After all that, drums still beat in Ali’s head, overpowering all thoughts of lying low. You have to get them, she thought. You have to finish this.
And so she had. First she penned a journal, a story so brilliantly crafted it probably would have received an A+ in AP English. She twisted her relationship with Nick into something sordid and abusive, poor little sick Ali dragged into a murderous rampage with no way of escape. Nick killed my sister. Nick killed Ian. Nick set fire to Spencer’s woods. Nick killed Jenna Cavanaugh. It was all Nick’s idea, and he’d pulled Ali along for the ride.
She wrote that Nick had barely cared for her after the Poconos fire and forced her to take part in more nefarious activities, threatening to kill her if she told anyone or tried to leave. She wrote about clawing her way out of that basement to get away from him. Several entries talked about how wonderful it felt to be free—but how scary, too. She wrote that she’d been hiding in a barn in Limerick, Pennsylvania, though actually she’d been in the pool house at Nick’s parents’ vacation home in Ashland . . . which would play into the second part of her plan.
She’d also written whole chapters about the Liars, creating a different picture of them than what the public assumed. My sister’s dear old friends, she called them, splattering salt water on the diary to look like tears. I hope they forgive me and understand that I wasn’t the one behind all this. I’ve wanted to tell them so many times. Ali wrote that she wanted to go to the cops with her story, but she was afraid they wouldn’t believe her. She wrote about wanting to anonymously turn in the journal, but she didn’t know who to trust.
As her coup de grace, she detailed how the Liars had tracked her down, finding her in the barn and tying her up. She begged them to listen to her side of the story, but the Liars threw her in Spencer’s trunk and dragged her away—although, really, she hadn’t been dragged anywhere, and was still at the pool house, waiting for them to find her. Writing this with my hands tied up, Ali had penned, actually tying her hands together so her handwriting was properly sloppy. And: This journal is my only friend. And: I’ve tried to tell them the truth again and again, but they just won’t listen. They’re crazy. All of them. I know they’re going to kill me. I’m never getting out of here alive. Her last entry was two choppy sentences: I think today is going to be the day. I’m so scared.
It was kismet: The date of the last entry jibed almost perfectly with when the Liars really did find the pool house. Ali knew they’d come—she’d planted that receipt in the pocket of the hoodie she let Emily tear off her for that very reason. To sufficiently hook them, she made sure the place smelled overpoweringly of the vanilla soap she used. She knew they’d come inside the pool house and touch everything, leaving their fingerprints everywhere. They fell for every one of Ali’s tricks as though she had them under a spell. Sure, there were a few surprises—like the cameras they set up in the trees—but even those she made work to her advantage, especially when Emily had her colossal freak-out on-screen. The prosecution team would log that into evidence.
Now, Ali sat down at the laptop propped up on a small desk in the corner and opened a website. A huge banner saying Hang the Liars! splashed across the top of the page. We Are Your Ali Cats, Ali! Letting out a little coo of happiness, she leaned forward and kissed the screen. The Ali Cats, a special fan club that had started last year, were completely devoted to her. They had been the sweetest surprise in all of this. Ali loved them, her special helpers, her extra credit. Some of them were dedicated enough to risk everything for her. She wished she could write to them and thank each one of them.
After reading a few posts from Ali Cats all over the country, clamoring for the Liars to go to prison for the rest of their lives, Ali shut the laptop and moved to the closet. All her new clothes—mostly white or pale-colored shirts, shorts, and skirts in several sizes larger than she was used to—hung in a neat row. The stuff totally wasn’t her . . . but that was the price she had to pay. As she slid the hangers from one side of the rod to the next, she felt a small, nagging twinge inside her. This latest escape had come at a bit of a price. She’d had to get rid of a few of the Ali Cats—but that was necessary. And then there was Nick. She’d had a few dreams of him escaping from prison, finding her, and demanding to know how she could have blamed him for everything. But betraying him was necessary, too.
A knock sounded at the door. Ali whipped around, her heart pounding hard. “It’s just me,” came a voice. “Are you up?”
Ali’s heart slowed down. “Uh, yeah,” she said.
“I was just about to go out and get some breakfast. You want anything? Pancakes, maybe, like yesterday? An omelet?”