“No.” Spencer’s voice cracked. “She just said she had something important to tell me.” She let out a long breath.

Aria thought of Spencer’s cagey, crazy eyes peeping out from the woods behind Rosewood Day. “I saw you, you know,” she blurted out. “I saw you in the woods on Saturday. You were just…standing there. What were you doing?”

The pigment disappeared from Spencer’s face. “I was scared,” she whispered. “I’d never seen anything so scary in my whole life. I couldn’t believe that someone would actually do that to Hanna.”

Spencer looked terrified. All of a sudden, Aria felt her suspicion seep out of her. She wondered what Spencer would think if she knew Aria had thought Spencer was Ali’s killer, and had even shared that theory with Wilden. She recalled Wilden’s judging words: Is this what you girls do? Blame your old friends for murder? Maybe Wilden was right: Spencer might have starred in some of the school plays, but she wasn’t a good enough actress to have killed Ali, traipsed back to the barn, and convinced her remaining best friends that she was as innocent, clueless, and scared as they all were.

“I can’t believe anyone would do that to Hanna either,” Aria said quietly. She sighed. “So, I figured something out Saturday night. I think…I think Ali and Ian Thomas were dating, back when we were in seventh grade.”

Spencer’s mouth fell open. “I figured that out Saturday, too.”

“You didn’t already know?” Aria scratched her head, thrown off guard.

Spencer took another step into the room. She kept her eyes fixed on the clear liquid that filled Hanna’s IV bag. “No.”

“Do you think anyone else knew?”

An indescribable expression crossed Spencer’s face. Talking about all this seemed to make her really uncomfortable. “I think my sister did.”

“Melissa knew all this time but never said anything?” Aria ran her hands along the edge of her chin. “That’s weird.” She thought of A’s three clues about Ali’s killer: that she was close by, that she wanted something Ali had, and that she knew every inch of the DiLaurentises’ yard. All three clues together only applied to a handful of people. If Melissa knew about Ali and Ian, then maybe she was one of them.

“Should we tell the cops about Ian and Ali?” Spencer suggested.

Aria wrung her hands together. “I mentioned it to Wilden.”

A flush of surprise passed over Spencer’s face. “Oh,” she said in a small voice.

“Is that okay?” Aria asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course,” Spencer said briskly, regaining composure. “So…do you think we should tell him about A?”

Aria widened her eyes. “If we do, A might…” She trailed off, feeling nauseated.

Spencer stared at Aria for a long time. “A’s completely running our lives,” she whispered.

Hanna was still immobile in her bed. Aria wondered if she really could hear them, just like Lucas said. Perhaps she’d heard everything they’d just said about A and wanted to tell them what she knew, only she was trapped inside her coma. Or maybe she’d heard everything they’d said and was disgusted that they were talking about this instead of fretting over whether Hanna would ever wake up.

Aria smoothed the sheets over Hanna’s chest, tucking them up to her chin like Ella used to do when Aria had the flu. Then, a flickering reflection in the little window behind Hanna’s bed caught her eye. Aria straightened, her nerves jangling. It looked like someone outside Hanna’s partition was lurking next to an empty wheelchair, trying not to be seen.

She whipped around, her heart racing, and pulled back the curtain.

“What?” Spencer cried, turning around too.

Aria took a deep breath. “Nothing.” Whoever it was had vanished.

9

IT’S NO FUN BEING THE SCAPEGOAT

Light streamed into Emily’s eyes. She hugged her pillow and sank back into sleep. Rosewood’s morning sounds were as predictable as the sunrise—the barking of the Kloses’ dog as they set off on their walk around the block, the rumbling of the garbage truck, the sounds of the Today show, which her mother watched every morning, and the crowing of the rooster.

Her eyes sprang open. A rooster?

The room smelled like hay and vodka. Abby’s bed was empty. Since the cousins had wanted to stay longer at last night’s party than Emily did, Trista had dropped her off at the Weavers’ gate. Maybe Abby hadn’t come home yet—the last she’d seen of Abby at the party, she’d been all over a guy who wore a University of Iowa T-shirt that featured a big, scowling Herky the Hawk mascot on the back.

When she turned her head, she saw her aunt Helene standing in the doorway. Emily screamed and pulled the sheets around her. Helene was already dressed in a long patchwork jumper and a ruffle-edged T-shirt. Her glasses teetered precariously on the end of her nose. “I see you’re up,” she said. “Please come downstairs.”

Emily rolled out of bed slowly, pulling on a shirt, a pair of Rosewood Day Swim Team pajama pants, and argyle socks. The rest of the previous night rushed back to her, as comforting as sinking into a long, hot bath. Emily and Trista had spent the rest of the night making up a crazy square dance, and a bunch of the boys had joined in. They’d talked nonstop on the drive back to the Weavers’ house, even though both of them were exhausted. Before Emily got out of the car, Trista had touched the inside of Emily’s wrist. “I’m glad I met you,” Trista whispered. And Emily was glad too.

John, Matt, and Abby were at the kitchen table, staring sleepily at their bowls of Cheerios. A plate of pancakes sat in the middle of the table. “Hey, guys,” Emily said cheerfully. “Is there anything for breakfast other than Cheerios or pancakes?”

“I don’t think breakfast should be your main concern right now, Emily.”

Emily turned, her blood running cold. Uncle Allen stood at the counter, his posture stiff, a look of disappointment on his lined, weathered face. Helene leaned against the stove, equally stern. Emily looked nervously from Matt to John to Abby, but not one of them returned her gaze.

“So.” Helene started pacing around the room, her square-toed shoes clacking against the plank floor. “We know what the four of you did last night.”

Emily sank into a chair, heat creeping into her cheeks. Her heart began to pound.

“I want to know whose idea this was.” Helene circled the table like a hawk zeroing in on her prey. “Who wanted to hang out with those public school kids? Who thought it was okay to drink alcohol?”

Abby poked at a lone Cheerio in her bowl. John scratched his chin. Emily kept her lips pasted together. She certainly wasn’t going to say anything. She and her cousins would form a bond of solidarity, keeping quiet for the benefit of all. It was how Emily, Ali, and the others had operated years ago, on the rare occasion that someone actually caught them doing something.

“Well?” Helene said sharply.

Abby’s chin shook. “It was Emily,” she exploded. “She threatened me, Mom. She knew about the public school party and demanded that I take her to it. I took John and Matt along so we’d be safe.”

“What?” Emily gasped. She felt like Abby had smacked her in the chest with the large wooden cross that hung over the doorway. “That’s not true! How would I have known about some party? I don’t know anyone but you!”

Helene looked disgusted. “Boys? Was it Emily?”

Matt and John stared at their cereal bowls and nodded slowly.

Emily looked around the table, too angry and betrayed to breathe. She wanted to shout out what had really happened. Matt had done body shots from a girl’s navel. John had danced to Chingy in his boxers. Abby had made out with five guys and possibly a cow. Her limbs began to shake. Why were they doing this? Weren’t they her friends? “None of you seemed very upset to be there!”

“That’s a lie!” Abby shrieked. “We were all very upset!”

Allen pulled at Emily’s shoulder, jolting her back to her feet in a forceful, manhandling way Emily had never felt in her life. “This isn’t going to work,” he said in a low voice, bringing his face close to hers. He smelled like coffee and something organic, perhaps soil. “You’re no longer welcome here.”

Emily took a step back, her heart sinking to her feet. “What?”

“We did your parents a big favor,” Helene growled. “They said you were a handful, but we never expected this.” She pushed the ON button of the cordless phone. “I’m calling them now. We’ll drive you back to the airport, but they’ll have to figure out a way to pay for you to get home. And they’ll have to decide what to do with you.”

Emily felt all five pairs of Weaver eyes on her. She willed herself not to cry, taking big, gulping breaths of the stale farmhouse air. Her cousins had betrayed her. None of them were on her side. No one was.

She turned around and fled up to the little bedroom. Once there, she threw her clothes back into her swim bag. Most of her clothes still smelled like home—a mix of Snuggle fabric softener and her mom’s homey cooking spices. She was glad they would never smell like this horrible place.

Just before zipping the duffel closed, she paused. Helene was probably calling her parents, telling them everything. She pictured her mother standing in her kitchen in Rosewood, holding the phone to her ear and saying, “Please don’t send Emily back here. Our life is perfect without her.”

Emily’s vision blurred with tears, and her heart literally hurt. No one wanted her. And what would Helene’s next option be? Would she try to ship Emily off somewhere else? Military school? A convent? Did those still exist?

“I have to get out of here,” Emily whispered to the cold, spare room. Her cell phone was still lying at the bottom of the swear jar in the hall. The lid came off easily, and no alarm sounded. She dropped the phone into her pocket, grabbed her bags, and crept down the stairs. If she could just get off the Weaver property, she was pretty sure there was a minuscule grocery store about a mile down the road. She could plan her next move from there.

When she burst out onto the front porch, she almost didn’t notice Abby curled up on the chain-link porch swing. Emily was so startled she dropped her duffel on her feet.

Abby’s mouth settled into an upside-down U. “She never catches us. So you must have done something to get her attention.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Emily said helplessly. “I swear.”

“And now, because of you, we’re going to be stuck in lockdown for months.” Abby rolled her eyes. “And for the record, Trista Taylor is a huge slut. She tries to hump anything that moves—guy or girl.”

Emily backed up, at a loss for words. She grabbed her bag and sprinted down the front walk. When she came to the cattle gate, that same goat was still tethered to the metal post, the bell clanging softly around her neck. The rope didn’t offer enough slack for her to lie down, and it looked like Helene hadn’t even put out water for her. When Emily looked into the goat’s yellow eyes and odd, square pupils, she felt a connection—scapegoat to “bad” goat. She knew what it was like to be cruelly, unjustly punished.