A?
As another rock hit, she went to the window—and gasped. On the lawn was Wren. The blue and red lights from the police cars kept making streaky shadows across his cheeks. When he saw her, he broke into a huge smile. Immediately, she bolted downstairs, not caring how horrible her hair looked or that she was wearing marinara-stained Kate Spade pajama pants. Wren ran for her as she came out the door. He threw his arms around her and kissed her scruffy head. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she murmured.
“I know.” He stood back. “But I noticed your parents’ car was gone, so…”
She pushed her hand through his soft hair. Wren looked exhausted. What if he had to sleep in his little Toyota last night?
“How did you know I’d be back in my old room?”
He shrugged. “A hunch. I also thought I saw your face at the window. I wanted to come earlier, but there was…all that.” He gestured to the police cars and random news vans next door. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Spencer answered. She tilted her head up to Wren’s mouth and bit her chapped lip to keep from crying. “Are you okay?”
“Me? Sure.”
“Do you have somewhere to live?”
“I can stay on a friend’s couch until I find something. Not a big deal.”
If only Spencer could stay on a friend’s couch too. Then something occurred to her. “Are you and Melissa over?”
Wren cupped her face in his hand and sighed. “Of course,” he said softly. “It was kind of obvious. With Melissa, it wasn’t like…”
He trailed off, but Spencer thought she knew what he was going to say. It wasn’t like being with you. She smiled shakily and laid her head against his chest. His heart thumped in her ear.
She looked over at the DiLaurentis house. Someone had started a little shrine to Alison on the curb, complete with pictures and Virgin Mary candles. In the center were little alphabet magnet letters that spelled Ali. Spencer herself had propped up a smiling picture of Alison in a tight blue Von Dutch T-shirt and spanking new Sevens. She remembered when she’d taken that picture: They were in sixth grade, and it was the night of the Rosewood Winter Formal. The five of them had spied on Melissa as Ian picked her up. Spencer had gotten hiccups from laughing when Melissa, trying to make a grand entrance, tripped down the Hastingses’ front walk on the way to the tacky rented Hummer limo. It was probably their last really fun, carefree memory. The Jenna Thing happened not too long after. Spencer glanced at Toby and Jenna’s house. No one was home, as usual, but it still made her shiver.
As she blotted her eyes with the back of her pale, thin hand, one of the news vans drove by slowly, and a guy in a red Phillies cap stared at her. She ducked. Now would not be the time to capture some emotional-girl-breaks-down-at-the-tragedy footage.
“You’d better go.” She sniffed and turned back to Wren. “It’s so crazy here. And I don’t know when my parents will be back.”
“All right.” He tilted her head up. “But can we see each other again?”
Spencer swallowed, and tried to smile. As she did, Wren bent down and kissed her, wrapping one hand around the back of her neck and the other around the very spot on her lower back that, just Friday, hurt like hell.
Spencer broke away from him. “I don’t even have your number.”
“Don’t worry,” Wren whispered. “I’ll call you.”
Spencer stood out on the edge of her vast yard for a moment, watching Wren walk to his car. As he drove away, her eyes stung with tears again. If only she had someone to talk to—someone who wasn’t banned from her house. She glanced back at the Ali shrine and wondered how her old friends were dealing with this.
As Wren pulled to the end of her street, Spencer noticed another car’s headlights turn in. She froze. Was that her parents? Had they seen Wren?
The headlights inched closer. Suddenly, Spencer realized who it was. The sky was a dark purple, but she could just make out Andrew Campbell’s longish hair.
She gasped, ducking behind her mother’s rosebushes. Andrew slowly pulled his Mini up to her mailbox, opened it, slid something in, and neatly closed it again. He drove away.
She waited until he was gone before sprinting out to the curb and wrenching open the mailbox. Andrew had left her a folded-up piece of notepaper.
Hey, Spencer. I didn’t know if you were taking any calls. I’m really sorry about Alison. I hope my blanket helped you yesterday. —Andrew
Spencer turned up her driveway, reading and rereading the note. She stared at the slanty boy handwriting. Blanket? What blanket?
Then she realized. It was Andrew who helped her?
She crumpled up the note in her hands and started sobbing all over again.
33
ROSEWOOD’S FINEST