold and the whole horrible scheme clicked into place. How easy it had been to find his conspiracy theory blog. How willing Chase had been to feed her all those details about Ali, secrets no one could just happen upon. Those pictures he’d shown her were obviously from a private collection, too, not randomly mailed to him. And Chase was brilliant at hacking into computer systems, which meant he could have easily planted information on Naomi Zeigler’s laptop on the cruise, Billy Ford’s laptop, and the CVS system. If that address was even in the CVS system. Spencer had just taken his word for it.
He’d been the one who’d taken her to the booby-trapped apartment. And then he’d fallen against that door, knocking on it. He’d made it out to be an accident, but what if it hadn’t been? Had he known that trapdoor was going to fall? Did he somehow trigger it to open with that knock? Or was it a signal to someone inside?
Could Chase be Ali’s secret boyfriend? The other A? All this time, the girls had thought it was Noel . . . and she’d fallen right into Real Ali’s trap.
Spencer’s hand inched toward the door handle. Suddenly, Chase clamped down on her other wrist and pulled her toward him. His eyes blazed. His happy smile was gone. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said sternly.
“I . . .” Spencer trembled. She pointed at something out the window. “What’s that?”
Chase released her wrist and looked. Spencer twisted to the handle and wrenched the door open. By the time Chase realized the trick, she was on the pavement. A cold breeze zipped up her skirt. Her heel turned on the sidewalk, but she kept going.
“Spencer!” Chase called. “What are you doing?”
He tried to scramble out of the car, too. Spencer yelped and kicked the door with her heel, slamming it in his face. The light turned green. Cars behind the limo honked.
“Go!” Spencer screamed at the driver, who looked freaked out. Amazingly, the limo did go. Spencer turned and ran.
She zigzagged past a couple walking hand in hand and into an alleyway. This was in a part of the city she didn’t know well at all. No cabs passed. People sat on their stoops, glaring. Kids disappeared around a corner, their charged laughter spiraling through the alleyway.
She grabbed for the burner phone, the only one she’d brought tonight. Maybe she could call a cab. The screen was already blinking. When she saw the jumbled letters and numbers in the sender line, her heart dropped to her feet.
You can run, but you can’t hide, Spence! Kisses, A
Her phone beeped again. It was the same text. And then the same text again, and then again, jamming her phone until an alert warned that her phone had run out of memory. Spencer switched to the call function, but a new message appeared: OUT OF BATTERY. POWERING OFF.
The screen went dark. The sky seemed to darken around her, too, the shadows deepening. Spencer was cut off. A had won again.
25
Wake-Up Call
Hanna sat at the front window of her father’s house, trying not to seem too eager and pathetic as she glanced at her phone one more time. Then she dropped it back into her little jeweled bag, crossed her ankles, and admired her brand-new Dior heels. They were five inches high; she’d had to practice walking in them all week. She’d also had to practice walking in her floor-length Marchesa gown so that she didn’t trip over the hem. She’d fixed her prom crown so that the sides didn’t pinch her head, and the scepter leaned against the couch, its faux jewels sparkling. Everything looked perfect. She was, literally, all dressed up with no place to go.
“Still nothing from Mike?” her father asked.
Hanna shook her head. Mike hadn’t called her all day. They hadn’t spoken since the weird pseudo-makeup I-don’t-really-feel-better-about-anything conversation while she was at the burn clinic, right before Hanna saw Noel. He hadn’t written to say he’d picked up a tux. He hadn’t texted to mention if he was bringing a limo. For all she knew, he wasn’t going to show at all.
Her father turned a page of the National Geographic he was pretending to read. There was a clang in the kitchen; surely the pot roast Isabel had made for dinner was getting cold. They’d already seen Kate off with Sean, taking a zillion pictures. If that didn’t prove to Mike that Hanna wasn’t into Sean, what would? Why didn’t he just believe her?
And what was with Noel telling on Hanna? That seemed like an A thing to do. . . .