“Not really,” Nick spat.
“It’s funny, though, that they turned up in Cape May, New Jersey, the day after their visit. It’s also funny that your grandmother, Betty Maxwell, has a vacation home there.”
“Lots of people have vacation homes in Cape May,” the DA called out from his seat.
“That’s true.” Rubens looked at Nick. “Very, very true. But I had some guys do some snooping, and do you know what they found? A witness who can put Ms. Hastings and the other girls at that beach house that day.” He went to the screen and clicked on a new file. Up popped a picture of Hanna, Spencer, Emily, and Aria standing in front of the beach house they’d raided, hugging. Hanna’s heart lurched—she hoped this wouldn’t get them in even more trouble. But by the look on Rubens’s face, maybe that wasn’t where he was going.
“That doesn’t seem like a coincidence, does it?” he said. “And strange—when I questioned the guard at your prison who escorted you out of the room after you spoke to the girls, he said you mentioned your grandmother Betty to them—and Cape May. Now, why would you do that?”
Nick’s lip quivered. “I—”
“Can I offer a theory?” Rubens suggested, lacing his hands together. “I think you wanted them to go to that beach house because you can’t be sure Alison’s really dead. And you’re furious that she pinned all of her crimes on you—you loved her, you thought you two were bound for life. You thought the girls might find her there. And you wanted them to bring her in once and for all.”
“That’s not true,” Nick said.
“Why else would you have hinted that your grandmother has a house there?” Rubens raised his hands in the air. “Surely you weren’t offering the place so the girls could get some R & R. Will you honestly sit up here and tell me that you really and truly think Alison is dead? In front of all these people, after swearing on the Bible, with the risk of perjury on your record, you want to tell me that you really and truly believe Alison isn’t alive?”
There was a deathly hush in the courtroom. Hanna peeked at Reginald. His face was pale, his mouth slack. Nick ran his hands down his face, his eyes darting back and forth. Finally, the judge shifted. “Answer the question,” he demanded.
“I-I don’t know.” Nick’s voice cracked. “She could be out there. I mean, probably not, but . . .”
“But she could.” Rubens looked at the jury, his expression triumphant. “She could. And that’s because Alison is the mastermind here, not Nicholas. He was a pawn in her game, not the other way around. And may I remind all of you that we are convicting Ms. Hastings and Ms. Marin—and Ms. Montgomery, when she returns—based on one hundred percent certainty that they not only killed Alison, but that Alison is indeed dead. And maybe, just maybe, she’s not. She’s been presumed dead before, after all—after the Poconos, when Nick himself saved her. She knows how to lie low. She knows how to evade the law. It’s not unthinkable that she’s doing the same thing here.”
Then, dropping his hands to his sides, he looked wearily at the judge. “No further questions, your honor.”
“That’s the last witness,” the judge said. “After closing statements, the jury will deliberate. We’ll recess for one hour.”
Instantly the courtroom started buzzing. The guard grabbed Nick and led him back down the aisle, but not before he shot the DA a trapped, scared glance. Rubens strode out of the courtroom, too, looking almost giddy. Hanna turned to Spencer again. Her old friend glanced at Hanna cagily, then gave her the tiniest of smiles.
Hanna smiled back just before Spencer turned away. Just like Nick’s testimony, it wasn’t much—just the tip of the iceberg. But at least it was something.
21
ONE LAST HURRAH
On Friday night, Spencer sat in the kitchen, helping Melissa go through bags and bags of stuff she’d purchased from Buy Buy Baby. There must have been at least fifteen tiny, neutral-colored onesies in the pile. “Now, I’ve heard that babies are really sensitive to dyes, so you have to wash all their clothes first,” Melissa murmured, pulling out a huge bottle of Honest Company organic detergent.
“I’ll be on wash duty,” Spencer volunteered. Then she laughed—the baby wasn’t coming for seven more months, so it seemed silly to wash all the clothes now. On the other hand, she might not be around in seven months to help. If Angela made her disappear, she wouldn’t be here for the birth. She wouldn’t get to meet the baby . . . ever.
She gathered up the onesies and began to remove their tags, trying to push the thought down deep.