And as for the case the defense had on Ali? All the prosecution had to do was bring up that damn journal the cops found in the woods. She’s a different person on these pages, the lawyer said. Alison isn’t the girl we think she is.
The doors to the courtroom slammed again, and Spencer watched as Hanna, flanked by her mom and Mike, emerged onto the steps. She felt a pang. All day, Hanna had sat stiffly and stoically as the lawyer went through the various things she’d done in the past two years. But Spencer could tell by the way she spun the yellow lacrosse bracelet around and around her wrist how much the accusations got to her. A huge part of her wanted just to take Hanna’s hand, but there was never an appropriate moment—whenever there was a break, Mike rushed to Hanna’s side immediately, whisking her away. Spencer wondered if they were really getting married, like the reporters had said. Would Hanna actually do such a thing?
“Spencer?”
A man in a white jacket and blue scrub pants hurried toward her. Spencer’s mouth dropped open. It was Wren.
“Hi,” Wren said breathlessly when he approached. “How are you feeling?”
Spencer’s whole body tensed. “Were you in the courtroom?” she squeaked. She hated the idea of him hearing all those horrible things about her.
“No, no. I just got off work. I thought I’d pop down here and see how you’re doing—I haven’t heard from you. Are you sleeping better? How are your wounds?”
Wren had driven all the way here just to give her a checkup? “Um, I’m fine,” Spencer said softly. “Healing nicely.”
“Good.” Wren’s smile was twitchy. “Well, okay then. Unless . . .” He licked his lips nervously. “Unless you’d like to get coffee with me?”
“What, like now?” Spencer blurted.
Wren raised one shoulder. “I have the afternoon off. Unless you have other plans?”
Spencer lowered her shoulders. “I already told you this isn’t a good idea.”
“Listen, I spoke to your sister,” Wren said.
“You did what?” Spencer shrieked. “You had no right!” Had Wren implied something happened between them? Did Melissa hate her now? Spencer glanced at her phone, wanting to call her sister that instant.
Wren held up his hand. “I just said that I’d like to take you out for coffee as a friend and I wanted to know if it was okay with her. She said it was fine. Honest.”
Spencer blinked slowly. That didn’t sound so extreme. All of a sudden, she felt exhausted. She didn’t want to argue with Wren anymore. And honestly, it would be kind of nice if someone took her out for coffee after such a horrendous day. It would certainly beat another stiflingly silent dinner at her house, Mr. Pennythistle and Amelia staring at her like she was an alien and her own mother acting like she didn’t exist.
But then she looked at the ankle bracelet. Technically, she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere except for home, the courthouse, and the doctor unless she had her parents’ permission. Spencer’s dad would probably say yes, but he was in a work meeting all day. Spencer’s mom probably wouldn’t even pick up her phone.
“Would you mind coming to my house?” she asked shyly, showing him her ankle bracelet. “It would be a lot easier.”
Wren didn’t bat an eye. “Of course. Want me to drive you?”
Spencer shaded her eyes and watched as her car service pulled into the lot. “I’ll meet you there,” she said, figuring her mom would get mad if she didn’t use it.
The house was empty when Spencer arrived, a good thing. Talking to Wren would be easier without her mom nosing around. Minutes later, Wren pulled up to the curb and got out. Spencer stood on the lawn, smiling at him goofily. “Want to, um, sit out back?” she asked.
“Sure,” Wren answered.
She led him around the side yard to the patio, then pulled out a chair at the table for him to sit. “Um, do you want something to drink?” she fumbled. “Lemonade, maybe? Coke?”
“Whatever you have is fine.” He looked at her bemusedly, like she was stressing over something unimportant.
“Oh,” Spencer said. “Well, okay.”
She retrieved some Cokes from the fridge and sank down in a chair opposite him. A lawn mower grumbled. The Hastings’s gardener quietly pruned the bushes in the side yard. The pool glistened invitingly, and the hot tub bubbled. Spencer couldn’t help but remember when she and Wren had been in that hot tub together, after hockey practice. Had that really been her life?
Wren must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “Things are a bit different than when I stayed here, huh?”
Spencer gazed out at the property. The grass still hadn’t grown in properly where the converted barn apartment had once stood. “I should say so,” she said quietly.
“I heard you were in the barn when that fire happened.”
Spencer nodded, recalling that horrible night. If only someone had caught Ali then. “Let’s not dwell on that,” she said. “I do too much thinking about the past as it is.”
For a while, they talked about Rosewood, and Wren’s residency program, and new music that they both liked. Then Wren folded his hands. “Did I hear you’d gotten into Princeton? And that you’d gotten a book deal?”
Spencer sipped her soda. “Yes on both counts, not that they’re happening now.”
Wren made a face. “Pretend, for a moment, you aren’t going to prison on a false murder charge. What’s your book about?”
It still surprised Spencer that someone wanted to know this stuff—but then, Wren had always taken a genuine interest in who she was. Taking a deep breath, she began to describe the bullying blog. “I think it would have made a great book,” she said wistfully. “There are so many stories that deserve to be told.”
“You can still write it, you know,” Wren reminded her. “After all, Cervantes wrote Don Quixote in prison.”
Spencer looked up at him, surprised. “Really?”
“And O. Henry wrote tons of his short stories while incarcerated for embezzlement.”
Spencer’s eyes lit up. “I love his stories.”
“Me, too.” Wren placed his chin in his hands. “I was always kind of sheepish to admit it, though. O. Henry was uncool with my classmates.”
Spencer snickered. “My AP English class always tried to outdo one another with obscure writers. I’m sure it would’ve been even worse at Princeton.”
“So what would your major be, if you were to go?” Wren asked.
Spencer sat back and thought for a moment. “When I first got in, it was going to be history, or maybe economics—my dad always thought I’d be good at business school.” She shrugged. “It’s probably not worth talking about, though. I’m not going.”
Wren laced his fingers. “I have a feeling that you will, if you want to.”
“So you think I won’t go to prison?”
He leaned forward. “I just believe that certain things have a way of working out.”
Spencer’s eyes widened. And then, before she knew it, Wren was leaning forward even more and kissing her lightly on the mouth. His lips tasted like sugar. His skin was warmed from the sun.
She pulled away fast, staring at him with her mouth open. As much as she tried to tear her gaze away from Wren’s face, all she could focus on was a tiny droplet of Coke on his upper lip that she suddenly felt the urge to brush away.
“Anyway,” Wren said in a small voice. And then he sat back in his seat and turned toward the woods, watching the trees, as if it hadn’t happened at all.
A few hours later, Spencer opened her eyes. She was lying on her bed in her bedroom, feeling groggy—she must have dozed off after Wren left, which hadn’t been long after the kiss.
The kiss. It had been only a second long, but she’d thought about it quite a bit since it happened. What had it meant? Had it just been a friendly, sympathetic peck . . . or something more? And was it a good idea for her to even get into something right now?
There were clinking noises of pots banging together and sil
verware being pulled from drawers coming from the kitchen. Spencer rose and padded into the hall, surprised to hear Melissa’s lilting voice downstairs. Her sister was laughing about something, clearly in a good mood. Apparently she hadn’t seen the trial recap on CNN.
She walked downstairs and found Melissa and Darren already seated at the table. Her mother, Mr. Pennythistle, and Amelia were seated as well. “What’s up?” she asked everyone.
“Spence!” Melissa’s eyes lit up. “I tried calling you! I was wondering where you were!”
Spencer frowned. “I was just upstairs.” She glanced at her mother, who probably knew that, but Mrs. Hastings just shrugged.
“Sit, sit,” Melissa said, gesturing at an empty seat next to her. “We have big news.”
Spencer slid into a seat. Melissa’s attention had turned to Darren again. It was then that Spencer noticed he was in a dark suit and a gray tie. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen him so dressed up in her life. He was also nervously fiddling with his fork. “Did I miss something?” Spencer asked.
“Well, we were just about to tell everyone.” Darren looked moonily at Melissa. “I’ve asked Melissa to marry me. And Melissa’s said yes.”
Spencer almost burst out laughing, quickly clapping her hand over her mouth before she did. Darren and Melissa were such a mismatched couple, but who was she to judge? She watched as Darren brought out a velvet ring box from his pocket and placed it in Melissa’s hands. All at once, she felt a little twinge: Had Mike proposed to Hanna like this? It sucked that she wasn’t speaking to Hanna and hadn’t gotten the story.
“I’ll do a reenactment, if you like,” Darren said. “Melissa Hastings,” he began in a far-too-sappy voice, “will you marry me?”
Melissa’s eyes widened. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “I will!”
Mrs. Hastings whooped. Mr. Pennythistle clapped his hands. Everyone was hugging, Melissa even grabbing Spencer and pulling her into the fold. “There’s more news, though,” she said over the din, then took a deep breath. “I’m also pregnant!”
Spencer’s jaw dropped. Darren beamed. Mr. Pennythistle clapped again. “How delightful!”
“H-how far along?” Mrs. Hastings stammered.
Melissa’s gaze fell bashfully to her midsection. “Nine weeks,” she said. “We just had an ultrasound, and everything looks great.” She pulled out a black-and-white picture and passed it around. Amelia and Mr. Pennythistle oohed.
When the picture made its way to Spencer, she focused hard, trying to discern where the little blob’s head and feet might be. She also felt a rush of love for her sister. Perhaps this was why Melissa didn’t want to get too involved with the Ali stuff—professing she was alive to the press, et cetera. Maybe she wanted to protect her unborn child from Ali’s wrath.
“Well, then, the wedding has to happen quickly,” Mrs. Hastings said primly, folding her hands. It was pretty clear the baby had been a surprise to her, too. “Good thing I gave Darren one of my rings for the engagement.”
On cue, Melissa pulled the ring from the box. The huge, square-cut diamond sparkled magically around the room, throwing prismatic shapes on the walls. Spencer almost burst out laughing again. “That was your old engagement ring from Dad, wasn’t it?” she asked her mom.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hastings said, a defensive edge to her voice. “Your father is a jerk, but he has exquisite taste in jewels.”
Melissa tilted her hand back and forth. “It was so nice of you to let us have this, Mom.”
Mrs. Hastings sliced at her meat. “Oh, you girls are set to inherit a treasure trove of things from your father. None of it means anything to me anymore.” Then she looked up sharply at Spencer. “Well, you won’t get anything. You’ll be in jail—it’ll be no use to you there. Amelia can take your half.”
Spencer’s mouth fell open. It felt as though her mother had just kicked her in the stomach. She’d always known her mom could be tactless, but come on.
There was an awkward pause; it was clear no one knew what to say. Then Melissa touched Spencer’s hand. “How does it feel, knowing you’re going to be an aunt?”
Spencer tried to smile and shift gears. “Great. I’m so excited for you. And I’ll try to be the best aunt ever.”
“Actually, I was hoping you’d be more than an aunt,” Melissa said cautiously, twisting her new ring around her finger. “Maybe a godmother, too?”
“Me?” Spencer touched her chest. “Are you sure?” She might very well be a godmother in jail, after all.
“Of course.” Melissa squeezed Spencer’s thigh. “I want you in our baby’s life, Spence. You’re the strongest person I know, especially given all you’ve been through.” She glanced at her mother, who had jumped up from her seat and was rushing into the kitchen. “Don’t pay attention to Mom, okay?” she whispered. “I’ll give you half the jewels I inherit. But only the ugly ones.” She nudged her playfully.
Spencer wiped away a tear, overwhelmed by her sister’s kindness. “Thanks,” she mustered. “I’ll take the ugliest ones you get.”
Melissa dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “I heard you’re back in touch with Wren.”
Even though Spencer had been forewarned, she still felt her cheeks burn. “It’s just because he’s my doctor,” she said quickly. “We’re not, like, you know.”
“Even if you were, that would be okay.”
Spencer stared at her, surprised. “Really?”
Melissa nodded. “Wren used to talk about you all the time. And what happened at the end there . . . well, I can’t say I didn’t sort of orchestrate it, you know?” She looked down at the ultrasound picture next to her plate. “I just want you to be as happy as I am.”
“Thanks,” Spencer bleated.
As she said it, she realized she kind of was happy. Not with the predicament she was in, obviously, but in this moment. She thought of a baby coming into their lives and how much joy that would bring. She thought of how pleasant it was to have a real, true, precious relationship with Melissa. And then she thought of Wren. Leaning toward her. Kissing her lightly. That contented look on his face afterward, as he’d stared at the trees.
She grabbed her phone, suddenly charged with purpose. Wren’s text from the other day was still in her inbox; she hit a button and composed a reply. Thanks for coming over today, she typed quickly. I hope I can see you again.
She hoped he hoped so, too.
16
DOOMED
By Thursday, Hanna had begun to notice that the judge who was presiding over their trial, the Honorable Judge Pierrot, secretly picked his nose when he thought no one was looking. And that the bailiff played Candy Crush Saga during breaks, and that Juror #4, an older woman who wore square, dark-framed glasses and seemed utterly oblivious to current events—which was probably why they had chosen her—tapped her fingers on the desk to the rhythm of “Ding, Dong! The Witch Is Dead.” Hanna began to make a little superstitious game out of it: If Judge Pierrot dug around in his nose five times before lunch, she got ten points. If Juror #10 spun her engagement ring around her finger ten times in the day, she got twenty. It was easier to focus on that stuff than what was actually happening during the trial.
The testimony this morning was all about various witnesses who’d seen Hanna and the others skulking around Ashland before Ali’s alleged death. Apparently they’d been much less sneaky than they all thought, because the prosecution had found seven people to come forward. Most of them were just random citizens who didn’t have much to say, but the last woman, who wore a navy-blue suit and heels, was someone Hanna remembered. It was the lady Emily had accosted near the Maxwells’ property. Emily had been so worked up, in fact, that they’d had to practically pull her off the woman to calm her down.
Which, of course, was what the woman told them. “The girl who sadly took her life seemed very troubled,” she said in a dramatic voice. “I truly feared for my safety.”
Hanna wrinkled her nose. It hadn’t been that bad.
&nbs
p; The DA called another witness, a well-dressed woman with bright-red lipstick. When she stated her name for the court, she said in a clear voice, “Sharon Ridge.”
Hanna gasped. It was the woman who’d organized the Rosewood Rallies function at the Rosewood Country Club. What was she doing up there, testifying against them?
“Tell us about the Rosewood Rallies event,” the DA said.
Sharon Ridge rolled back her shoulders, then described the event as a gala at the country club to support disadvantaged youth in the Rosewood area. “It was a very special night,” she said. “A lot of people from the community came out, and we raised a lot of money.”
“And you had distinguished guests, correct?” the DA asked.
Ridge gazed into the courtroom. “Yes, Ms. Marin.” She pointed to Hanna. “And Ms. Hastings. As well as Ms. Fields and Ms. Montgomery, who are not here.”
“And did those girls seem grateful to be there?”
She adjusted her collar. “Well, not exactly. They seemed quite distracted all night. I wanted to introduce them to people, but all of them just looked right through me. And we wanted to have a little ceremony for the girls—they’d been through so much, or so we’d thought. But when we called them to the stage, they weren’t there.”
“Not a single one?”
The woman shook her head. “The cameras at the main entrance show them leaving the premises around 9 PM.”
“And when you say the girls were distracted, what do you mean?”
Ridge pushed a flyaway hair out of her face. “Well, I noticed Aria Montgomery flee into the ladies’ lounge. Emily Fields was positively catatonic, as was Hanna Marin. And Spencer Hastings, well . . .” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
“What?” the DA goaded.
“I’m not sure if this has anything to do with anything, but a few people said that Ms. Hastings had a very heated fight with the boy she brought as her date. They heard the name Alison mentioned.”