“I was babysitting down the street.” Emily’s voice shook. “When I got my text, I looked at Ali’s mailbox and saw someone here. I thought it was you, Spencer, since you’d written me the text.”
“It wasn’t me,” Spencer said in a hoarse voice.
The girls stared at one another for a moment. Aria could tell they were all thinking the same thing. The very worst possible thing.
“Okay, ha ha.” Spencer spun and faced the DiLaurentises’ dark backyard. “Very funny! You can come out now, loser! We’re onto you!”
No one answered. Nothing moved in the yard or in the woods beyond. Aria’s heart began to pound. It felt like something—or someone—was lurking close by, watching, waiting, preparing to strike. The wind gusted, and Aria suddenly caught a whiff of smoke and gas. It was the same horrible odor she’d smelled the night Ali burned down the woods. The same odor as the night the house had caught fire in the Poconos.
“I’m leaving.” Aria reached for her keys. “I’m not in the mood for this.”
“Wait!” Emily cried. “What’s that?”
Aria turned. A piece of paper stuck out of the DiLaurentises’ old mailbox, flapping in the wind.
Emily walked over and pulled it out. “That’s not yours!” Hanna hissed. “It’s probably just junk mail they forgot to pick up!”
“Junk mail that has our names on it?” Emily waved a white envelope in their faces. Sure enough, it said SPENCER, EMILY, ARIA, AND HANNA on the front in large block letters.
“What the hell?” Spencer whispered, sounding more annoyed than afraid.
Hanna grabbed the envelope from Emily. Everyone gathered close, the closest they’d been to one another in months. Aria inhaled Hanna’s sugary Michael Kors perfume. Spencer’s silky blond hair brushed against her cheek. Emily’s breath smelled like Doublemint gum.
Spencer turned on her iPhone’s flashlight app and directed it at the envelope’s contents. Inside was a folded-up piece of glossy paper, seemingly ripped from a magazine. When flattened out, it showed the latest photo of Real Ali when she’d returned from the Preserve last year. PRETTY LITTLE KILLER, read the fancy script at the bottom. THIS SATURDAY. 8 P.M.
“The made-for-TV movie,” Aria groaned. “Some idiot is messing with us.”
“Hold on.” Emily pointed to the other item in the envelope. “What’s that?”
Hanna pulled it out. It was a postcard. On the front was a gleaming, crystal-blue ocean surrounded by rocky cliffs. On top of the cliffs was a resort with a huge pool, lounge chairs, tiki huts, and a roof deck and restaurant.
Hanna gasped. “Is that . . . ?”
“It can’t be,” Spencer whispered.
“It is.” Emily pointed at the pineapple mosaic pattern on the bottom of the pool. “The Cliffs.”
Aria stepped back from the postcard as if it were on fire. She hadn’t seen an image of The Cliffs in almost a year. She’d deleted every photo from spring break. She’d untagged herself from Mike and Noel’s Facebook postings of them on the beach, at dinner, in an ocean kayak, or snorkeling on the reefs. The ones where she was pretending they were having a good time. Hiding the dark, awful truth.
Simply looking at the aerial view made her sick. A memory formed in her mind, sharp and distinct: Tabitha standing there at the bar, smirking at Aria. Looking at her like she knew exactly who she was . . . and exactly what her secrets were.
“Who could have sent this?” Hanna whispered.
“It’s just a coincidence,” Spencer said forcefully. “Someone’s screwing with us.” She looked around again for someone hiding in the bushes or giggling on the DiLaurentises’ old porch, but all was silent. It felt like they were the only people outside for miles.
Then Hanna turned the postcard over and squinted hard at the message there. “Oh my God.”
“What?” Spencer asked. Hanna didn’t answer, just shook her head frantically and passed the postcard to her.
One by one, each girl read the inscription on the back. Spencer covered her eyes. Emily mouthed no. When it was Aria’s turn, she focused on the capital letters. Her stomach tightened and her mind began to spin.
I hear Jamaica is beautiful this time of year. Too bad the four
of you can’t EVER go back there.
Missed you! –A
Chapter 9
Trouble in Paradise
The words on the postcard blurred before Spencer’s eyes. The wind gusted, and tree branches scraped up against the side of the DiLaurentises’ old house. It sounded like screams.
“Could this be . . . real?” Emily whispered. The air was so cold that her breath came out in eerie white puffs.
Spencer looked at the card again. She desperately wanted to say that it was a joke, just like the countless other fake A notes they’d received since Ali died. They’d arrived in her mailbox, addressed to Spenser Hastengs or Spancer Histings or, even more amusing, Spencer Montgomery. Most of the notes were innocuous, saying simply I’m watching you or I know your secrets. Others were notes of sympathy—although, bizarrely, they were still signed A. Some notes were more worrisome, pleas for money with threats if their requests weren’t met. Spencer had taken those sorts of A notes to the Rosewood police department, and they’d handled them. Done and done.
But this one was different. It referred to something real, something Spencer hadn’t dared to think about for an entire year. If the wrong people found out about it, they’d be in more trouble than they could ever dream of. They could kiss their futures good-bye.