Deadly

Emily appeared by her side. Spencer caught up next, then Aria. Mr. Goddard made a circle around them with his arms, barricading the reporters, and as the girls looked at one another, they all burst into tears. Spencer grabbed Hanna tightly and hugged her. Aria and Emily wrapped their arms around them, too. They sobbed as one, their breaths sharp and uneven. Flashbulbs popped. The reporters didn’t pause for a second from questioning. But for a few moments, Hanna didn’t care what the photos would be. Who wouldn’t show emotion when she was extradited to a foreign prison for a crime she didn’t commit?

“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” she murmured into her friends’ ears.

“We have to be strong,” Spencer said, her voice cracking.

Hanna gazed back at the courtroom doors, surprised at how many people were streaming out. Mona’s parents hurried down the steps, probably worried they’d be stalked by the reporters themselves. Naomi and Riley flirted with a few lacrosse players, treating this as a social event. Kate looked a little lost as she walked to the window. Hanna wanted to call her over and give her a big hug.

Mr. Goddard directed them into the conference room and shut the doors. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “We’re filing an appeal immediately. And we’re working on getting you the best lawyers in Jamaica.” Then he shut the door behind them, leaving the girls alone.

For a few moments, Hanna sat numbly at the table, scratching her nails against the wood.

Suddenly, something out the window caught her attention. The view was of the empty parking lot, but voices rang out from somewhere below. “No more,” someone said through a bullhorn.

“No more,” more voices echoed.

“No more murders in Rosewood!” the first voice said.

She cocked her ear. If you weren’t paying attention, if you didn’t know what you were listening for, that first part kind of sounded like Mo, Mo.

“No more!” the first voice said through the bullhorn.

“No more murders in Rosewood!” echoed the protesters again, waving their picket signs.

Hanna clapped a hand over her mouth. “Guys.” She wheeled around and motioned for Spencer, Emily, and Aria to come to the window. They moved toward her, their brows furrowed.

“The protesters,” Hanna said. She peered all the way to the left, and there they were, making a big circle on the front lawn. No more murders in Rosewood, they chanted. “That’s the announcement from Ali’s voicemail,” Hanna said.

Emily blinked hard. “Really?”

Hanna nodded, suddenly never more sure of anything in her life. “It’s the same voice. The same protest message. We only had a piece of it before Ali hung up. But this is it.”

Spencer made a face. “Ali was in the middle of a protest march . . . about the murders she committed?”

“Maybe she was near a march,” Hanna said.

Spencer paced around the room. “There have been marches all over Rosewood for the past week. When did you receive that message, Emily?”

“Last Friday.”

Aria looked at Spencer. “Is there any way we could figure out where the protesters were that day?”

Hanna suddenly realized something. “I know where they were.” The last time she’d gone to his office, he’d been more concerned with whether the protesters had seen her come in than with the fact that she needed his help.

When she explained this to her friends, Spencer gasped. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” Hanna’s heart beat faster and faster. “She was calling from near my dad’s campaign office.”

Hanna gazed at her friends, a tiny candle of hope burning inside her. They had one more day until they were going to Jamaica. One more night to stake this out. It would be next to impossible to get out of the house, but they had to, somehow. When she saw the determined expressions on her friends’ faces, she knew they were thinking the exact same thing.

Spencer’s gaze flicked toward the trees. “One AM?”

Hanna nodded. It was on.

31

FINDING HER

At 12:20 AM, Spencer’s phone alarm buzzed on her nightstand. Her eyes popped open, and her body was suddenly alert. Though her bedroom was dark and she was tucked under the covers, she was fully dressed in a black hoodie, black tights, and even black New Balance running sneakers she’d found in the closet in Melissa’s old bedroom. She was ready.

She slid the covers back and tiptoed to the door. The house was silent. Her mom and Mr. Pennythistle were presumably sleeping, probably zonked out on Xanax. Spencer padded over to the window that faced the front of the house. There was no police car at the curb.

Spencer made a lump of pillows in her bed to look like she was still sleeping. Then she snuck downstairs, opened the alarm unit on the main floor, and disarmed one of the exits, silencing it before any sort of announcement could be made to the rest of the house. Finally, she crept to the only unfinished room in the basement, which held cases of wine and an extra fridge the Hastings used for big parties. Normally, Spencer didn’t like going into the room—it smelled musty, was full of spiders, and was where Melissa used to “banish” her when they played Evil Queen and Prisoner when they were little. But tucked into the corner was a small set of stairs that led to a flat door flush with the backyard. No one would be watching it. The cops probably had no idea it was there.

Her heart pounded as she climbed the dark cellar stairs toward the door. She didn’t dare breathe as she pushed it up and open. A sprinkler hissed pleasantly. The hot tub bubbled to the left. Spencer squeezed out, keeping low to the ground and out of the floodlights as she dashed to the woods. From there, she was free.