Toxic

  “Well, we know what we saw,” Hanna mumbled, that night still haunting her. Ali had looked so . . . crazed. She’d raised a gun to Emily’s head. The gun had gone off . . . but the next thing Hanna remembered, Hanna and the others were lying in hospital beds. Alive. What had happened in between?

  Aria cleared her throat. “Has anyone heard how Iris is doing?”

  All the girls shook their heads. Iris Taylor had been Ali’s roommate at The Preserve, though she’d recently spent some time with Emily, giving her clues about what Ali had been like and who she’d been involved with. After helping Emily, Iris had been kidnapped by Nick and Ali, and the FBI had found her half-dead in the woods. Iris was recuperating now at a local hospital.

  “What about this?” Emily said, pushing that day’s edition of the Philadelphia Sentinel to the middle of the table. Nick, clad in an orange prison jumpsuit, stared out from the front page. MAXWELL CLAIMS HE WORKED ALONE, read the headline.

  “He’s on trial for killing Tabitha,” Emily paraphrased. “And get this: Police found a late-model Acura sedan parked in the woods behind that shack. Nick’s fingerprints were all over it.”

  Spencer’s eyes lit up. “There was an Acura keychain at my stepfather’s model home after it was trashed. That explains that, anyway.”

  Hanna pulled the paper toward her. “What does Nick say about Ali?”

  “He’s insisting that Ali died in the fire in the Poconos,” Emily said. “And he denies that Ali had anything to do with killing Tabitha, or stalking us, or being there that night in that house.”

  “So he’s taking the blame for everything?” Hanna made a face. “What crazy person would do that?”

  “Well, he was a patient at The Preserve,” Spencer reminded her. “Maybe he’s under Ali’s spell.”

  Aria rolled her eyes. “How could anyone be under her spell?”

  An uncomfortable look crossed Spencer’s face. She brought out her cell phone and placed it in the center of the table. “Nick’s not the only one.”

  Hanna looked at the screen. THE ALI CATS, said a banner at the top. A WEBSITE DEDICATED TO THE SUPPORT OF ALISON DILAURENTIS. ALISON IS A STRONG, DETERMINED, MISUNDERSTOOD YOUNG WOMAN, AND WE HOPE THAT SOMEDAY THE WORLD WILL KNOW THE TRUE HER. HEAR US ROAR, ALI!

  Aria’s eyes widened. “What is this?”

  “A fan club,” Spencer explained hoarsely. “I found it about a week ago. I was hoping it would go away, though.”

  “‘A strong, determined, misunderstood young woman’?” Emily made a face. “And ‘someday the world will know the true her’? Do they think she’s alive?”

  Spencer shook her head. “It seems like more of an in-memory-of thing. There are posts about parties where everyone dresses like Ali and—get this—reenacts the Poconos fire scene. Except they have Ali get out alive. Some of them write fan fiction about what Ali did next. They’re actually selling it on Amazon.”

  Hanna shuddered. “That’s gross.”

  Aria folded her paper napkin into smaller and smaller triangles. “Maybe we should contact one of them. Maybe they do know something.”

  Spencer sniffed. “I tried that. But they all go by code names. And anyway, why do you think they’d tell us?”

  “These people could be dangerous,” Emily said worriedly. Aria looked at the newspaper again. “I wish we could get Nick to admit he’s lying.”

  “How?” Hanna folded her hands. “It’s not like we can go to the prison and just force it out of him.”

  “Maybe there’s a way to trick him into confessing,” Emily suggested. “Or—”

  “Or we could let this go,” Spencer interrupted.

  Everyone fell silent. Hanna gawked. “Are you serious?” Spencer had always been at the front of the let’s-find-Ali crusade. She’d suggested they have a situation room to try to figure out who Ali’s helper was. She hadn’t wanted to drop the idea of sniffing Ali out even after the girls were arrested.

  Spencer fiddled with her silver Tiffany keychain. “This has ruined almost two years of our lives. I’m just . . . done, you know? And I haven’t received any new A notes. Have you guys?”

  Emily muttered no; so did Aria. Hanna reluctantly shook her head, too. She kept expecting a new note to ping into her in-box, though. “That doesn’t mean we should give up,” she said weakly. “Ali’s out there.”

  “But how useful is Ali without Nick by her side?” Spencer pressed. “She’s probably hanging by a thread.”

  “An Ali Cat might help her,” Emily reminded.

  “I suppose that’s true.” Spencer turned her phone over in her hands. “But they sound like crackpots, don’t they?” She balled up her napkin. “It sucks that Ali’s walking free. It sucks that Nick took all the blame, but hey, if he wants to rot in jail, that’s his choice. But we need to live our lives.” She looked at Hanna. “Speaking of which. Doesn’t summer school start today?”

  Hanna nodded. Rosewood Day had dropped her and the others after they were charged with murder, but now the girls were allowed to graduate if they completed their course requirements. The Fashion Institute of Technology, the college that had accepted her, even said it would hold a place for her in the fall as long as her final grades were acceptable. The other girls had been given similar offers—except for Aria, who had chosen to take a gap year. “I have history in a half hour.” She looked at the others. “When do you guys start?”

  “I have to repeat chemistry, but it starts tomorrow,” Emily answered.

  “All I have to do is submit my AP Art portfolio and take my finals,” Aria said. “Most of my classes wound down before we were kicked out of school.”

  “Same,” Spencer said. Then she stood. “Well, come on, Han. You shouldn’t be late.”

  The other girls stood, too, giving one another tight hugs. They exited into the bright day, promising to call one another later. And then, just like that, the meeting was over, and Hanna was alone on the street. She wasn’t sure what to think about everything they’d discussed. As much as she wanted to take Spencer up on just letting Ali go, it was terrifying to think Ali was out there . . . roaming free. Plotting. Scheming.

  A high-pitched screech of a semitruck sounded from around the corner. Laughter echoed from an alleyway. Suddenly, goose bumps rose on Hanna’s arms, and she got that old, nagging feeling that someone was watching.

  There’s no one here, she told herself determinedly.

  She shaded her eyes and started the few blocks to Rosewood Day Prep, a sprawling compound of stone and brick buildings that had once belonged to a railroad baron. It was amazing how different the place looked now that it was summer. The regal blue-and-white Rosewood Day flag, complete with the Rosewood Day crest, was absent from the flagpole. The marble fountain in front of the gym was dry. The swings and the climbing dome on the Lower School’s playground weren’t full of screaming little kids, and no ubiquitous yellow school buses lined the curbs.

  Hanna pushed open the main door to the Upper School. The halls were deserted, and the floors looked like they hadn’t been swept since the regular school year let out. Every poster advertising class elections, upcoming dances, or charity drives had been removed from the walls, leaving behind faded spots of painted concrete. No between-classes classical music blared from the PA system. Some of the lockers were wide open and empty like dark, gaping caves. Hanna pressed one door lightly; it squeaked spookily on its hinges.

  A shadow shifted at the end of the hall, and Hanna froze. Then a deep laugh spiraled from another direction. She turned just in time to see a figure slipping, ghostlike, up the stairs. Her heart began to pound. Stay calm. You are being paranoid.

  She tiptoed to the history wing and peered into her classroom. The air smelled like sweat, and only the back rows were occupied. A boy wearing a dingy Phillies cap traced a pattern into the wooden desk with the pointy end of a key. A girl with dreadlocks was facedown, snoring. A kid in the corner with vacant eyes was reading what looked like Playboy.

  The
n she heard a cough and whirled around. A boy with bad posture and a knitted cap whom she didn’t recognize was standing way too close. There was a weird smirk on his face.

  “H-hello?” she sputtered, heart lurching again. “Can I help you?”

  The boy lazily smiled. “You’re Hanna Marin.” He pointed at her. “I know you.”

  Then he slid past her and entered the classroom.

  Her phone began to ring, causing Hanna to shriek and press her body against the lockers. But it was just Mike Montgomery, her boyfriend. “Are you in school yet?” he asked.

  Hanna made an uh-huh sound, still feeling her pulse rocket at her temples. “It’s a little like Night of the Living Dead, though. Who are all these kids? I’ve never seen them before.”

  “It was the same way when I took driver’s ed last summer. They keep summer school kids hidden in the utility closet during the year. I wish I could come down there and keep you safe. Maybe I should take the first bus back.”

  Hanna chuckled shakily. Ever since she’d told Mike that Ali was back on the scene, he’d become her de facto bodyguard. The other day, before he’d left for soccer camp in New Hampshire, she’d squealed at a spider on her front porch, and Mike had swooped in like a superhero. He’d also been hypervigilant whenever she received a text, checking her expression for worry or fear. He’d asked her a million times if he really should go to camp for the whole month. You might need me had been his excuse.

  “You’re not getting on a bus,” Hanna demanded now, watching as a few more people brushed past. And okay, they all were wearing ugly shoes and weren’t usually kids she hung around with, but they didn’t look quite as zombielike. “I can handle a few weirdos.”

  Then she hung up. Seconds later, her phone pinged again. Good luck on your first day of school! her mom wrote. Let’s get dinner tonight to celebrate!

  Hanna smiled. For years, she’d leaned on her dad, but that had changed once and for all the day she was arrested for Tabitha’s murder and her dad told her that associating with her was “wrecking his political campaign.” Amazingly, her mom had taken the reins, and she was actually trying really hard to be present. Last night, they’d even gone to Otter, Hanna’s favorite boutique, for a “back to summer school” outfit—the striped minidress and dove-gray ankle boots Hanna was wearing today.

  Sounds good, she texted back. Then she walked into the classroom, her heels clicking noisily, her auburn hair bouncing on her shoulders. The sun streamed through the long windows so prettily that she suddenly felt a contented sense of well-being. So what if she had to repeat history class with a bunch of D-listers? At least she’d get to graduate. The press and the town didn’t hate her anymore, or think she was a murderer. And she still had her friends, an amazing boyfriend, and now, for the first time ever, a mom who actually cared. Maybe they should let this Ali stuff go and just enjoy their lives.

  The only seats left were in the front row, so Hanna plopped down, arranged her dress around her, and waited for the teacher to arrive. Her phone rang again. The call was from an area code she didn’t recognize, which always set her on edge.

  “Hanna Marin?” blared a voice once Hanna said a tentative hello. “My name is Felicia Silver. I’m the executive producer of Burn It Down. It’s the true story about your terrible ordeal with Alison DiLaurentis.”

  Hanna suppressed a groan. That sounded like another Pretty Little Killer, the made-for-TV movie that documented Hanna and the others’ first struggle with Ali. God, that movie was awful. Every part of it: the sets, the script, the frumpy girl who had been cast as Hanna. For a while, it had been on every week. Hanna used to have to endure kids quoting scenes in the locker room and at lunch. Did the world really need another movie about her life?

  “I know what you’re thinking—that made-for-TV thing was crap.” Felicia chomped on gum as she talked. “But this one is going to be different. In theaters. With serious actors and a great script. And we’re filming right here in Rosewood, so we’re going to get the ambience just right.”

  “Huh,” Hanna said, surprised. She hadn’t seen any film trucks or equipment.

  “Anyway, the reason I’m calling is because of you, Hanna,” Felicia said. “I’ve seen you in the commercials with your father. The camera loves you.”

  Hanna blushed. Before her father disowned her, they’d filmed some campaign ads together, including a “Don’t Drink and Drive” public service announcement. Hanna didn’t want to brag, but she thought she’d nailed it, too.

  “I want to offer you a part in the movie,” Felicia went on. “It would be amazing publicity for us—and a fun experience for you, we hope. We were thinking of you as Naomi Zeigler—someone small but still crucial. She has a big role in the cruise ship scenes.”

  Uh, yeah, Hanna almost blurted—she’d lived those scenes. But then she realized what Felicia had offered. “You want me to have an actual speaking role?”

  “That’s right. Here’s your chance to show the world that you’ve put that nonsense behind you, and now you’re a fabulous actress. What do you say?”

  Hanna’s mind whirled. She wanted to tell Felicia that maybe they hadn’t put the nonsense behind them . . . but Felicia would probably think she was nuts. Should she do it? Spencer had always been the drama girl, starring in every school play, memorizing Ibsen monologues just for the hell of it, and always wanting to do improv exercises during sleepovers. But it was tempting. Would this movie have a red-carpet premiere in Hollywood? Would she get to go?

  Still, she wasn’t sure. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Actually, we have to know now,” Felicia said, suddenly sounding impatient. “C’mon, Hanna. It’ll be an amazing experience. Hank Ross is directing. And guess who’s playing you! Hailey Blake!”

  Hanna’s mouth dropped open. Hailey Blake was a beautiful, glittering, überfamous young starlet who’d been a presence in Hanna’s consciousness for years, starting with her starring role as Quintana in Abracadabra, Hanna’s favorite Disney show. After that, she’d gone on to do a slew of cool teen movies. Most recently, she’d hosted the Teen Choice Awards and shared a kiss onstage with her cohost, the sexy guy from Bitten, a hot vampire movie. And if this movie was good enough for Hailey . . .

  “I guess I can give it a try,” she heard herself say.

  “Fabulous!” Felicia crowed. “I’ll email you the details.”

  Hanna hung up, still in a daze. She was going to be in a movie . . . with Hailey Blake. A real movie, with a red-carpet premiere. Red-carpet premieres also meant film festivals in Sundance and Cannes, didn’t they? And all that meant interviews with Ryan Seacrest and all those people on E! Maybe she could do a guest spot on Fashion Police! She and Hailey, together!

  All at once, her future unfurled before her, bright and glittering. For the first time, something actually positive might come out of the A nightmare.

  2

  TORTURED ARTIST

  Aria Montgomery steered her family’s rattling, sputtering, rusty Subaru into a parking space in Old Hollis, an artsy neighborhood resplendent with uneven sidewalks, shabby-chic Victorian houses, and out-of-control gardens (some of which yielded nothing but marijuana plants). The sun streamed across the leafy street in bright, broad stripes. A child’s bicycle was tipped over one lawn, and across the street was an abandoned lemonade stand with a sign that said ALL ORGANIC INGREDIENTS!

  “Hey!” Aria’s mom, Ella, crowed as Aria walked through the door of the Olde Hollis Gallery, where she’d worked since the family moved back from Iceland two years ago. Ella’s dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she wore a long, gauzy skirt and a ribbed tank top that showed off her toned arms. Bracelets jangled on her wrist, and huge turquoise earrings swung from her earlobes. She hugged Aria tight, giving off a strong scent of patchouli oil. Ella had really been into hugging lately. She’d been into giving long, meaningful looks, too. Aria had a feeling her latest attack by A had really thrown her mom for
a loop.

  “Want to help me set up this show?” Ella asked, gesturing at a bunch of paintings tipped against the walls around the room. The artist, an old, hairy-eared guy named Franklin Hodgewell, had shown at the gallery a zillion times before, and his works of eastern Pennsylvania landscapes, flocks of geese, and Amish buggies were tried-and-true big sellers. “I mean, only if you want to,” Ella added quickly. “If you have something else to do, that’s okay, too.”

  “Nope, I can help.” Aria picked up a painting of a barn and placed it on a hook. “I can help with the cocktail party, too, if you want.”

  “If you want,” Ella said tentatively, giving her a long look.

  Since Nick’s attack, Aria had spent almost every minute at the gallery. There were legitimate reasons. One, she did have a job here, though her hours were only part-time. Two, it felt good to be near her strong, stable, comforting mom. And three, she didn’t have anything better to do.

  She knew her mom thought it was weird. And she knew the question Ella was dying to ask: What was Aria going to do with herself this summer . . . and next year? Her friends had applied to colleges, and if they completed their course credits, they would still be able to matriculate in the fall. Aria had planned to take a gap year and travel through Europe, but now the idea of going to a foreign country alone sounded daunting. Maybe that was because the last time she’d gone abroad, back to Iceland, she’d been embroiled in an international art scandal and she’d met Nick, Ali’s crazy boyfriend, disguised as a sexy vigilante named Olaf.

  She’d halfheartedly considered signing up for an artist retreat in Oregon, but the application deadline was last week. Then she’d toyed with the idea of taking art classes at the University of the Arts in Philly, but the first day had come and gone.