On Friday, Emily sat in the chemistry classroom, fanning herself with a notebook. Rosewood Day must have forgotten to turn on the AC, because the room felt sticky and closed and smelled like feet. Several kids had already walked out, complaining about the heat. Others were asleep at their desks. Flies buzzed noisily around Ms. Payton’s head.
A long swim would be wonderful. Emily needed to keep up with swimming anyway, in case UNC wanted her for the team next year. But her parents didn’t belong to a summer club. Last year, she’d swum on a summer team at the YMCA, but that was miles from here. If only she could use the Rosewood Day pool. It was right down the hall.
Dear Jordan, I’m thrilled to be in summer school, don’t get me wrong. But this room couldn’t smell any more like BO. And I swear someone has the worst gas ever. Help!
She’d been writing letters to Jordan in her head ever since she heard from her on Tuesday. Not that she’d even written them down, but knowing that there was someone out there she could talk to, someone who might listen to every stupid little thing she had to say, lifted her spirits. A few more days until I see you in New York, she thought, smiling to herself.
As Ms. Payton languidly drew diagrams of ions on the board, Emily’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and peeked at the screen.
Need to talk, Spencer had texted. I think Ali sent me a message through my bullying site last night.
Emily looked around, almost as if Ali would be standing at the door, glaring at her. Hanna seeing Ali in a crowd on a movie set was one thing—they chalked that up to Hanna being confused and overwhelmed. But Spencer wasn’t one to cry wolf.
Emily texted Spencer back for details. Spencer explained what had happened. I tried to trace the IP address to see who sent the note, but the details were hidden. I looked into the email it was sent from too, but it’s an alias. A fourth text said the alias was so protected she couldn’t get any details there, either.
So someone is really trying to hide their identity, Emily typed back, growing more and more nervous. Ali and Nick had configured all their past A messages to reroute back to their own phones, making it look like they had sent them to themselves. Maybe Ali was doing it again.
We should take the note to someone who knows more about computers, Emily typed, her fingers flying. We need to take this bitch down.
She waited for Spencer to respond, but her friend didn’t address Emily’s comment, saying she had to go.
Emily slid her phone back into her pocket, feeling antsy. Maybe Ali was planning something. But what? Was there anyone they could report this to? Would anyone help them?
Dear Jordan, I think Ali’s back. And I don’t know what to do or how to find her.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and typed Ali Cats into Google. Several fan sites appeared, and she read the new posts. One girl whose screen name was TabbyCatLover had listed intimate Ali details, like her eye color, her estimated weight, her favorite clothing brands, movies she used to like. Another poster had written an itinerary of what Ali’s life must have been like inside The Preserve, down to what sorts of meds Ali had taken. She’s tougher than all of us combined, the poster wrote at the end.
Emily couldn’t read any more—it wasn’t like any of the posts gave hints about Ali being alive or where she was. How could people support such a maniac?
The rest of the class passed in a sweaty blur, and soon enough, Ms. Payton was dismissing them. Emily stepped into the steamy hallway, then glanced to her left toward the natatorium. The door looked unlocked. Could she swim a few laps?
A half minute later, she was at her car, grabbing the bag of swim stuff she always kept in the backseat. She padded back into the school, cut through the girls’ locker room, and peeked into the natatorium. Blue water lapped against the sides. Every lane was empty, and the water looked glassy and smooth and cold. All the lights in the natatorium were still on, and even the digital time clock on the wall was working.
She tried the door handle. It turned easily.
She dropped her bag on a bench in the locker room and began to change into her swimsuit. During the school year, the locker room walls were filled with motivational posters, newspaper clippings, and pictures of the team, but now that had all been stripped away. The only poster still up was one for the Rosewood Rallies charity event next week. Emily’s parents had RSVP’d; her mom thought it was particularly important to go because she thought doing good in the community would help the whole family heal. If only it were that easy.
Emily pulled the swimsuit straps onto her shoulders. A faucet dripped at the sink, the noise echoing through the empty space. Sudden movement flickered across the room, but when Emily turned, all she saw was her reflection in the long mirror on the wall.