Got it. Your secret’s safe with me. Hailey added a winking emoticon. And then: Hey, can you talk right now?
Hanna was about to call Hailey, but then she noticed Emily’s car in the lot. It was in the last space near the Dumpsters. Hanna could make out Emily’s silhouette in the driver’s seat through the window. She was staring straight ahead, totally expressionless.
Sorry, Hanna replied to Hailey, and dropped her phone on the seat, climbed out of the car, and jogged to Emily, the strings of her Ugg slippers flapping on the pavement—she’d been so scattered this morning that she’d forgotten to put on proper shoes. The Volvo’s engine was still running, and the air blew into Emily’s face. Even so, Emily was shivering. Tears ran down her cheeks. Hanna’s heart broke into a thousand pieces.
Tires screeched behind her. Spencer and Aria, in Spencer’s car, skidded into the lot, got out, and ran to Emily, too. Like Hanna, both of them looked exhausted. Aria was still wearing a lot of makeup, presumably from her art opening the night before. Spencer wore jean shorts and an oversize black sweater; there were dark circles under her eyes. Hanna wanted to ask them how their evenings were—they’d both had big, exciting nights. But it seemed inappropriate, considering what had happened to Emily.
Hanna flung Emily’s door open. Her friend didn’t even look up at her. “Em,” Hanna said, taking Emily’s hand. It was freezing cold. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
More tears spilled down Emily’s cheeks. “It’s all lies,” she said emptily. “Jordan’s lawyer is saying it was senseless prison violence. An accident. But I know the truth. This was Ali. She was in New York—Spencer saw her on the subway. She must have gone to the prison afterward. She got in, and she murdered Jordan.”
Hanna blinked hard. That didn’t make any sense. “So you’re saying she, like, broke into prison and killed Jordan?” she asked gently.
“Yes,” Emily said, setting her jaw. She sounded so certain.
“But aren’t prisons really secure?” Aria asked, climbing into the backseat. “You’re saying that Ali not only got inside the place, but also made it back to the prison cells themselves?”
“I guess so,” Emily said stubbornly. “Or maybe an Ali Cat did it.”
Spencer sniffed. “You think one of them is in prison?”
“I don’t know!” Emily sounded exasperated. She paused to wipe the tears from her face with a Kleenex from a small, snowman-printed package. “Didn’t you read that post on the Ali Cat site I sent you? It was about how some of them hate whoever hates Ali, and how they’re willing to hurt any of Ali’s enemies. Maybe they’re crazy enough to murder for her. Ali has to be behind this, you guys. She saw that I was happy, and she needed to ruin that.” She paused and swallowed hard. “When she cornered me in the pool, she was like, Say you still love me. I couldn’t do it. All I could think of was Jordan. And the look on her face when I said no—well, she was furious. That’s why she pushed me under, but it’s also why she let me go. Killing me wouldn’t have been satisfying. She had to kill the person that I was now in love with. She wanted me to live and suffer.”
“Oh my God.” Hanna clapped her hand over her mouth. The others looked just as stricken. Emily hadn’t told them about the “Say you still love me” stuff before.
Emily looked around ominously at the others. Her chin was shaking wildly. “She’s going to ruin your happiness, too. Mark my words.”
Hanna shivered, her thoughts instantly zinging to the kiss with Jared last night. Ali couldn’t know about that, could she?
Emily pulled another Kleenex from the pack. “We have to get her, you guys. Before she does anything else.”
“How?” Spencer asked. “The hoodie was a dead end, remember? We have no idea where she’s living or how she’s tracking us. We’re stuck until we see her again.”
“Maybe we could find out from the prison if any visitors came in or out last night?” Aria suggested.
Spencer scoffed. “Somehow I don’t think Ali signed herself in with her real ID.”
“Or maybe we could look at this.” Emily reached into the footwell and pulled out a real estate magazine Hanna often saw displayed at the organic grocery store in Rosewood. She flipped to a page marked with a Post-it and pointed to a picture of a majestic-looking stone house that looked a lot like Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater. ASHLAND, read the address. Secluded hideaway, on ten acres, read the Realtor’s description.
“The news mentioned that the Maxwells have a lot of properties in Pennsylvania,” Emily explained tonelessly. “I did some digging, and one of them was a wooded estate in Ashland, and it’s for sale. I scoured the internet, and this is the only thing that matched. It’s got to be the one.”