“I’ll be honest with you,” Ms. Janssen said after a while. “You seem quite promising. I’d like to recommend you.”
“Really?” Aria squeaked, pressing her hand to her chest. “That’s great!”
“I’m glad you think so. Now, let me start your formal application, which is right . . .” She trailed off as she looked out the window. “Oh.”
Aria followed her gaze. Out the big picture window, she could see three police cars at the curb, their lights flashing. Two uniformed officers got out and marched into the building. Soon enough, footsteps echoed down the hall. Walkie-talkies squealed. As the voices grew closer and closer, Aria swore one of them said, Montgomery.
A slithery sensation crept down her back.
The door flung open, and two men walked into the office, eyes narrowed, muscles tensed. Ms. Janssen shrank back against the wall. “Can I help you?”
The man in front pointed at Aria. His jacket said FBI on the breast pocket. He had squinty eyes and a wad of fruity-smelling gum shoved into his mouth. “That’s her.”
The professor stared at Aria as though she’d morphed into a giant toad. “What’s this about?”
“She’s wanted for questioning in an international incident,” the agent said stiffly.
Aria’s throat went dry. “W-what do you mean?” As if in answer, something made a ping inside her bag. Aria reached for her phone, her heart sinking. One new message, it said, followed by a jumble of letters and numbers.
Your dirty laundry, Aria? Time to get it dry-cleaned. —A
6
SPENCER GOES DOWNTOWN
At the same time on Tuesday, Spencer had just finished jogging five easy miles on the Marwyn Trail, an old train line turned nature walk. As she walked back to her car, pulling her hair up into a high ponytail, the wind stopped. The trail was clear of runners and bikers, but she swore she could see a human shape in the bushes. Ali?
A woman and three dogs appeared around the corner. A Rollerblader skated past, and a squirrel emerged from the bushes. Spencer pinched the inside of her palm. Ali isn’t everywhere. Only, did she really believe that anymore?
She climbed into the car, drained a bottle of coconut water, and switched on the radio. The first thing she heard was Noel Kahn’s name. She twisted the volume knob higher.
“. . . Though Mr. Kahn survived his attack, he is among a growing number of victims in Rosewood, along with socialite Gayle Riggs, who was murdered in the driveway of her new Rosewood home, and Kyla Kennedy, a burn patient who was found dead behind the hospital,” a deep baritone voice said. “New questions are swirling about a serial criminal on the loose. Authorities are also investigating a possible tie-in to the bombing of the Splendor of the Seas cruise ship a few weeks ago—students from Rosewood Day Prep and other surrounding schools were on board.”
Spencer shifted jerkily into reverse, nearly taking out a goose. If only they could hand over their texts from A. The texts would clear up this serial-killer thing in no time.
She turned onto her street, drinking in the late spring splendor. Tons of flowers had bloomed, and cherry blossoms floated down from the sky. But when she saw the news vans in front of her house, she hit the brakes. She was about to back out of the street and drive somewhere else—anywhere else—when the reporters descended on the car.
“Ms. Hastings, please!” The reporters banged on her window. “Just a few questions! What led you to Noel Kahn’s body?”
“Is it all just too much?” another reporter bellowed. “Are you girls thinking about killing yourselves?”
Spencer ducked her head and pulled into the driveway. The reporters had the good sense not to follow her, but they kept shouting. Mr. Pennythistle’s Range Rover loomed in front of her. That was odd: It was just past four, and usually Mr. Pennythistle didn’t get back from work until after six. And there was Mr. Pennythistle himself, standing on the porch, staring at Spencer as she drove in. Spencer’s mother, who wore knee-length khaki shorts and an old polo shirt from the Four Seasons Hotel in St. Barts, stood next to him, her expression grave. Spencer’s quasi stepsister, Amelia, sat on the steps, still in her St. Agnes school vest and plaid skirt—she was the only girl Spencer knew who wore her uniform after dismissal. There was a satisfied smirk on her face.
Spencer shifted into park and glanced at all three of them, feeling like something was up. “Uh, hi?” she asked cautiously as she walked up.
Mrs. Hastings guided her toward the door. “Good, you’re home,” she said through gritted teeth.
Spencer’s heart did a somersault. “W-what’s going on?”