Then she realized what it was. Hanna hadn’t said she was sorry for blaming Spencer for Emily’s death. What she really, really wanted was an apology. Not a wedding invitation.
Hanna stared at her with big doe eyes. Spencer straightened her spine and handed the invite back. “I’m busy that night,” she said in a clipped voice, then swung around and marched out the door.
“Spencer!” Hanna said, chasing her. Spencer kept going, outpacing Hanna.
Spencer pushed through the back entrance, her emotions scrambled both from Hanna’s invitation and Rubens’s suggestion for a plea bargain. Should they do that? It would put an end to the trial and the persecution. But making a deal meant they were guilty of something—and they weren’t. Spencer didn’t want to go to prison for less time; she didn’t want to go at all.
She shut her eyes and thought again of Angela naming that outlandish price to help Spencer to disappear. She’d racked her brain but had come up with no other way to find the money. The prospect was as good as dead.
“Spencer.”
She whirled around. Melissa was hustling behind her down the ramp from the courthouse. Spencer’s jaw dropped. “You were in there?”
Melissa nodded. “I had to see how things were going.” She cast her eyes downward, looking about as defeated as Spencer felt. “I didn’t realize it was so bad, honey. Need a hug?”
Tears filled Spencer’s eyes. She melted into her sister, squeezing her tightly. Then Melissa patted her arm. “C’mon. I’ll drive you home. I canceled your car service.”
Spencer climbed into her sister’s Mercedes and sat back against the warm leather seats. As they wound through Rosewood, Melissa tried to take Spencer’s mind off things by chattering about the baby items she was planning to register for. “It’s crazy, all the things you need for such a little person,” she said. “So many blankets and bibs, bottles and toys, and we don’t know whether to co-sleep or use a bassinet . . .”
Her ring flashed as she gesticulated with her hands. It was incongruous to see Melissa wearing their mother’s old ring; Spencer wondered what her dad thought about it. Her mother’s nasty words floated back to her, too. You girls are set to inherit a treasure trove of things from your father. Well, you won’t get anything. You’ll be in jail—it’ll be no use to you there.
Suddenly, an idea struck her. She let out a gasp.
Melissa looked up. “You okay?”
Spencer tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and tried to smile. “Sure.”
But the rest of the way home, she jiggled her leg repeatedly. When she was little, she used to sneak into her mom’s closet and look at the jewels inside her red-and-black enamel jewelry box. Sometimes, she’d even try them on. Was it still there? When had her mother last taken stock?
Could Spencer actually consider taking some of that jewelry . . . to pay Angela?
As soon as her sister pulled into the driveway, Spencer gave her another grateful hug, ran into the house, and slammed the door. She waited until Melissa pulled out again, then shot upstairs. As usual, her mom’s bedroom suite smelled like her mother’s signature Chanel No. 5, and it was five-star-hotel-room spotless, the pillows fluffed, the bedspread smoothed, all clothes put away. Their cleaning lady even ironed Spencer’s mom’s sheets every morning before placing them on the bed.
She stepped toward her mother’s walk-in closet. Mrs. Hastings’s wardrobe hung on one side, Mr. Pennythistle’s suits on the other, their shoes on racks upon racks at the back. And then, on a middle shelf, there it was: the same black-and-red box she remembered.
Hands shaking, Spencer tried the lid. It didn’t budge. She held it up to the light, then caught sight of a little keypad by the hinge. Of course: It had a code.
She sat back, trying to remember what the old code had been. Melissa’s birthday, right? She typed in 1123 for November 23, but a red LED light appeared. Spencer frowned. Why would her mother have changed it?