Then the summer between sixth and seventh grade, Ali had dropped off the face of the earth for two weeks. Every time Emily called Ali’s cell phone it went to voice mail. Whenever she rang Ali’s house, the answering machine picked up. And yet, the DiLaurentises were definitely home—Emily biked by their house and saw Mr. DiLaurentis washing his car in the driveway and Ali’s mom pulling weeds in the front yard. She became convinced Ali was angry at her, though she had no idea why. And she couldn’t talk to her other best friends about it. Spencer and Hanna were vacationing with their families, and Aria was at an art camp in philly.
Then, two weeks later, Ali called out of the blue. “Where were you?” Emily demanded. “I ran away!” Ali chirped. When Emily didn’t answer, she laughed. “I’m kidding. I went to the poconos with my aunt Giada. There’s no cell service up there.”
Emily glanced at the handwritten sign again. As much as she didn’t trust A’s cryptic instructions about going to Lancaster—after all, A had misled them into believing that Wilden and Jason were Ali’s killers, when Ali was in fact still alive—one tiny sentence fragment kept swirling in her head: What wouldyou do to find her? She’d do anything, of course.
Taking a deep breath, Emily climbed the steps to the front porch of the farmhouse. A bunch of shirts hung from the laundry line, though it was so cold out that they looked half-frozen. Smoke poured from the chimney, and a big windmill in the back of the property churned. The yeasty smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the frigid air.
Emily looked over her shoulder, squinting at the far-off rows of dead cornstalks. Was A watching right now? She raised her hand and knocked three times, her nerves jangling. Please let Ali be there, she chanted to herself.
There was a creak and then a bang. A figure disappeared out the back door, slipping through the cornfield. It looked like a guy about Emily’s age, wearing a puffy down jacket, jeans, and bright red-and-blue sneakers. He ran at top speed without looking back.
Emily’s heart banged in her chest. Moments later, the front door opened. A teenage girl stood on the other side. She wore a dress like Emily’s, and her brown hair was pulled into a bun. Her lips were very red, as if they’d been recently kissed. She searched Emily’s face wordlessly, her eyes narrowed with disdain. Emily’s stomach swooped with disappointment.
“Uh, my name is Emily Stoltzfus,” she blurted, reciting the name from A’s note. “I’m from Ohio. Are you Lucy?”
The girl looked startled. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Are you here for Mary’s wedding this weekend?”
Emily blinked. A hadn’t told her about a wedding. Was it possible Ali’s new Amish name was Mary? Maybe she was being forced to be a child bride, and A had sent Emily here to save her. But Emily’s return bus ticket was for Friday afternoon, the very same time the church group returned from Boston. She couldn’t possibly stay for what was probably a Saturday wedding without raising her parents’ suspicions. “Um, I came to help with the preparations,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound incredibly foolish.
Lucy glanced at something behind Emily. “There’s Mary now. Do you want to go say hi?”
Emily followed her gaze. But Mary was much smaller and dumpier than the girl Emily had seen in the woods just days ago. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, showing off her chubby cheeks. “Um, that’s okay,” Emily said glumly, her heart yo-yoing. She turned back to Lucy, inspecting her face. Lucy’s lips were pressed tightly together, like she was biting back a secret.
Lucy opened the door wider, letting Emily in. They walked into the parlor. It was a big square room, lit only by a gas-powered lantern in the corner. Handcrafted wooden chairs and tables crowded the walls. A bookshelf in the corner housed a jar full of celery and a large, well-worn copy of the Bible. Lucy walked into the center of the room and gazed at Emily carefully. “Where are you from in Ohio?”
“Um, near Columbus,” Emily said, blurting out the first Ohio town she could think of.
“Oh.” Lucy scratched her head. This must have been an acceptable answer. “Did Pastor Adam send you to me?”
Emily swallowed hard. “Yes?” she guessed. She felt like she was an actress in a play, but no one had bothered to give her the script.
Lucy tsked and glanced over her shoulder toward the back door. “He always thinks things like this will make me feel better,” she muttered acidly.
“I’m sorry?” Emily was surprised at how annoyed Lucy seemed. She’d thought the Amish were eternally temperate and calm.
Lucy waved her thin, pale hand. “No, I’m sorry.” She turned and started down a long hall. “You’ll take my sister’s bed,” she said matter-of-factly, leading Emily into a small bedroom. Inside were two twin beds covered by lively colored homemade quilts. “It’s the one on the left.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” Emily asked, glancing at the bare white walls.
“Leah.” Lucy punched a pillow.
“Where is she now?”
Lucy smacked the pillow harder. Her throat bobbed, and then she turned away toward the corner of the bedroom, as if she’d done something shameful. “I was just going to start the milking. Come on.”
At that, she marched out of the bedroom. After a moment, Emily followed Lucy, snaking through a rabbit warren of hallways and rooms. She poked her head into each room, aching to see Ali in one of them, sitting in a rocker, her finger to her lips, or crouching behind a bureau, her knees pulled into her chest. Finally they crossed the big, bright kitchen, which smelled overpoweringly like wet wool, and Lucy led her out the back door to an enormous, drafty barn. A long line of cows stood in stalls, their tails swishing. Upon seeing the girls, a few of them let out loud moos.