It felt like a hockey-puck-sized lump had grown in Spencer’s throat. All she pictured, suddenly, was a study session a few weeks into the pre-college program. Spencer and her friend Kelsey Pierce had sat on their beds in their dorm room, trying to cram too much information in their minds at once, and there had been a knock at the door. “Oh, thank God,” Spencer had said, leaping up from the bed.
It was Phineas O’Connell, another student in the pre-college program—and their dealer. She threw her arms around Phineas’s skinny frame, mussing his layered, emo-rock hair, and playfully poked fun at his vintage-looking Def Leppard T-shirt that had probably cost eighty bucks at Saks. And then she’d said in a serious voice, “Okay, hand ’em over.”
Phineas had dropped two Easy As into her palm—one for her, one for Kelsey. Spencer had paid him, and then he’d waltzed out the door. Kelsey kowtowed. Spencer blew him kisses. Then they popped the pills, studied like mad, and aced the exams the next day.
No wonder Spencer sought a dealer off-campus after Phineas left, though that was what had led to her and Kelsey’s arrest. Surely Phineas hadn’t told the cops, though—he was just as guilty. Had Kelsey? Would the cops really believe someone from a mental hospital?
“I’m sure it’s a mistake,” she said shakily as she walked toward the cops. “But, um, I’ll just answer their questions, okay?” She was eighteen, which meant she could go to the police station alone. There was no way she was having the discussion with her family right now. The longer she could hold off her mom from finding out the truth, the better.
As the cops walked her to the squad car, reporters outside the gate snapped photos and begged for comments. Over the din, Spencer heard her phone chime. She reached for it in her pocket and peered at the screen. As soon as she saw that the new text was anonymous, she wanted to smack herself. Of course.
This one was an easy A for me, Spence. You didn’t think I was going to keep your secret to myself forever, did you? —A
7
NO RESPECT FOR THE DEAD
Hanna had never been to the St. Bonaventure Church in Old City, Philadelphia, but it reminded her strongly of the Rosewood Abbey, where Ali’s memorial service had been held. The air also smelled like incense, dried flowers, and musty, wet Bibles. The same pointy-faced icons leered at her from their high windows. An organ stood at the front of the church, phallic-looking pipes protruded from the back wall, and there were even the same song books in the little slots on the backs of the pews. Graham’s closed casket stood at the front of the room. Hanna bit her lip and avoided looking at it.
Countless funeral goers filed wordlessly through the imposing doors and down the aisles. Hanna peered out the window again, taking in the police officers, reporters, and ogling pedestrians that clogged the busy city street. Beyond them, a crowd of middle-aged men and women marched up and down the front sidewalk, holding signs. Hanna squinted before she stepped into the lobby. Were those . . . protesters? Their signs had pictures of cruise ships and bombs.
“Mr. Clark. Mr. Clark?”
Hanna swiveled around. A long-haired brunette holding a microphone chased a man across the lobby. When she caught up to him, he raised his face, and Hanna almost gasped.
It was Mr. Clark, Tabitha’s father and Gayle Riggs’s husband. There were bags under his eyes. His jowls were pronounced and sagging, and his gray hair was unkempt. It made sense why he was here: Graham and Tabitha had once dated.
Hanna sucked in her stomach, wanting to melt into the walls. Instantly, images of Aria shoving Tabitha off the roof of the hotel in Jamaica flashed in her mind. They might not have killed her, but they’d still hurt her badly.
“Mr. Clark, can you comment on your daughter’s murder case?” the brunette asked, shoving a microphone at him.
Mr. Clark shook his head. “There is no case right now. No leads.”
“The authorities are checking with other hotels nearby for footage from that night, yes?” the reporter pressed. “They’ve really found nothing?”
Mr. Clark shook his head.
“And what about Mr. Pratt’s death?” the woman asked. “Do you have a comment on that?”
Mr. Clark shrugged. “It’s open-and-shut medical malpractice. They found excess Roxanol in Graham’s system. End of story.”
“But . . .” The reporter fumbled with her microphone just as two muscled guys in suits appeared out of nowhere, grabbed her, and edged her out of the lobby. She was still screaming questions as she went. Mr. Clark wiped his brow, looking like he was going to burst into tears.
Roxanol? Hanna pulled out her phone and did a quick Google search. Apparently Roxanol was another name for morphine. It would have been easy for Ali to up his dosage and make it look like malpractice.
She felt a hand on her arm. “Hey.”
Emily was dressed in rumpled black wool pants and a black V-neck sweater, and her red-gold hair was pulled off her makeup-free face, making her look scrubbed and young. She peered around the lobby. “Where are Aria and Spencer?”