“My boyfriend knows,” she admitted. “He kind of guessed.”
Fuji winced. “Well, he’ll be under watch because he’s Aria’s brother.” She glanced around. “A, Alison, whoever it is, this is Tabitha’s killer. Gayle’s killer. Graham’s and Kyla’s killer. Obviously she’s dangerous. I’m going to personally lead this team—and believe me, there will be a team on this. We’re going to work day and night to find out what’s going on. Whoever this is, they’re not smarter than all of us. We’ll get them.”
Everyone exchanged another glance. “Oh my God,” Hanna bleated. “That sounds . . .”
“Awesome,” Emily breathed.
They stared at one another in disbelief. Spencer glanced at Fuji, and the agent gave her a small, genuine smile, the first smile Spencer had ever seen from her. A delicious feeling washed down Spencer’s back. Could it finally, finally be over? Was someone actually going to help them?
The girls stood up and hugged one another tight. They didn’t have to handle this on their own anymore. They didn’t have to look over their shoulders or freeze when they heard a footstep or a twig crack or cringe when their cell phones chimed. They wouldn’t have to skulk around having secret conversations in dark places, fearing all the while that Ali was listening in.
Spencer threw back her head and laughed. It felt amazing, suddenly, to have power. If only Spencer knew how to reach Ali now, she’d send an anonymous note of her own: Take that, bitch.
9
WELCOME HOME
About an hour later, an FBI officer drove Emily back to the Philadelphia church where she’d parked her car for Graham’s funeral, leaving Emily to drive the fifteen miles back to Rosewood alone.
Only, she wasn’t alone. As she pulled onto the expressway toward the suburbs, she peeked in her rearview mirror. A large, black Escalade switched lanes when she did. Fuji had instated the security detail immediately, instructing the bodyguards that they should watch the girls at all times, twenty-four hours a day. Emily’s guard had introduced himself as Clarence, taking her hand in his meaty palms and giving it a good shake, then giving her a business card with his phone number on it. “Me or my partner will be outside day and night,” he said in a New Jersey accent. “But if you get scared, you can always call us, too.”
A huge smile spread across Emily’s face, and she drummed happily on the steering wheel. If you get scared. How many times had she been terrified and had no idea how to rectify it? She might be able to sleep through a whole night now. She might be able to go for a jog around her neighborhood without fearing an attack by a mysterious assailant.
Of course, she did feel a twinge of apprehension about everything that had happened. The cat was definitely out of the bag, and Ali would probably know soon. Her potential rage was terrifying—especially given her track record. Rehashing the past brought back memories about seeing Gayle’s dead body in her driveway. And what if Ali had done something to Iris? At least the FBI was looking into it now . . . but what if Iris turned up dead?
Emily took the Rosewood exit off 76 and sped up the hill toward home. When she pulled into her driveway ten minutes later, her stomach flipped a few times. What if her parents somehow found out that the FBI had escorted her out of the funeral? Fuji insisted that they would keep everything very quiet, but there were all those reporters outside the church—could they have leaked the story? She really didn’t feel like going through the third degree.
Nervously, she turned on KYW, the area’s news channel. Over the sound of clacking typewriters, the reporter read out the hour’s top story. A robbery on the north side. The mayor arguing over budget cuts. An accident on the Blue Route. Nothing about police activity. She breathed out.
She got out of the car and crept up the front walk, careful not to tread on her mom’s freshly planted azaleas. The inside of the house was quiet. There were marks on the carpet that indicated it had just been vacuumed, and the dining room table was free of dust. When Emily sniffed, she smelled baked ziti. It was her sister Carolyn’s favorite dish, but they hadn’t had it since she’d left for college.
“Emily, look who’s here!”
Her mother stepped into the hall. Next to her, in a Stanford long-sleeved T-shirt and black jeans, was Carolyn herself.