“Maybe it’s a good time to escape from Rosewood,” Kate simpered, in an equally I know what’s best voice. “Especially the reporters.”
Hanna’s dad nodded. “I had to chase one guy off the property yesterday—he was trying to use a telescopic lens to get a picture of you in your bedroom, Hanna.”
“And someone called here last night, wanting to know if you’d give a statement on Nancy Grace,” Isabel added.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Mr. Marin concluded.
“And don’t worry,” Kate said, taking another bite of melon. “Naomi, Riley, and I will still be here when you get back.”
“But . . .” Hanna trailed off. How could her dad believe this bullshit? So she’d lied a few times. It had always been for a good reason—she’d ditched out on their dinner at Le Bec-Fin last fall because A had warned that her then recently ex-boyfriend, Sean Ackard, was at the Foxy benefit with another girl. She’d told everyone Kate had herpes because she was sure Kate was going to tell everyone about Hanna’s eating issues. Who cared? That didn’t mean she had post-traumatic stress whatever.
It was another painful reminder of how far apart Hanna and her dad had grown. When Hanna’s parents were still married, she and her father had been two peas in a pod, but after Isabel and Kate came along, Hanna was suddenly as obsolete as shoulder pads. Why did her dad hate her so much now?
And then, her blood pressure plummeted. Of course. A had finally found her. She stood up from the table, jostling the ceramic pot of mint tea near her plate. “That letter isn’t from Dr. Atkinson. Someone else wrote it to hurt me.”
Isabel folded her hands on the table. “Who would do that?”
Hanna swallowed hard. “A.”
Kate covered her mouth with her hand. Hanna’s father laid his cup on the table. “Hanna,” he said in a kindergarten-slow voice. “Mona was A. And she died, remember?”
“No,” Hanna protested. “There’s a new A.”
Kate, Isabel, and Hanna’s father exchanged nervous looks, as if Hanna was an unpredictable animal that needed a tranquilizer dart in her butt. “Honey . . .” Mr. Marin said. “You’re not really making sense.”
“This is just what A wants,” Hanna cried. “Why don’t you believe me?”
Suddenly, she felt overwhelmingly dizzy. Her legs went numb and a faint buzzing sounded in her ears. The walls closed in, and the minty aroma of tea turned her stomach. In a blink, Hanna was standing in the dark Rosewood Day parking lot. Mona’s SUV was barreling down on her, its headlights two angry homing beacons. Her palms began to sweat. Her throat burned. She saw Mona’s face behind the wheel, her lips pulled back in a diabolical grin. Hanna covered her face, bracing for impact. She heard someone scream. After a few seconds, she realized it was her.
It was over as quickly as it had begun. When Hanna opened her eyes, she was lying on the floor, clutching her chest. Her face felt hot and wet. Kate, Isabel, and Hanna’s father loomed over her, their brows furrowed with concern. Hanna’s miniature Doberman, Dot, was frantically licking Hanna’s bare ankles.
Her father helped her up and back into a chair. “I really think this is for the best,” he said gently. Hanna wanted to protest, but she knew it wasn’t any use.
She rested her head on the table, addled and shaky. All the sounds around her grew sharp and acute in her ears. The fridge hummed softly. A garbage truck rumbled down the hill. And then, underneath that, she heard something else.
The hair on the back of her neck rose. Maybe she was crazy, but she swore she heard . . . a laugh. It sounded like someone snickering gleefully, delighted that things were going precisely according to plan.
Chapter 5
A Spiritual Awakening
Monday morning, Byron offered to drive Aria to school in his ancient Honda Civic since Aria’s Subaru was still on the fritz. She moved a pile of slides, battered textbooks, and papers off the passenger seat to the back. The area below her feet was littered with empty coffee cups, SoyJoy wrappers, and a bunch of receipts from Sunshine, the eco-friendly baby store that Byron and his girlfriend, Meredith, shopped at.
Byron turned the ignition, and the old diesel engine grumbled to life. One of his acid jazz tapes blared through the speakers. Aria stared at the blackened and twisted trees in her backyard. Little curls of smoke rose from the woods, the fire still smoldering in places. An entire roll of yellow DO NOT CROSS tape had been strung up along the tree line, as the woods were now too brittle and dangerous to enter. Aria had heard on the news this morning that cops were combing through the woods in search of an answer as to who might have set the fire, and last night she’d received a call from the Rosewood PD, wanting to know about the person she’d seen in the woods with the can of gasoline. Now that the person definitely wasn’t Wilden, Aria didn’t have much to tell them. It could have been anyone under that enormous hood.
Aria held her breath as they rolled past the large colonial that belonged to Ian Thomas’s family. The lawn was covered with morning frost, the red mailbox flag was up, and a couple of coupon circulars were scattered on the Thomases’ driveway. There was fresh graffiti on the garage door that said Murderer, the paint an exact match to the KILLER graffiti someone had painted on Spencer’s garage door. On instinct, Aria reached into her yak-fur bag and felt for Ian’s class ring in the inside pocket. She’d been tempted just to give it to Wilden yesterday—she didn’t want to be responsible for it—but Spencer had a point. The Rosewood PD had missed the ring entirely during their massive search through the woods; they might assume Aria had planted it there. But why hadn’t they found the ring? Maybe they hadn’t searched the woods at all.