Melissa, who had settled into the corner of the couch, hugged her knees to her chest. “I can’t believe she’s ballsy enough to call you from the middle of a crowd.”
“Unless she’s not in the crowd but near it,” Spencer said.
Wilden listened to the voicemail one more time, highlighted the second spiky sound wave, and clicked a button at the bottom of the screen. The background noise dimmed and the announcement got louder, but it wasn’t any clearer.
There was a scratching noise somewhere else in the house. Spencer shot up. “What’s that?”
Everyone fell silent. Hanna’s face was pale, and Emily didn’t move a muscle. Something rustled. There was a teeny, tiny creak. Aria clapped her hand over her mouth.
Melissa half rose from the couch and peered around. “This place is a hundred years old. It makes a lot of noise, especially when it’s windy.”
They listened for a few moments more. Silence. Wilden turned back to the computer. “Let me try something else,” he murmured, pressing a few more buttons.
The message played again. Melissa squinted hard. “It sounds like someone is saying Mo Mo through a bullhorn . . . and then the message gets cut off.”
Wilden hit PLAY over and over. Cheering. The loud feedback of a bullhorn. Mo, Mo. “Maybe they’re at a sports event,” Hanna suggested.
“And Ali’s hiding under the bleachers?” Spencer asked, giving Hanna a doubtful look.
Wilden punched more buttons. Then a message appeared on the screen. Unknown user, it flashed. Access denied. “Shit,” he said, sitting back. “I think they realized someone outside the force is using this. They kicked me out.”
Spencer leaned forward. “Can you go log back in under a different name?”
Wilden closed the laptop lid and shook his head. “I don’t think I should. I shouldn’t be doing this at all.”
Spencer looked from him to her sister. “Can’t you do anything else?”
Wilden’s eyes darted back and forth. “I’m sorry, girls.”
Tears filled Melissa’s eyes. “This just isn’t fair. You girls don’t deserve this. Alison shouldn’t get to win.”
“Have you talked to Dad? What are they saying about our chances?” Spencer asked. “Every time I ask Goddard or the other guys on the legal team, they sort of dance around the question. Do you think we’ll actually get shipped to Jamaica?”
Melissa glanced at Wilden. He turned away. When she looked back at Spencer, there were tears in her eyes. “Dad’s saying it’s looking pretty hopeless,” she whispered.
Spencer’s stomach plunged. She reached out and grabbed Aria’s hand. Emily laid her head on Hanna’s shoulder. Hopeless.
“What are we going to do?” Emily moaned.
Wilden cleared his throat. “Don’t do anything rash, girls. I’ve heard . . . rumors.”
Everyone exchanged another look. It wasn’t even worth asking—they all knew what the rumors were about: the suicide pact. Suddenly Spencer thought it didn’t really sound like that bad of an idea. What did she have left, after all?
But then Spencer looked at Melissa again. She looked worried, almost like she could read Spencer’s thoughts. Spencer placed her hand over Melissa’s, and her sister pulled her into a hug. After a moment, Aria hugged them, too, and then Emily and Hanna. Spencer inhaled Melissa’s clean, soapy scent. It was nice to be on Melissa’s side after so many years of hating her. Even if she was no help, at least someone cared.
Because there was nothing left to do, everyone stood and headed for the door. Melissa followed them, her head lowered, looking defeated. She offered to drive Spencer and the others to the train, but Spencer waved her off. “You’ve done enough already.”
“Call me if you need anything,” she told Spencer, tears now running down her cheeks. “Even if you just want to talk. I’m always here.”
“Thanks,” Spencer said, giving her hand a squeeze.
And then she turned to the street. The temperature outside had dropped significantly, and the moon was now hidden in clouds. Spencer hugged her arms tight to her torso and followed the others back to the train station. No one said anything, because what was there to say? Another dead end. Another lead gone cold.
26
THE DARKEST PLACE EVER
That next Thursday, Emily woke to a headache and a perfect blue sky. She tried to get out of bed, but her legs wouldn’t move. You have to get up, she told herself.
Only, why? Her Rosewood Day graduation was in an hour, but it wasn’t like the school was allowing her to take part in it. She’d been given permission to attend, but why would she want to watch? And more than that, her mother still hadn’t returned from the hospital, more expensive items were missing from her house, and the FBI still thought Ali was dead and the girls had killed Tabitha. Emily’s arraignment was tomorrow, and then she’d be shipped off to Jamaica. All around her, summer was unfurling: Her neighbors were grilling and playing with their dogs and going for walks around the neighborhood. But when Emily even looked at the blooming flowers or the brilliant green grass, all she felt was dread. All of this was for other people to enjoy, not her.
She grabbed her phone, pulled up CNN, and looked again at the video. By now, eleven thousand, eight hundred, forty-two—no, forty-three—people had commented that Emily and her friends were evil incarnate. She winced as the shadowy girls beat Tabitha to death. It did look like the four of them. Besides, if the police suspected the video was a fake, wouldn’t they have already blown the thing up, used all their high-tech equipment to prove it? Ali had somehow made that video foolproof.