Twisted

When Hanna’s phone buzzed against her hip, she jumped. Mike, she hoped—he could only freeze her out for so long. She reached into her pocket, pulled it out, and stared at the screen. TEXT FROM ANONYMOUS. With a shudder, she opened it and read the message.

Turn on the news, sweetie. I have a surprise for you. Kisses!

–A

Chapter 33

The news they haven’t been waiting for

The Acela bullet train back to Rosewood shuddered into Penn Station, and Spencer, her mother, and the Pennythistles boarded silently. Mr. Pennythistle sank rigidly into his seat, looking like he was about to burst a blood vessel in his brain. Mrs. Hastings was next to him, shooting him overwrought glances, staring anxiously out the window, or glaring at Spencer and shaking her head. Spencer wondered what he’d told her about this morning. Had he included the part about shoving Zach around? Had he included the part about how he was a homophobe?

Amelia kept twisting around and eyeing everyone, certain that something was up but not privy to what it was. Zach hunched by the window, iPod headphones in his ears. He threw his coat and bag on the adjacent seat so Spencer wouldn’t be able to sit there. She’d tried to apologize to him again and again, but it did no good—he wouldn’t even look at her.

They passed Newark, then Trenton. Spencer’s phone rang—CALL FROM HANNA MARIN. But she didn’t want to talk to Hanna right now. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Spencer pressed her forehead against the cool glass windowpane and stared at the trees and houses rushing past. The sky was a perfect blue today and nearly cloudless. It reminded her, suddenly, of the plane ride home from Jamaica a year ago. When they’d lifted off from the runway and circled the airport, she’d spied the endless, empty beach and crashing blue ocean below. From the high vantage, she was sure she’d see Ali’s body bobbing in the waves, a speck of yellow fabric among so much blue, but she didn’t see anything.

The days following Ali’s death had been awful: They’d kept up the guise of happy, vacationing teenagers, especially because Noel and Mike were there. They snorkeled and swam, ocean kayaked and jumped off the cliffs a dozen more times. Hanna got a massage, and Aria took a couple of yoga classes. But the secret weighed on each of them. They barely ate. They were slow to smile. They drank a lot, but the drinks made them tense and combative instead of happy or relaxed. Sometimes Spencer heard Hanna, with whom she was sharing a room, rise from her bed in the middle of the night, shut the bathroom door, and spend hours in there. What was she doing? Asking her reflection what she’d helped do? Reliving the whole horrible thing?

Spencer always pretended she was asleep when Hanna emerged from the bathroom, never wanting to talk about it. The distance between them had already begun to grow. They didn’t want to look at each other for fear someone would burst out crying.

Every morning, Spencer woke up, padded to her balcony, and looked out to the shoreline; sure Ali’s body would be lying there, bloated and blue. But it never was. It was like it never happened. No Jamaican policemen knocked on the doors to their rooms, asking questions. No members of the hotel staff stood in a tight huddle, discussing a missing guest. It seemed no one even noticed she was missing. And it appeared that no one, no one at all, had seen what Spencer and the others had done that awful night.

On the plane ride home, Emily touched Spencer’s hand. Her skin was waxy, and her hair looked greasy and unwashed. “I can’t stop thinking. What if the ocean didn’t wash her away? What if she didn’t die on impact? What if she’s suffering somewhere?”

“That’s crazy,” Spencer snapped, hardly believing Emily was bringing this up in such a public place. “We scoured every inch of that beach. She couldn’t have crawled anywhere that fast.”

“But . . .” Emily fiddled with the plastic cup she’d received from the refreshment cart. “It just seems strange the tide didn’t bring her in.”

“It’s good the tide didn’t bring her in,” Spencer whispered, tearing her cocktail napkin into tiny pieces. “The universe is looking out for us—and everyone else she would have murdered. She was crazy, Emily. We did the best thing possible. The only thing.”

But now, Spencer doubted that Ali had drifted out to sea. She stared at the latest note A had sent: All secrets wash ashore . . . eventually. Emily was right. Ali never washed ashore because she didn’t die in the fall.

Finally, the train pulled into the Rosewood station, and everyone disembarked. They threw their bags into the back of Mr. Pennythistle’s Range Rover and started for home. The drive back from the train station was equally silent and awkward, although the conservative news channel Mr. Pennythistle had on at least provided some welcome noise. Spencer had never been so grateful to see her house in her entire life. As she opened her door, Mr. Pennythistle swiveled around and stared at her. “Say goodbye to Zachary, Spencer. This is the last you’ll ever see of him.”

Spencer almost dropped her duffel onto the slushy street. “What?” Hadn’t they just said the Pennythistle family was moving into the Hastings house last night?

“He’s going to military school in upstate New York,” Mr. Pennythistle said in a bloodless, perfunctory voice he probably used when firing employees. “It’s all set. I made the call this morning.”

Amelia gasped—this, apparently, was the first she heard of it, too. Spencer eyed Mr. Pennythistle pleadingly. “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

“Spencer.” Mrs. Hastings pulled her away from the vehicle. “This isn’t our concern.”