Still, she dutifully stuffed the keychain into her bag, making a mental note to call Fuji when she and Chase were finished cleaning. Hanna was right. She didn’t have to worry about this anymore. It was off her plate—and that was a good thing.
She canvassed the rest of the model home, sifting among the stuffing fluff and shredded newspaper and yards of toilet paper wound around the chandelier, but found no other clues.
There was a knock at the door, and Spencer froze again. “Yoo-hoo?” Spencer’s mother’s voice called into the living room. “Spencer? Are you there?”
Frowning, Spencer padded toward the front door. Her mother, Mr. Pennythistle, and Amelia stood in the foyer, all dressed in jeans and T-shirts. They were all holding brooms, mops, and the cleaning supplies from Spencer’s backseat.
“What’s going on?” Spencer asked. Had they come over to urge her to clean faster?
Mrs. Hastings tied her short blond hair back with a stretchy headband. “We’re going to help you clean, honey.”
“R-really?” Spencer stammered.
Mrs. Hastings ran her finger along the crayon marks on the walls. Some of it came off on her skin. “It’s not fair for you to have to do it yourself. I’m not saying it was right that you took Nicholas’s keys without his permission, but it was unfair of us to assume that you were the one who did this to the place.”
Mr. Pennythistle clapped her on the shoulder. “You were home the night this place was trashed—I checked the security video in the house. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
Maybe Spencer should have been more bothered that he didn’t take her at her word, but it felt like too much emotional effort. She kind of liked the stern way he was looking at Amelia right now, too. “I’m sorry for telling on you,” Amelia muttered, after he nudged her.
“And the police explained that your drug arrest was a mistake,” Mrs. Hastings added as she scrubbed the wall with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. “Thank God.”
“Oh,” Spencer said. “Well, good.”
“Anyway, let’s get to work!” Mrs. Hastings handed Amelia a broom. Then she stopped and noticed Chase in the kitchen. “Oh. Hello.”
“This is my friend Chase,” Spencer said. “Another Chase,” she added, realizing that her mom was introduced to Curtis as Chase when he’d picked her up for the prom. “He’s helping me clean.”
“How nice!” Mrs. Hastings trilled, shooting him a kind smile. “Well. Any friend of Spencer’s is a friend of ours.”
Spencer almost snickered. Someone certainly felt guilty for assuming false blame. Spencer was just happy that her mom was here, helping, and that she didn’t hate her.
Mr. Pennythistle plugged in the vacuum and turned it on. Amelia begrudgingly picked up the couch cushions and crammed the salvageable stuffing back inside. Spencer shot Chase a secret smile as she began to sweep up the broken glass with the broom. She was glad he was here, too. All of a sudden, everything felt—well, not perfect, but better than it had in a long time.
Just the way she liked it.
12
DADDY’S LITTLE HANNA
Hanna was heading back from Wawa, where she’d gotten a loaded-with-sugar, totally-adding-inches-to-her-thighs, irresistibly delicious cappuccino. Between sips, she glanced in her rearview mirror at the black Suburban behind her. She waved to Bo, the driver, and he waved back. Though Bo had a broken nose, ripped muscles, and flame tattoos peeking over his collar, earlier, when Hanna had sauntered over to the car to ask if he wanted anything to drink, he’d been listening to Selena Gomez. He also had a picture of his little girl, Gracie, hanging from his rearview mirror.
Her phone beeped. At a stoplight, she pulled it out. GOOGLE ALERT FOR TABITHA CLARK, read the screen. Her heart jumped.
But it was only an article about how the authorities were trying to get video footage from other hotels near The Cliffs—apparently, some of the hotels were having trouble locating footage from that long ago.
Her phone rang. MIKE, said the caller ID. She pressed the button on the steering wheel to activate Bluetooth. “Is your dude on your tail?” he asked without saying hello.
“Yep,” Hanna answered in a chipper voice.
“Mine, too!” Mike sang. “It totally rocks. Do you think he’s carrying a flamethrower?”
Hanna snorted. “This isn’t a superhero movie.”
Mike made a disappointed sound, which Hanna found totally adorable. She was thrilled that Fuji had put security on him, too. With Noel almost dying and Iris going missing, Mike would have probably been next on Ali’s list.
“So I drove by the burn clinic, and it was swarming with cops,” Mike said. “That means they’re probably looking for Ali clues, don’t you think?”
“Probably,” Hanna said. The cops would surely find traces of Ali in no time. There was lots of DNA evidence—hairs, skin follicles, drawn blood—from her time as Kyla. “Are there tons of news vans?”
“Yeah, but I heard a report. The cops gave a statement that Kyla’s killer was an escaped mental patient. They aren’t breathing a word about Ali.”