Wanted (24 page)

“You liar.” Aria half smiled.

“I would never lie about something like that,” Noel said sternly.

And then he leaned forward and kissed her.

34

SPENCER HASTINGS’S BEAUTIFUL, IMPERFECT LIFE

Andrew Campbell picked up Spencer from the hospital in his Mini Cooper and drove her home. KYW news was running the same report about how the police still hadn’t found any evidence of Ali’s body in the rubble.

Spencer pressed her forehead to the window and shut her eyes.

Andrew pulled up to Spencer’s curb and shifted the Mini into park. “You okay?”

“I need a minute,” Spencer mumbled.

At first glance, her street was resplendent and picturesque, all the houses grand and impressive, all the yards fenced in and maintained, and all the driveways paved with bluestone or brick. But if Spencer looked closer, the imperfections were obvious. The Cavanaugh house had been dark since Jenna’s death, a
FOR SALE
sign on the front lawn. The oak where Toby’s tree house had once stood was now a rotted stump. The hole where Jenna’s body had been found was filled in with thick, black dirt. The Jenna shrine remained at the curb, so swollen that it encompassed some of the neighbor’s curb and yard. The Ali shrine, on the other hand, had been dismantled. Spencer had no idea what happened to all the photos and stuffed animals and candles—they’d disappeared overnight. No one wanted to memorialize Alison DiLaurentis anymore. She was no longer Rosewood’s blameless, beautiful darling.

Spencer stared at the big Victorian on the corner of the cul-de-sac.
You’re Spencer, right?
Ali had asked Spencer the day she’d sneaked into the DiLaurentis yard to steal Ali’s piece of the Time Capsule flag. Spencer had thought Ali was only pretending not to know who Spencer was…but she actually
didn’t
have a clue. Courtney had to learn everything about Ali’s life—fast.

Spencer could also see the dilapidated barn at the back of her house, forever ruined by the fire Ali had started.
I tried to burn you. I tried to have you arrested. And now, here we are.
The night Ali went missing, when Spencer and Ali got in that awful fight, the Ali she knew stormed out, probably on her way to meet Ian. The real Ali, the one whose life had been stolen, was waiting for her.

I saw two blondes in the woods,
Ian had told Spencer on the back porch before his trial. Spencer had seen those blondes, too. At first she’d assumed it was Ian or maybe Jason or Billy, but in the end, it had been two identical sisters. Of course the real Ali knew when the hole was going to be filled with concrete—she’d probably heard her parents talking about it when they’d picked her up from the hospital that weekend. She’d known how deep the hole was, too, and how hard she’d have to shove her sister to kill her. Ali probably thought that after the deed was done, she’d go back into the house and reclaim her life. Except that hadn’t happened.

Spencer still had nightmares about those last moments in the Poconos before the house erupted into flames. One minute, Ali and Emily were grappling by the door. The next, the house was filled with a white fireball…and Ali was gone. Had she been blown into another room? Had they unknowingly stumbled over her dead body while trying to escape? Spencer had seen the kooks on the news who theorized that Ali was still alive. “It makes perfect sense,” a wild-haired man told Larry King last week. “The DiLaurentis parents
vanished.
They obviously caught up with their daughter and are hiding in another country.”

But Spencer didn’t believe it. Ali had perished with the house, Ian’s body, and her terrifying letter.
Finis. Finito.
The end.

Spencer turned back to Andrew, letting out a held breath. “It’s all so…sad.” She gestured out the window to her street. “I used to love living here. I thought it was perfect. But now it’s…ruined. There are so many terrible memories here.”

“We’ll have to make good memories to override the bad ones,” Andrew assured her. But Spencer wasn’t convinced that anything could really do that.

There was a knock on the window, and Spencer jumped. Melissa peered in. “Hey, Spence. Can you come inside?”

There was a look on her face that made Spencer think something had happened, and Spencer’s stomach flipped with worry. Andrew leaned over and kissed Spencer on the forehead. “Call me later.”

Spencer followed Melissa across the lawn, admiring her sister’s soft red cashmere V-neck sweater and black skinny jeans. She’d helped Melissa pick them out from Otter—Melissa had actually listened to Spencer when she told Melissa that she was dressing like a clone of their mother. It was one of the few good things that had come out of this nightmare—Spencer and Melissa were finally getting along for real. No more competitiveness. No more nasty comments. Surviving that fire—escaping their half sister—had put everything in perspective. So far, anyway.

The house smelled comfortingly like tomato sauce and garlic. For the first time in two months, the living room was spotless, the floors looked waxed, and all the oil paintings in the halls hung straight and even. When Spencer peered into the dining room, she saw that the table was set. Perrier sparkled in water glasses. A bottle of wine was airing in a decanter on the rolling bar cart.

“What’s going on?” Spencer murmured uneasily. It was highly doubtful her mom was entertaining.

“Spence?”

Mr. Hastings appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed in a gray suit from work. Spencer had barely seen him since the night she exposed the affair. Stunningly, Mrs. Hastings appeared behind him, a tired but content smile on her face. “Dinner’s ready,” she chirped, removing an oven mitt from her right hand.

“O-okay,” Spencer stammered. She walked into the dining room, still staring at them. Were they seriously going to pretend that nothing had happened? Could they really brush this under the rug? Did Spencer even want them to?

Mr. Hastings poured Spencer a tiny sip of wine and gave Melissa a regular-size glass. He bustled around with Spencer’s mom, carrying bowls and spoons and a basket of garlic bread to the table. Spencer and Melissa exchanged an uneasy glance. He
never
helped with dinner preparations, usually sitting at the table like a king while Mrs. Hastings did all the work.

Everyone sat down, Spencer’s parents on either end of the table, Spencer and Melissa on opposite sides. The room was very quiet. Steam rose from the bowl of pasta puttanesca. The smell of garlic and spicy wine tickled Spencer’s nose. The family stared at one another like they were strangers forced to sit together on an airplane. Finally, Mr. Hastings cleared his throat.

“Want to play Star Power?” he said.

Spencer’s mouth dropped open. Melissa’s, too. Mrs. Hastings let out a weary laugh. “He’s kidding, girls.”

Mr. Hastings rested his palms on the table. “This talk is long overdue.” He paused to sip his wine. “I need to tell you that I never meant to hurt you.
Any
of you. But I did. That’s not going to change, and I’m not going to ask you to forgive me. But I want you to know that whatever happens, I’ll be there for all of you. Things are different now, and they’ll never go back to being the way they were, but please know that every day, I feel terrible about what I did. I’ve felt terrible about it since it happened. And I feel terrible that someone we’re related to did something horrible to both of you. I would have never forgiven myself if something had happened.” He let out a small sniffle.

Spencer rocked her fork back and forth on the table, not sure what to say. It always made her nervous and uncomfortable to see her dad get emotional—and this was the first time he’d even hinted at being Ali’s real father. She wanted to tell her dad that it was okay—she forgave him, and it was best forgotten. But she was pretty sure that would be a lie.

“So what’s going to happen?” Melissa asked in a small voice, kneading the cloth napkin next to her plate.

Mrs. Hastings took a tiny sip of sparkling water. “We’re working on things, just trying to understand what happened.”

“Are you getting back together?” Spencer blurted.

“Right now, no,” Mrs. Hastings explained. “Your dad’s renting a townhouse closer to the city. But we’ll see how it goes.”

“We’ll have to take it one day at a time,” Mr. Hastings said, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down. “But we want to try to meet for dinner here at least once a week. To talk to you together and hang out. So…here we are.” He reached across the table, grabbed a piece of garlic bread, and bit off a piece with a loud
crunch.

And so they went on, not talking about Star Power achievements, not out-bragging one another, not making insidious little insults disguised as compliments. Finally, it occurred to Spencer what was going on. They were being…
normal.
This was probably what most families did at dinner every day.

Spencer coiled a piece of pasta around her fork and took a big, sloppy bite. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t the family she’d always dreamed of. Maybe her parents wouldn’t get back together in the end, and her dad would remain in his rented townhouse or move to a house of his own. But if they could talk about things—if they were really
interested
in one another—then that was a change for the better.

As Mrs. Hastings brought in pints of Ben & Jerry’s and four spoons, Melissa tapped Spencer’s foot under the table. “Want to stay with me in the townhouse in Philly for the weekend?” she whispered. “Tons more cool clubs and restaurants have opened up.”

“Really?” Spencer asked. Melissa had never invited her to the townhouse before.

“Yep.” Melissa nodded. “There’s a guest room for you.
And
I’ll even let you reorganize my bookshelf.” She winked. “Maybe you can file the books by color and size instead of in alphabetical order.”

“You’ve got a deal,” Spencer said, giggling.

Two bright pink spots appeared on Melissa’s cheeks, almost like she was happy. The warm feeling in Spencer’s stomach grew and grew. Just a few weeks ago, she’d had two sisters. Now she was down to only one. But maybe Melissa was the only sister she’d ever really needed. Perhaps Melissa even could be the sister Spencer had always wanted…and Spencer could be that sister to Melissa, too. Maybe all they had to do was give each other a chance.

35

EMILY FIELDS PUTS IT ALL TO REST

Instead of driving straight home from the hospital, Emily made the turn down Goshen Road. It was a hilly, picturesque lane that featured a series of dairy farms, a crumbling stone wall from the Revolutionary War, and a mansion so huge and sprawling that it had three separate garages and its own helipad.

Eventually, she came to the wrought-iron gate of St. Basil’s cemetery. Dusk was setting in fast, but the gate was still open, and there were a couple of cars parked in the lot. Emily pulled in next to a Jeep Liberty and turned off the engine. She sat for a moment, taking heaping breaths. Then she reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a plastic bag she’d stashed there.

Her Vans sank in the wet, soft grass as she walked past the graves, many of them bearing fresh flowers and American flags. Emily reached the headstone she was looking for in no time, wedged prettily between two pine trees.
Alison Lauren DiLaurentis,
the grave said. It was surprising that it was still here, being that Ali’s family had left Rosewood forever.

And that it wasn’t actually Ali who was buried here, but Courtney.

Emily traced the
A
on the headstone with her thumb. She had prided herself on knowing Ali so intimately, better than any of the others. And yet she hadn’t known that the girl she was kissing wasn’t the Ali she’d known all those years before. She’d been too blinded by love. Even today, a big part of her still couldn’t believe it had happened. She couldn’t grasp that the girl who’d come back to them wasn’t the Ali she’d known—and that the Ali she’d known wasn’t the real Ali at all.

Emily knelt down next to Ali’s grave and plunged her hand into the plastic bag. The patent leather change purse squeaked against her fingers. She’d stuffed it with as many photos and notes from Ali as she could, the sides bulging and the zipper barely closing. Sighing, she traced a finger over the
E.
Ali had presented it to Emily after French class in sixth grade. “
Pour vous
, from
moi
,” she’d said.

“What’s the occasion?” Emily asked.

“There isn’t one.” Ali bumped Emily’s hip. “Just that I hope Emily Fields is my very bestest friend forever.”

Emily could practically hear Ali’s voice now, whistling in the wind. She started to dig into the earth next to the grave. Dirt got underneath her fingernails and all over her palms, but she burrowed down at least a foot before she stopped. Taking a deep breath, she dropped the change purse in. Hopefully, the purse would stay buried this time. This was where the purse should be—the notes and pictures, too. It was Emily’s own little Time Capsule, something that would symbolize her friendship with
her
Ali forever. Emily’s bulletin board looked so bare without all the photos, but she’d have to fill it with new memories. Hopefully, ones that included Aria, Spencer, and Hanna.

“Bye, Ali,” Emily said softly. Leaves rustled. A car swished on the street below, its headlights bouncing off the tree trunks. As she was about to leave, she heard another noise. She stopped. It sounded like a snicker.

Emily scanned the trees, but there was no one there. She glanced at the other graves, but nobody moved among the headstones. She even looked up into the sky, as if searching for a blond head among the darkening clouds. She thought about the Web site she’d stumbled upon the other day, a collection of anonymous Twitters from people who’d sworn they’d seen Alison DiLaurentis.
I just saw her walking into J. Crew in Phoenix, AZ,
one of the posts said.
I definitely saw Ali at Starbucks in Boulder,
tweeted another. There were at least fifty of them, new ones being added every day.