“Look!” Spencer pointed furiously at the girl in the car opposite them. A few people on the platform glanced at Spencer as she pointed. “It’s Alison!” she shrieked, but her words were suddenly swallowed up by a subway train rushing into the station. It was the train Spencer and Greg were waiting for, the local going downtown.
“Spencer?” Greg said, touching her arm. Or at least Spencer thought that was what he’d said—it was impossible to hear him for sure.
She turned and pointed to the open doors across the platform. Alison! she mouthed, hoping he’d understand. She’s on that train!
Greg’s brow furrowed. He shook his head, then pointed to his ear. Spencer gestured furiously, and Greg looked in Ali’s direction, but more people had crowded into her car. Her face vanished from view. “Alison!” Spencer said over and over. A few other people glanced over, too, but most of them looked at Spencer like she was crazy. Then Ali reappeared again, still in the subway car. She stared out from the window, her eyes bright and cunning. An alarm blared. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” said a recorded announcement.
Slowly, horribly, the subway doors shut, sealing Ali in. She grinned at Spencer through the glass. And as the subway pulled away, she raised a few fingers to wave. See ya, she mouthed.
And then she was gone.
16
PARADISE LOST
For the first time in what felt like years, Emily woke up in her bed in Rosewood with a huge smile on her face.
Jordan was her first and only thought.
The possibility that she might be free and that Emily might get to spend time with her—real time, without sneaking around—overshadowed Ali. It trumped the disappointing phone call from Fuji last night that it was Spencer’s hair on the hoodie. It even trumped Spencer’s text that said she was sure she’d seen Ali on a New York City subway train. All Emily could think about was lush, beautiful, irresistible Jordan. All night long.
Humming to herself, she drifted across the bedroom and stared at her dreamy expression in the mirror. Jordan, Jordan, Jordan. She definitely had to arrange for another prison visit soon. And write her letters for sure. And maybe buy her a present. But what? Emily wondered what one could give a prison inmate. A book, perhaps? A nondangerous piece of jewelry?
She glided down the stairs to the breakfast table, where her parents were watching TV. “There are eggs,” Mr. Fields said, gesturing to the stove.
“And coffee,” Mrs. Fields added.
“Thanks,” Emily almost sang. “But I’m not hungry.” She was too hyped-up for food. And she certainly didn’t need anything artificial like coffee to make her feel more awake or alive.
She sank into the chair, smiling vaguely at the chicken-shaped napkin holder in the center of the table. Had she ever told Jordan about her mom’s chicken fetish? She’d probably think it was so funny. There was so much Emily needed to tell Jordan, minor things that only Jordan would want to know. Maybe, soon enough, Emily would have all the time in the world to do that. She let out a wistful sigh, savoring how wonderful that was going to be.
Mrs. Fields sipped her coffee. “So, do we need to get you a new dress for the Rosewood Rallies fund-raiser?” she asked Emily across the table.
Emily looked up and blinked. For a moment, she had no idea what her mom was talking about. “Oh, I’m fine,” she said after she remembered. “I’m sure I’ve got something in my closet.”
“It should be a lot of fun,” Mrs. Fields said, a small smile on her face. “Are you planning on bringing anyone?”
Emily smiled dreamily. If only she could bring Jordan. They’d have so much fun there, dancing, stockpiling delicious desserts, sneaking off to make out . . .
“Emily?” Mrs. Fields gazed at her curiously. “You all right?”
Emily smiled. She was tempted to tell her mom about Jordan, especially because she might be free in a few short months. But maybe it would be better to wait a little while longer, until her mom recovered a bit more from her heart attack.
“I’m just glad it’s Wednesday!” she chirped, staring wistfully at the ceiling.
Her parents exchanged a nervous glance. Mrs. Fields cleared her throat. “We’re worried about those bruises. Where did you get them again? The pool?”
Emily touched her neck. She’d almost forgotten about them. “It doesn’t matter,” she said faintly. “I’m fine.”
Then, Mr. Fields shifted forward in his seat. “Oh dear,” he said with a grunt, his brow furrowing at something on the TV screen.
Emily followed his gaze. The mug shot of Nick appeared. It was an update on the murder case.
“Nicholas Maxwell’s lawyers have informed us that Maxwell will try to plead insanity for all the murders,” a male reporter in an ugly sweater-vest announced. “He has been a patient at mental hospitals in the past, and his counsel is confident he wasn’t a mentally stable member of society when he committed these crimes.”
“What?” Emily squeaked, frustrated. It didn’t seem fair that Nick could plead insanity—he’d just be thrown back into The Preserve or something. She wanted him to rot in jail.
Mrs. Fields glanced anxiously at Emily. “Maybe we should turn this off.”