SLOWLY SINKING
Two weeks after her arrest, Hanna staggered down the stairs of her mom’s house with her mini Doberman, Dot, following on her heels. All the lights were still on in the kitchen, but the room was empty. A note on the table said, I made coffee. Muffins in fridge.
Hanna listened, but there were no sounds of her mom anywhere—she must have already gone to work. Ms. Marin had been weirdly attentive in the past few days, bringing home sushi from the store, watching Teen Mom marathons with Hanna and Mike, even offering to give Hanna a mani-pedi, although Ms. Marin had a very well-known aversion to feet. On the one hand, Hanna thought it was sweet that her mom was trying to make an effort and stand by her. But it was too late. Her fate was sealed.
She fell into a kitchen chair, flipped on the TV, and absently stroked Dot’s smooth, flat head. Her blinking phone on the table caught her eye. TEN NEW MESSAGES. Her heart lifted, thinking one might be from her dad, who she hadn’t heard from since before her arrest. But then she scrolled through each of the messages. They were all from her classmates.
You’re disgusting, wrote Mason Byers. I bet you hurt Noel, too, right?
And from Naomi Zeigler: I hope you rot in Jamaica forever, bitch. And Colleen Bebris, Mike’s ex: I knew you were capable of this sort of thing.
Even Madison had written: Maybe I forgave you too soon. Now I don’t know what to think about the crash.
More of the same. Hanna had been getting these nonstop since she had been released from jail. She deleted them without reading more. Maybe it was good she’d been suspended: If she returned to Rosewood Day, she’d be the most-hated girl at school.
She held her phone in her palms for a few moments, then clicked over to a saved video link. An image of a waving American flag appeared. Then came her father’s voice-over: I’m Tom Marin, and I approve this message.
Hanna watched the whole PSA from start to finish. She would be the only person in Pennsylvania who actually saw it, as it had been pulled from the networks before it even aired. “And that’s why I stand behind Tom Marin’s Zero-Tolerance Plan,” TV Hanna said brightly at the end, offering a huge smile.
The camera zoomed in on her father’s supportive expression. He turned to Hanna at the end of the commercial, his essence oozing love and pride and loyalty.
What a farce.
As if on cue, a news broadcast appeared on the TV in the kitchen. Hanna looked up. The anchor was talking about Hanna’s dad’s run for Senate. “Since Mr. Marin’s daughter’s arrest, there has been a sharp downturn of Tom Marin supporters,” the woman said. A line graph appeared on the screen. A bold red line, representing the number of Tom Marin devotees, made a roller-coaster-like plunge. “Protesters demand that he withdraw,” the reporter added.
There was a shot of an angry mob holding picket signs. They’d been on the news nonstop, too—they were the same people who had protested outside Graham’s funeral, and the news had spent a good deal of time with them the day Hanna was released from jail, when they’d picketed her father’s office. It looked like they were in front of the office again today. Some of them bore the same STOP THE ROSEWOOD SERIAL KILLER message, but there were new signs now of Mr. Marin’s face with a red slash across it and Hanna, Spencer, Emily, and Aria wearing devil horns.
Hanna flicked off the TV fast, experiencing the dizzy feeling she got when she knew she was going to puke. She fled to the bathroom and leaned over the bowl until the queasiness passed. Then she felt for her phone in her pocket. She had to fix this for her dad. His voters needed to understand that this wasn’t her fault. He needed to understand it, too.
The doorbell rang. Dot scampered toward it, barking hysterically. Hanna stood up and trudged down the hall. A shape moved through the opaque sidelight, and she worried for a moment it might be the cops coming to take her to Jamaica now. Maybe her dad had arranged to get her out of the country early.
But it was just Mike. “Your final exam, madam,” he offered, pushing an envelope into her hands.
Hanna stared at it. Honors Calculus it said at the top.
“You have two hours,” Mike said, glancing at his watch. “And they’re even letting me be your proctor. Do you want to start now?”
Hanna suddenly felt exhausted. When was she ever going to use calculus—especially if she was in prison? “Let’s do it later,” she said, placing the envelope on the side table in the foyer. “I need a favor.”
“Anything,” Mike said automatically.
“I need to go to my father’s campaign office. Now.”
Mike’s eyes darted back and forth. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I thought you weren’t allowed to leave the house.”
Hanna glared at him. “You said anything.”