Spencer sucked in her stomach. Maybe this was a bad idea—Melissa was their ally, but was Wilden?

Melissa stepped forward. “Darren, we need to help them.”

Wilden sighed and walked down to the first floor. His expression was cautious but also curious. Emily reached into her pocket and handed him her phone. “There’s a voicemail I want you to check out. I’m almost positive it’s Ali.”

“Do you have any sort of equipment that might be able to amplify a part of the recording?” Spencer asked. “We might be able to figure out where she was calling from.”

“Or even isolate her voice to prove that it is her,” Emily added. “The cops don’t believe she’s still alive. We have to make them understand.”

Wilden narrowed his green eyes. “I’m still not sure this is a good idea.”

“Darren, please.” Melissa sidled up next to him. “This is my sister.”

Spencer swallowed a lump in her throat. It felt so good to hear Melissa say that.

Wilden glanced from one girl to the next. “All right,” he said, after a moment, then took Emily’s phone and sat down on the couch. “When I worked for Rosewood PD, we used a program we accessed on our intranet—all you needed was a digital file of the recording. If the pass codes to the intranet haven’t changed, I should be able to get into the system.”

“That would be awesome,” Emily breathed.

Melissa scurried into a back room. The girls settled on the couch and waited. Melissa returned with a silver MacBook Air and a USB cord. Wilden lifted the lid and typed something on the keyboard. “I’m in.” He handed Emily the phone and the USB. “Plug this in, and then play the recording back for us.”

Emily did as she was told, accessing her voicemail and finding Ali’s saved message. There were the sounds of a lot of voices talking at once, all of their words muffled. Then Ali’s chilling laugh rang through the room. Everyone stiffened. She laughed for a good five seconds, and then the recording ended.

Melissa shut her eyes. “It’s totally her.” Even Wilden looked freaked out.

They played the message again. Melissa tilted her ear toward the phone. “It sounds like she’s in a crowd.”

“That’s what we thought, too.” Spencer glanced at the laptop. An audio program that broke down the voicemail into packets of information and sound waves was on the screen. Every time Ali laughed, a sound wave spiked. In the background, there was cheering and laughter. Someone made a garbled announcement over a megaphone, and a second wave peaked.

“Did you hear that?” Spencer pointed at the second wave. “We thought if we could punch up that announcement, we might be able to figure out where she’s calling from.”

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.

So figure out who N could be, a voice told her.

Another impossibility. Like the staff at The Preserve was going to allow a suspected criminal to infiltrate their building. Besides, they’d already balked when she’d asked.

But she dialed The Preserve’s number all the same, another matter on her mind. When a nurse answered, Emily coughed. “Has Iris Taylor returned?” she asked shakily.

“Let me check.” There was typing. “No, Iris Taylor isn’t here,” she answered.

Emily gripped the phone hard. “You haven’t found her?”

There was rustling on the other end, and a second voice got on the line. “Who is this?” a man demanded. “Are you another reporter?” And then, click.

The call time flashed on Emily’s screen. She set her phone down on the bedside table and stared blankly out the window. Iris was out there somewhere. Who knew if she was alive or dead? And it was all Emily’s fault.

Suddenly, a second voice sounded in Emily’s head, this one lower in pitch and eerily hypnotic. So give up, it echoed. Just stay in bed. Close your eyes. There’s no point to anything.

A door slammed outside, and Emily opened her eyes once more. Though it took a huge effort, she hefted herself out of bed and crossed the hall to the front window. Outside, her father was helping her mom out of a cab. Carolyn grabbed Mrs. Fields’s bags, and Emily’s sister Beth and brother, Jake, fluttered around, trying to be useful.

She watched her mom hobble to the front door. Mrs. Fields looked gray and old, clearly sick. The door creaked as it opened, and Emily heard voices downstairs. “Sit right here,” Mr. Fields encouraged softly. “See? Isn’t that nice?”

“Can I get you something, Mom?” That was Beth’s voice.

“How about some ginger ale?” said Jake.

“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Fields said. Her voice was scratchy, like a grandmother’s.

There were quick footsteps, the kissing sound of the fridge opening and closing. Emily hesitated at the top of the stairs, more nervous than she’d felt on the blocks before the state-championship swim meet last year. After a few heaving breaths, she squared her shoulders and walked down the stairs.

Beth and Carolyn were sitting on the couch, their hands in their laps, their smiles twitchy. Jake returned from the kitchen with a tall glass of ginger ale. Mr. Fields was squatting by the TV, doing something with the cable box, and Emily’s mom was sitting on the recliner, her face pale and lined.

When Emily reached the bottom of the stairs, everyone froze. Carolyn’s lips puckered. Jake shot to his feet. Beth looked away, which made Emily feel especially awful.