Mrs. Hastings pulled her into the house. The family’s two Labradoodles, Rufus and Beatrice, lumbered up to greet them, but Mrs. Hastings paid them no mind—which meant something really must be wrong. She looked at her fiancé. “You tell her.”
Mr. Pennythistle, still in his business suit, sighed deeply and showed Spencer a picture on his phone. It was of a trashed living room. After a moment, Spencer recognized the heavy, copper-colored curtains and the marble-topped coffee table. “Your model home?” she squeaked. The model home had the panic room where she and her friends talked about A.
“A neighbor called last night,” Mr. Pennythistle said gravely. “They walked by with their dog and saw smears all over the window and broken glass on the floors. And Amelia said she saw you stealing the model’s keys from my office last week. Did you do this?”
Spencer shot a look at Amelia, who was now practically jumping up and down with glee. Narc. “Of course not. I mean—yes. I went into the model a few times. But I didn’t trash it last night. I was home last night.” She looked pleadingly at all of them, but then she realized—she’d been the only one home. Her mom and Mr. Pennythistle had gone to Amelia’s orchestra performance.
Mr. Pennythistle cleared his throat, then flipped to the next photo. In this one, a tall blond girl stood in the corner of the living room, her gaze on the front door. It was Spencer.
“This is impossible,” Spencer squeaked. “Someone Photoshopped me in.”
Mr. Pennythistle cocked his head. “Who would have done that?”
“The real person who did it, I guess.” Spencer sank onto the ottoman in the living room. And that, of course, was Ali or Helper A. But why? To send a message, loud and clear, that they’d always known what the girls were talking about in the panic room? To get her in trouble? She thought again of the presence she felt at the housing complex she and Chase had investigated. Maybe Ali had known they were there.
She handed the phone back to Mr. Pennythistle. “I know what this looks like. But it wasn’t me. Honest. Call the police. Have them dust for prints on all the stuff that was trashed.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Pennythistle said gruffly.
“Please?” Spencer begged. She needed him to do it—maybe Ali’s prints would turn up.
Mrs. Hastings pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Spencer, do we need to get you another appointment with Dr. Evans?”
“No!” Spencer gasped. She and Melissa had visited Dr. Evans, a psychologist, last year, and though Spencer would love some headshrinking right now, going there and being forced to lie about most of her life seemed stressful. “I didn’t trash the model, but I’ll clean it up if that’ll make you happy,” she said wearily.
“Cleaning up the model is a good start,” Mr. Pennythistle said stiffly.
Knock.
Everyone’s head whipped up. Two shapes shifted behind the curtained windows. Mrs. Hastings lunged toward the door, her face a twist of fury. “I’m going to strangle those reporters.”
“Is anyone there?” a stern, deep voice shouted. “It’s the police.”
Mrs. Hastings froze. Spencer stared at Mr. Pennythistle. “I thought you said you weren’t going to call the cops,” she whispered.
Mr. Pennythistle blinked. “I didn’t.”
He angled past Spencer’s mom and gingerly opened the door. Two uniformed police officers stood on the porch. “I’m Officer Gates,” the taller of the cops said, flashing his badge. Spencer recognized him: He was the same person who’d asked her questions about Noel at the hospital. Her stomach swirled.
Officer Gates gestured to the man next to him. “This is my partner, Officer Mulvaney. We need to take Spencer to the station to ask her a few questions about a crime we’re investigating.”
They glared at Spencer. She shrank back on the ottoman. Had they come here because they knew she’d lied?
“What crime?” Mrs. Hastings was now standing by the side table of the couch, clutching the large, jade bear statue she and Spencer’s father had bought years ago in Japan.
Officer Mulvaney, who had steely gray eyes and thin lips, tucked his badge into his pocket. “We received an anonymous tip that Miss Hastings framed another girl for drug possession last summer.”
Spencer’s ears began to ring. What?
Mrs. Hastings burst out laughing. “My daughter doesn’t do drugs. And she was at the University of Pennsylvania doing a very intensive pre-college program last summer.”
The taller cop smirked. “The crime happened on the Penn campus.”
Mrs. Hastings’s cheek twitched. She looked at Spencer, whose head was spinning. Anonymous tip. Drug charge.
Ali.
Something in her face must have given her away, because Mrs. Hastings’s expression drooped. “Spencer?”