A fist clenched in Spencer’s chest. Though he now worked security at a museum in Philly, until recently Darren Wilden had been Officer Wilden, the chief investigator in the Alison DiLaurentis murder case, and it had been his job to sense when people were hiding something or lying. Could Wilden know about Spencer’s new stalker, who—of course—went by A? Could he suspect what she and her friends had done to Tabitha in Jamaica?
“Uh, nothing,” Spencer said haltingly, tugging on the collar of her blouse. She was being ridiculous. There was no way Wilden could know about A or Tabitha. He couldn’t possibly know that every night, Spencer had bad dreams about the Tabitha incident, replaying the awful day in Jamaica over and over again. Nor could he know that Spencer read and reread articles about the aftershocks of Tabitha’s death as often as she could—about how devastated Tabitha’s parents were. How her friends in New Jersey held vigils in her honor. How several new nonprofits had sprung up to condemn teenage drinking, which was what everyone had assumed had killed her.
But it wasn’t what killed her—and Spencer knew it. So did A.
Who could have seen them that night? Who hated them so much to torture them with the information and threaten to ruin their lives instead of going directly to the cops? Spencer couldn’t believe that she and her friends were yet again faced with the task of figuring out who A might be. Even worse, she couldn’t think of a single suspect. A hadn’t written Spencer or the others another note since that harrowing newscast two weeks ago, but Spencer was sure A wasn’t gone for good.
And what else did A know? A’s last message said, This is just the tip of the iceberg, as if he or she was privy to other secrets. Unfortunately, Spencer had a few more skeletons locked in her closet. Like what had happened with Kelsey Pierce at Penn last summer—Kelsey had been sent to juvie because of what Spencer had done to her. But surely A couldn’t know about that. Then again, A always seemed to know everything. . . .
“Seriously, nothing?” Wilden took another bite of crispy bread, his gray-green eyes on her. “That doesn’t sound like the whirlwind schedule of a soon-to-be Princeton student.”
Spencer pretended to wipe a spot off her water glass, wishing Wilden would stop staring at her as though she were a paramecium under a microscope. “I’m in the school play,” she mumbled.
“Not just in the school play, you’re the lead—as usual.” Melissa rolled her eyes good-naturedly. She smiled at Mr. Pennythistle and Amelia. “Spence has starred in every production since preschool.”
“And you’re playing Lady Macbeth this year.” Mr. Pennythistle sank ceremoniously into the heavy mahogany chair at the head of the table. “That’s a challenging role. I can’t wait to see the performance.”
“You don’t have to come,” Spencer blurted, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.
“Of course Nicholas is coming!” Mrs. Hastings squeaked. “It’s marked on our calendars!”
Spencer stared at her reflection in the back of her spoon. The last thing she wanted was a man she barely knew feigning interest in her life. Mr. Pennythistle was only coming to the play because Spencer’s mom was making him.
Amelia speared a chicken breast from the platter that was being passed around. “I’m putting together an orchestra concert for charity,” she announced. “A bunch of girls at St. Agnes are going to be rehearsing here for the next few weeks, and we’re going to hold the concert at the Rosewood Abbey. Everyone can come to see my performance.”
Spencer rolled her eyes. St. Agnes was the snooty private school Amelia attended, an institution even more obnoxiously exclusive than Rosewood Day. She’d have to figure out a way to get out of attending the performance; her old friend Kelsey attended St. Agnes—or at least she used to. Spencer didn’t want to risk seeing her.
Mrs. Hastings clapped her hands together. “That sounds lovely, Amelia! Tell us the date, and we’ll be there.”
“I want to be available for all of you girls.” Mr. Pennythistle glanced from Amelia to Spencer to Melissa, his gray-blue eyes crinkling. “We’re a family now, and I’m really looking forward to us bonding.”
Spencer sniffed. Where’d he get that line, Dr. Phil? “I already have a family, thank you very much,” she said.
Melissa widened her eyes. Amelia had a smirk on her face like she’d just read a juicy piece of gossip in Us Weekly. Mrs. Hastings jumped to her feet. “You’re being very rude, Spencer. Please leave the table.”
Spencer let out a half laugh, but Mrs. Hastings nudged her chin toward the hall. “I’m serious. Go to your room.”
“Mom,” Melissa said gently. “This is Spencer’s favorite meal. And—”
“We’ll fix her a plate later.” Mrs. Hastings’s voice was strained, almost like she was about to cry. “Spencer, please. Just go.”