“Really?” Mr. Hastings sounded enthusiastic. “And how did that go?”
Spencer skirted a green recycling can. She didn’t have the heart to tell her dad that Rubens had told them exactly the same thing as every other lawyer. Mr. Hastings had pulled all kinds of strings to get them a meeting, after all. And though they hadn’t talked about it—and would probably never discuss it in a zillion years—a huge, dark secret lingered between them. Not long ago, Spencer had found out that her father was Ali and Courtney’s dad, too. She knew he must have conflicted feelings about how messed up both of those girls had turned out, but Real Ali was still his flesh and blood. Spencer couldn’t help thinking that his careful, deliberate supportiveness was a clear message that he didn’t believe for a second that he was letting any paternal feelings get in the way.
“Um, great,” she said. “He seems really professional, and he’s going to represent all of us.” She took a breath, considering asking him about visiting Nick—her dad would definitely help. But she decided it wasn’t worth pursuing.
“Well, glad to hear it,” Mr. Hastings said. “Hey, if you’re still in the city, want to grab some lunch? I can meet you at Smith and Wollensky.”
Spencer stopped and looked around. She’d forgotten that she was close to her dad’s place on Rittenhouse Square. “Um, I can’t,” she blurted. “I’m already on SEPTA. Sorry!”
Then she hung up as fast as she could. With just her luck, she’d run into her dad on the street right now and be forced to answer questions. And she had no idea how she would explain where she was really going.
She reached into her pocket, looked at the address she’d written on a crumpled Post-it, and then entered it into Google Maps on her phone. It didn’t take her long to get to the building, a pretty white house with molding that looked like birthday-cake frosting. The car parked in front was a British racing green Porsche 911. An American flag hung from the eaves and there was a huge pot of flowers on the porch. Spencer walked up the steps and looked at the name on the mailbox. ANGELA BEADLING. This was it. Spencer was a little surprised—the book had been a bestseller, sure, but she hadn’t expected Angela to live somewhere quite so cushy.
She rang the bell and waited. Behind her, there was a loud slam, and she whirled around, her heart jumping in her throat. The street appeared deserted, so she wasn’t sure who could have made that slam. Someone in the house next door? The wind?
Ali?
No way. Ali wasn’t here. She couldn’t be.
A steely-eyed woman with blond hair, a sharply pointed nose, and thin lips appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a menswear-cut pair of trousers and an oxford shirt. Spencer stared at her. The woman stared back. It was the woman from the book jacket, all right. Except she wasn’t pleasantly smiling like she was in her author photo.
“Are you Spencer?” the woman asked gruffly. She stuck out her hand before Spencer answered. “I’m Angela. It’s three hundred just to come through the door.”
“O-oh.” Spencer fumbled for her purse and handed over a bunch of crumpled bills. Seemingly satisfied, Angela stepped through the doorway and waved Spencer into a huge space decorated with eighteenth-century French furniture. A tapestry depicting a sour-faced king and queen sitting on thrones in a royal court decorated the back wall. The chandelier over their heads held real candles, though none were lit at the moment. Three ceramic Buddhas stared at Spencer from the mantel. They weren’t calming in the least.
Angela plopped down on the largest leather couch Spencer had ever seen and spread her legs across it so that Spencer couldn’t share the space. Spencer drifted toward an upright chair in the corner. “So,” Spencer began, sitting down. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me. I really enjoyed your book.”
Angela smirked. “Thanks.”
Spencer leaned down and pulled her laptop from her bag, opening it on her lap. She took a moment to create a new document in Word and titled it Prison. “So I guess we’ll just start from the beginning, right? Like in ‘Chapter One—Getting There.’ Am I really going to be strip-searched?”
Then she heard Angela snickering and looked up. “Honey, this isn’t SAT prep.”
Spencer felt her cheeks blaze but didn’t close the laptop.
Angela lit a Newport Light on a long, gold cigarette holder. “I know who you are and what you did. You’ll probably get medium security, is my guess. I don’t think they’ll do minimum for you, but maybe not maximum, either.”