Inside, a uniformed man held up a small sign that read HASTINGS. He led them to their waiting SUV, on loan from the local car rental place. Spencer’s father signed some papers, loaded their luggage into the back, and everyone climbed in, slamming their doors loudly behind them. Spencer’s father stepped on the gas, hard enough that Spencer’s body lurched back against the plush leather seats.
“Ugh, it stinks like cigarettes in here.” Her mother fanned the air in front of her face, breaking the silence. “Couldn’t you have had them clean it out, Peter?”
Her father sighed audibly. “I don’t smell anything.”
“I don’t smell anything, either,” Spencer put in, wanting to stand up for her dad. Her mom had been ragging on him for days now.
But this just earned her a chilly look from them both. Spencer knew why. Against their wishes, she had declined the Golden Orchid award last month, admitting to the judging committee that she’d plagiarized her sister’s paper. Her parents had wanted her to keep quiet about it and just accept the award, but dealing with Ali’s death, discovering the identity of her killer, getting stalked by Mona Vanderwaal–as-A, and having Mona nearly push her off a cliff had put everything in perspective.
Spencer sank down in the backseat and stared out the window as her father turned onto the main boulevard. She’d been to Nana’s house so many times she could walk this street blindfolded—first came the marina, with its enormous private yachts, then the yacht club, which had a tasteful sign out front that said LUAU DECEMBER 28, 9 P.M., then the bridge that was raised whenever a particularly tall boat passed through, followed by the many overpriced shops and fancy restaurants. And everywhere, women in sprawling sun hats and oversized sunglasses peppered the sidewalks and outdoor patios, while men, looking fresh in their golf clothes, parked their convertibles and flashed their whitened teeth.
Mr. Hastings rolled up to the gated community where Nana Hastings lived. A guard with tanned, leathery skin and wearing a polyester uniform checked them off on a clipboard and waved them through. After passing a brilliant green golf course, a multitiered pool in which Spencer had spent many hours swimming, a private shopping area, and a world-class spa, they turned on Sand Dune Drive and approached the huge white compound that looked like a mix between the White House and Cinderella’s castle at Disney World. Doric columns flanked the front fa?ade. Terraces lined the sides and the back. A tall turret jutted into the sky. The yard was elegantly landscaped; not a single flower was anything less than wedding-arrangement perfect. As Spencer’s father opened the car door, she could hear the roar of the ocean. It butted up to the back of the house; a private deck looked out onto the beach.
“Now, this is more like it.” Mr. Hastings put his hands on his hips, arched his back a little, and stared into the brilliant blue sky.
They unlocked the front door and pulled their bags into the foyer, creating a fort of name-brand luggage. The house smelled like expensive floor wax, a smattering of sand, and lavender laundry detergent. It was utterly silent inside, and Spencer was about to ask where Nana was before she remembered she’d left for Gstaad, Switzerland, with her new boyfriend, Lawrence, yesterday morning. Nana Hastings wasn’t really into interacting with her family—she was rarely around when they visited. She in particular had never taken to Spencer. It must be genetic.
Spencer carried her bags up the sweeping, Southern plantation–style staircase to the bedroom she always stayed in, which was flooded with sunlight, had cheery yellow-and-white-striped wallpaper, a fluffy white rug, and an old brass bed. The room had a closed-up smell to it, as though no one had stayed in here for a long time.
She hoisted up her bag, pulled at the zipper, and began neatly unpacking her Florida wardrobe—bright sundresses, high-waisted sailor pants, and form-fitting polo shirts, which she refolded and placed into empty drawers. She unearthed her felt-lined travel jewelry case as she stood in front of the gleaming white bureau, ready to line up her necklaces and rings in the antique wooden jewelry box her grandmother had long ago cast off. She opened it, noticing a pair of chandelier-style earrings glistening from the top shelf. She gasped as she lifted them up, recognizing them instantly. She’d left them here the last time she’d visited, which had been over Memorial Day weekend in seventh grade. But the earrings weren’t hers—they were Ali’s.
Ali’s family also had a place down here, just across the man-made lake, and she and Spencer had divided their time between the two houses, lying out on the sand, swapping clothes, sneaking slugs from Spencer’s parents’ Dewar’s bottle, and flirting with boys downtown.