And go to prison immediately? Spencer thought, her stomach pulling. No, thanks.
Rubens exited into the hall, leaving Spencer and Hanna alone. Spencer glanced at her old friend, feeling awkward. “This sucks,” Hanna finally mumbled.
Spencer nodded. She stared at the lacrosse bracelet on Hanna’s wrist, wanting to say something. Anything. If only she could reach over and give Hanna a big hug and all would be forgiven.
Then she noticed something tucked into Hanna’s bag. It looked like an invitation. Spencer squinted harder, noticing Hanna’s own name, along with Mike’s. Hanna Marin and Michelangelo Montgomery invite you to their wedding at the Chanticleer mansion this Saturday at eight o’clock in the evening.
It stung, especially because she hadn’t been invited.
Hanna noticed Spencer looking at the invites. Her face paled. “Oh, Spence. Actually—here.” She plunged her hand into the bag and handed her an invite.
Spencer stared at it. Her head shot up. “You don’t have to invite me just because I happened to see this.”
Hanna’s eyes were wide. “No, I want to invite you!” She laughed nervously. “Spence, I want to be friends again. That argument was stupid. We need to get past it, don’t you think?”
Spencer rolled her jaw. She wanted to believe Hanna, but something about what she’d just said didn’t sit right. She couldn’t get their argument out of her mind. Don’t be such a martyr. No one had ever been that mean to her, not even Melissa.
Then she realized what it was. Hanna hadn’t said she was sorry for blaming Spencer for Emily’s death. What she really, really wanted was an apology. Not a wedding invitation.
Hanna stared at her with big doe eyes. Spencer straightened her spine and handed the invite back. “I’m busy that night,” she said in a clipped voice, then swung around and marched out the door.
“Spencer!” Hanna said, chasing her. Spencer kept going, outpacing Hanna.
Spencer pushed through the back entrance, her emotions scrambled both from Hanna’s invitation and Rubens’s suggestion for a plea bargain. Should they do that? It would put an end to the trial and the persecution. But making a deal meant they were guilty of something—and they weren’t. Spencer didn’t want to go to prison for less time; she didn’t want to go at all.
She shut her eyes and thought again of Angela naming that outlandish price to help Spencer to disappear. She’d racked her brain but had come up with no other way to find the money. The prospect was as good as dead.
“Spencer.”
She whirled around. Melissa was hustling behind her down the ramp from the courthouse. Spencer’s jaw dropped. “You were in there?”
Melissa nodded. “I had to see how things were going.” She cast her eyes downward, looking about as defeated as Spencer felt. “I didn’t realize it was so bad, honey. Need a hug?”
Tears filled Spencer’s eyes. She melted into her sister, squeezing her tightly. Then Melissa patted her arm. “C’mon. I’ll drive you home. I canceled your car service.”
Spencer climbed into her sister’s Mercedes and sat back against the warm leather seats. As they wound through Rosewood, Melissa tried to take Spencer’s mind off things by chattering about the baby items she was planning to register for. “It’s crazy, all the things you need for such a little person,” she said. “So many blankets and bibs, bottles and toys, and we don’t know whether to co-sleep or use a bassinet . . .”
Her ring flashed as she gesticulated with her hands. It was incongruous to see Melissa wearing their mother’s old ring; Spencer wondered what her dad thought about it. Her mother’s nasty words floated back to her, too. You girls are set to inherit a treasure trove of things from your father. Well, you won’t get anything. You’ll be in jail—it’ll be no use to you there.
Suddenly, an idea struck her. She let out a gasp.
Melissa looked up. “You okay?”
Spencer tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and tried to smile. “Sure.”
But the rest of the way home, she jiggled her leg repeatedly. When she was little, she used to sneak into her mom’s closet and look at the jewels inside her red-and-black enamel jewelry box. Sometimes, she’d even try them on. Was it still there? When had her mother last taken stock?
Could Spencer actually consider taking some of that jewelry . . . to pay Angela?
As soon as her sister pulled into the driveway, Spencer gave her another grateful hug, ran into the house, and slammed the door. She waited until Melissa pulled out again, then shot upstairs. As usual, her mom’s bedroom suite smelled like her mother’s signature Chanel No. 5, and it was five-star-hotel-room spotless, the pillows fluffed, the bedspread smoothed, all clothes put away. Their cleaning lady even ironed Spencer’s mom’s sheets every morning before placing them on the bed.
She stepped toward her mother’s walk-in closet. Mrs. Hastings’s wardrobe hung on one side, Mr. Pennythistle’s suits on the other, their shoes on racks upon racks at the back. And then, on a middle shelf, there it was: the same black-and-red box she remembered.
Hands shaking, Spencer tried the lid. It didn’t budge. She held it up to the light, then caught sight of a little keypad by the hinge. Of course: It had a code.
She sat back, trying to remember what the old code had been. Melissa’s birthday, right? She typed in 1123 for November 23, but a red LED light appeared. Spencer frowned. Why would her mother have changed it?
She tried 0408 for Amelia’s birthday, and then Mr. Pennythistle’s, but the red light appeared again and again. Then, feeling pretty hopeless, she typed in the code for her own birthday. The LED flashed green, and the hinge unlatched. Spencer pressed her lips together, guilt swelling over her. But maybe her mother’s usage of her birthday was fairly arbitrary, just another semi-significant number combination after lots of other semi-significant number combinations had already been used. It didn’t mean anything, did it?
Several diamond bracelets were arranged carefully on a velvet tray. Two red Cartier boxes were nestled into a trough, along with a box from Tiffany and a Philadelphia jeweler Mr. Hastings frequented. Spencer opened the first Cartier to find the massive emerald ring her father had given her mom a few Christmases ago. The next box held a pair of diamond earrings he’d presented to her for an anniversary. There were more velvet boxes in a second tray bearing bracelets, diamond hoops and studs, a pear-shaped diamond ring that looked to be at least three carats, and a pink diamond brooch Spencer recalled her father giving to her mom for her birthday.
Spencer heard a sound and looked up. Was her mom here? Hands fluttering, she scooped up some of the velvet boxes and stuffed them into her pocket. She selected the pink diamond—her mom probably wouldn’t notice it was gone—a few bracelets, and a pair of big diamond studs that looked identical to the ones already in Mrs. Hastings’s ears, then rearranged everything in the box to look as though it had been untouched.
She shut the lid, darted out of the closet, and was almost to her room when someone cleared her throat behind her. Spencer wheeled around. Amelia stood in the middle of the hall, staring.
“O-oh!” Spencer sputtered. “I didn’t know you were home.”
Amelia looked Spencer up and down, her lips pressed tightly together. She glanced at Mrs. Hastings’s open bedroom door and said nothing.
Spencer’s heart jumped. “I, um, wanted to borrow my mom’s curling iron,” she blathered. “It’s much nicer than mine.” It was the first thing she could think of.
But then her stepsister’s gaze fell to Spencer’s hands. Not only were they curling iron free, but she was wearing the pear-shaped diamond ring she’d snuck out of the jewelry box. Spencer’s heart jumped. Just get out of here, a voice in her head screamed. Go before you dig an even deeper hole.
She pushed past Amelia into her own bedroom, slamming the door loudly. After a moment, she heard Amelia close her own door and the classical SiriusXM station snap on. The guilt started to snake around her like a noose. Amelia was going to say some
thing. Should Spencer just put everything back?
But the only thing she could picture in her mind was the four block walls of a prison cell. And the lawyer’s words: It makes the most sense for you girls to enter a plea bargain. They felt like the only two valid thoughts in her brain, crowding out everything else.
She fled out of her room and slipped into Mr. Pennythistle’s office. He had a separate landline from the home phone, which she knew was being monitored. She hated using this phone in case the cops were monitoring it, too, though she doubted they were quite that thorough. And anyway, she’d only be on with Angela for a few moments—not long enough to trace.
Angela answered on the first ring with, “Who’s this?”
For a moment, Spencer couldn’t find her voice. “I-it’s Spencer Hastings,” she finally got out. “I just wanted to let you know I have the money you’re looking for so that I can . . . you know. So that you can help me with what I need.”
“I’m listening,” Angela said gruffly. “When can you get this money to me?”
“Well, it’s in jewelry, not cash,” Spencer explained. “I can’t get to you because I have a tracking bracelet on, but I’m good for it, I swear. I want to go as soon as possible,” she added. “Whenever you can make it happen.”
There was a pause. Spencer checked the clock, remembering from an old episode of 24 that she had only another twenty seconds or so until the call could be tracked. “All right,” the woman on the other end finally said. “Send me a photo of the jewels so I know they’re up to snuff. And then I want you outside your house on Saturday night at 10 PM. Sharp. We’ll make the transaction and get you gone all in the same day. You’re a minute late, or the jewels are shit, and all bets are off. Got it?”
“Of course.” Spencer’s hands were shaking. “But you’ll be able to remove my ankle bracelet when you pick me up?”
Angela snorted. “I have ways of getting that thing off and duping the system for a little bit. But you’ll be on borrowed time. We’ll have to get you out of range, and fast.”
“Thank you,” Spencer said, feeling a prickle by her eyes. “I’ll see you then.”
There was a sharp click, and Angela was gone. Spencer stared at her reflection in the vanity across the room. Her pockets bulged with jewels. She closed her eyes. Saturday night. That was two days from now. She could make it until then.
She had to.
19
CEASE AND DESIST
Aria picked up the bag of Scrabble tiles and gave it a swift shake. “If I pick one more vowel, I’m going to lose my mind.”
She plunged her hand into the bag, selected a tile, and turned it over in her hand. An E. “Oh my God,” she said dramatically, falling back on the mattress. “I’m doomed. Can E-I-E-I-O count as an Old MacDonald word?”
Noel mustered a weak smile. As he rearranged the tiles on his Scrabble shelf, his gaze slid toward the window. The sun was high in the sky. “Can’t we go out for just a little bit?” It came out as a whine.
Aria’s mouth twitched. “I’d rather not.”
Noel stood up from their hotel bed and wandered to the chaise in the corner. The room in the little Belgian suburb was much plushier and more expensive than Aria would have preferred to stay in, but they’d gotten off the train in the middle of nowhere, and this was all they could find. At first, they’d tried to make the best of it: Aria marveled over the hotel’s library, claiming it would keep them busy for days. When she found the Scrabble game tucked onto one of the shelves in the lounge, she made a huge deal out of challenging Noel to a tournament. She’d talked up the hotel gym and said they could watch movies. Staying there was going to be so much fun!
But none of the machines in the gym worked. The movies for purchase were all in Dutch or German without subtitles. It seemed like everything on the hotel restaurant menu featured pickled herring, and Aria was pretty sure the Scrabble game was missing most of the consonant tiles.
She wanted to believe what Noel kept insisting: The guy on the train didn’t know who she was. Look at all the articles, after all—they said she was in Sweden, or Spain, and one even mentioned Morocco!
But all last night, paranoid thoughts had spiraled in her mind. The safest thing to do was to lie low in the room until everything blew over. She’d tried to make it fun and sexy, giving Noel a massage, dancing for him to Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball” on VH1, fantasizing about the many places they’d visit in Japan. She’d even let him win at Scrabble. But you could only make a 300-square-foot hotel room fun for so long. It was Friday now. She was running out of things to do.
She picked up the remote and turned on the TV, clicking it to CNN International, searching for news about the trial. Aria was pretty sure closing statements were today. And what was going on with Hanna and Mike’s wedding? Noel had said he’d seen a newscast about that in the Amsterdam airport. If only she could just look online, but she feared someone tracking her search. Even tuning in on TV felt criminal.
Noel grabbed the remote from her and switched to another station that looked like the Dutch version of the Food Network. “You’re worrying too much,” he said. “You have to calm down. We have the fake passports. We’ve been careful. And besides, I came all the way to Europe to find you.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “At the very least you could show me some of the sights, you know?”
Aria swallowed hard and looked out the window. Maybe Noel was right. And it was true—he had come all this way. This couldn’t exactly be fun for him. Maybe if she put on the blond wig and some sunglasses, she’d be fine.
“Okay,” she conceded. “Let’s go out for a bit. Just nowhere too public, okay?”
“Thank God.” Noel’s face flooded with relief. “I was starting to lose it in here.”
It was chilly outside, so they put on hoodies and scarves. The blond wig made Aria’s scalp itch, but she didn’t dare go out without it. The walk down to the elevator was okay, mostly because there was no one in the hallway. So was the stroll through the lobby—the clerk was looking at something on her computer screen, paying no attention to them. But as soon as they hit the street, Aria’s throat began to close. It seemed like everyone on the sidewalk had frozen and was looking at her. Was the doorman peering at them strangely? What was that guy doing across the street, just staring into his cell phone?
“I saw a cool-looking café a few blocks away,” Noel said. “Want to go there?”
“Uh . . .” Aria touched the blond strands of her wig. She couldn’t imagine going somewhere so public. But maybe the café was dark inside. Maybe they could be escorted to a private room. Maybe no one in the place would have seen the APB with her face on it. Act normal, she told herself.
She started down the street, her hand tightly gripping Noel’s. Halfway down the block, she noticed a black sedan parked across the street. Its windows were tinted, but she could just make out that someone was inside. As they turned left, the sedan’s lights flipped on, and the car began to slowly creep after them.
She dug her nails into Noel’s arm. “I think that car is following us.”
“What?” Noel swiveled around.
Aria dug her nails harder. “Don’t look.”
Noel sighed loudly. “No one’s after us.”
“I can just tell.” She walked fast but not too fast, pretending to be just another pedestrian out for dinner. “Why aren’t they driving faster?”
Noel twisted his mouth. “Because this is, like, a fifteen-mile-per-hour zone?”
But Aria had a horrible sense, one much more pressing than the one she’d felt even in the newsagent’s in Amsterdam. This was the end of the road. Someone had recognized her—maybe it had been that man on the train. He’d tipped off the authorities, they’d put out an alert, and someone at the hotel had made the call. Aria and Noel had basically just delivered themselves straight to the waiting Feds. She might as well knock on the window and offer up her wrists for handcuffs.
“What do you want to do?” Noel asked.
“I don’t know,” Aria said through her teeth, wishing there was an alley to duck into. The car slunk behind them, though it was quite far away, as if the driver was trying to figure out if it was really them. Or maybe he was calling for backup. “We can’t go back to the hotel. They’ll follow us.”
“Aria, they’re not following us,” Noel said. “We should keep walking.”
Aria stared at Noel fearfully as they clomped past a bakery. “We shouldn’t have left the room. I shouldn’t have given in to you.”
He set his jaw. “So now it’s all my fault?”
Aria said nothing.
“What were we supposed to do, hide forever?” Noel asked.
“Yes!” Aria shrieked, slapping her arms to her sides. “We were supposed to hide however long it took!”
Noel let out a strange laugh. Aria turned and looked at him. “What?”
He flinched. “Because this isn’t you, Aria. And honestly, I thought this was sort of going to be . . . fun. Not like . . . this.”
Aria set her jaw. “Well, I’m sorry this isn’t more of a vacation for you. But I didn’t ask you to come, Noel. I would have been fine on my own.”
Noel squinted at her. “You didn’t seem very fine when I found you. You were a total mess.”
“I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much stress,” Aria said bitterly, ignoring his comment. Then she looked up. “You know, if it were someone else here, someone else you were protecting, I bet you wouldn’t complain about this not being fun.”
Noel looked at her sharply. “Someone else meaning who?”
The words had come out of Aria’s mouth so quickly she hadn’t exactly had time to process them. “Forget it,” she said. “I’m just upset.”
Noel put his hands on his hips, stopping next to a dry-cleaner’s. “You’re talking about Ali, aren’t you?”
Aria turned away. She hated how well Noel knew her. “Maybe,” she said, feeling something inside her break. “You would have done anything for her, Noel.”