Ali snickered. “Yeah, right. You don’t have it in you.”
“I don’t?” Emily bellowed in a voice entirely not her own. She reached out and clenched her hands around Ali’s neck. Ali’s eyes bulged. Emily could feel the muscles and tendons at Ali’s throat, and she willed herself to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze. “I don’t?” she repeated. Dimly, she realized that Mrs. D was screaming.
The furious smirk on Ali’s face turned to something more fearful. Emily relished the terror in Ali’s eyes—for once, she understood what they’d been through all these years. All she wanted was to get rid of this girl once and for all. All she wanted was for Ali to pay.
But then she realized: It wouldn’t solve anything. And she really would be Ali’s murderer. No better than Ali was.
She pulled her hands away. Ali turned her head and coughed violently. Emily leaned down, close to her ear. “No. You don’t deserve to die. I’m going to make you rot in jail for the rest of your life.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.”
There was the sound of a short, sharp click. Emily whirled around. Mrs. D stood behind them, holding the gun. “Put your hands up,” she whispered.
Emily leapt off Ali. Ali rolled onto her side, still groaning and coughing and clutching her throat.
Mrs. D’s hands might have been unsteady, but she was composed enough to release the gun’s safety. Her jaw was tight. Cords stood out from her neck. “Don’t touch my daughter,” she whispered.
Emily nodded weakly. She glanced back and forth for something to battle Mrs. D with, but there was nothing nearby. She was trapped. Mrs. D had her.
“I’m sorry,” she heard herself say. So this was it. She really was going to die. No one would ever know she’d searched valiantly for Ali. And Ali would get away . . . again.
A sound rose up from down the street. Emily perked up her ears. It was a siren—so the 911 dispatcher had heard her. “Back here!” Emily dared to scream. “Help!”
After that, everything happened so quickly: She heard the sounds of footsteps and the clang of the gate. The officers exploded onto the patio, and Mrs. D dropped the gun. The cops ran and picked it up, and then there was more shouting and confusion. “What’s going on here?” the cops bellowed. “Everyone, hands where we can see them!”
“This girl was trying to break into my home!” Mrs. D pointed at Emily. “She’s Emily Fields, the girl who’s supposed to be dead! She’s a murderer!”
The cops turned and stared at Emily. The tall one grabbed her wrist. The dark-haired one reached for his walkie-talkie. “Wait!” Emily cried. “The girl I supposedly murdered? She’s here!”
She gestured to where Ali had fallen—and gasped. Ali was gone.
There was a tinny, clanking sound at the edge of the property. Emily turned and caught sight of a shadowy figure scaling the chain-link fence. Ali was halfway up by now. “It’s Alison DiLaurentis!” Emily screamed to the cops, who were next to her. “You know who she is, right?”
The tall cop, who was still holding Emily’s wrist, glared at her. “Isn’t she dead?”
The other cop shouted up the fence. “Hey, you! Come back down. Now.” But Ali kept climbing. The short cop climbed up the fence after her. Ali let out a wail and scurried as quickly as she could, but her excess weight slowed her down. The cop caught her by the ankle and dragged her back. Ali’s legs kicked, and her fists flew. “Don’t touch me!” she screeched. “You’re hurting me! You can’t do this!”
“Stop struggling,” the cop said, shoving Ali to the dirt. Her hair fell in her face. Her too-small T-shirt pulled unattractively across her stomach. But as she twisted around to spit in the cop’s face, he looked at his partner, recognition dawning. The second cop leaned down and stared into Ali’s face, which was pushed against the grass. Now it was his turn to look baffled . . . and maybe a little bit frightened. He pulled out his walkie-talkie. “I’m going to need backup. Will you send two more black-and-whites to 8901 Hyacinth Drive?”
Mrs. D touched the cops’ arms. “Don’t believe a word that girl says,” she warned, her eyes on Emily. “She’s insane. My daughter’s name is Tiffany Day, not Alison DiLaurentis.”
“Yeah?” Emily felt heat in her face. “Do you have ID?”
Ali twisted around and looked at her mother. “Get my ID, Mom.”
Mrs. D stood very still. The corners of her mouth turned down. “S-she doesn’t have ID.”
Ali’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course I do.”
Mrs. D averted her eyes. “I didn’t get it yet,” she whispered to her daughter. “There wasn’t enough time.”
Ali just stared. There was a look of horror on her face.