Vicious

  It was kind of crazy, and certainly drastic. What if it didn’t work? What if she’d just made a horrible mistake?

  She waited, listening for the Ali voice to chime in, but she was silent. Then Emily felt inside the Ziploc that was now tucked into her new shorts, pulling out a folded piece of hotel stationary. 8901 Hyacinth Drive, Cocoa Beach, FL, she’d written. The ink hadn’t smeared one bit—and that felt like a good omen, too. She held it between her hands, her heartbeat speeding up. She’d have to figure out the best way to get to Florida.

  She only hoped she’d find what she was looking for once she got there.

  29

  8901 HYACINTH DRIVE

  One week and one day after Emily’s dive into the ocean, she had made her way down to Florida. The oppressive humidity hit her the moment she stepped off the Greyhound bus, but it was a welcome change compared to the rank, bologna-smelling, bone-rattling contraptions she’d been a prisoner of for the past week. She shaded her eyes and looked around. Palm trees swayed majestically down the boulevard. Fluffy, midday clouds drifted overhead. A big electronic sign loomed large on the side of the building. Today is Sunday, scrolled red digital letters. Welcome to Cocoa Beach.

  Emily was finally here. She cocked her head, still expecting an Ali-voice comment, but Ali had been silent ever since Emily’s plunge into the sea. And so Emily relied on the old superstitious trick she’d used so many times since she was a kid, gazing out at the rushing traffic on the highway. If a semi truck passes in the next ten seconds, you’ll find her. If it doesn’t, you won’t.

  She started to count. At seven, a semi rushed past. Her fingertips tingled with possibility.

  She followed the crowd of people into the depot, cagily looking back and forth for fear that someone might recognize her. But no one was even glancing in her direction. Then again, she didn’t exactly look like the Emily Fields from the news, but instead like a skinny, bedraggled ragamuffin who hadn’t showered or eaten a proper meal in days. She’d had to transfer seven different times to ensure the cheapest bus to southern Florida. She’d read the same discarded copy of Golf Digest for four days in a row just to keep from going insane. She’d slept with her head against a bus window or curled up on a depot bench. She’d almost gotten pickpocketed twice, countless skeevy travelers had hit on her, and an old lady had screamed at her in Portuguese—Emily suspected she’d put a hex on her. She’d suffered a lot on this trip. Risked a lot, too.

  But it was worth it. She was on a mission.

  The depot was frigid and smelled like cleaning products, and an announcement blared over the loudspeaker in Spanish. Emily pushed into the women’s bathroom—the toilet on the bus had become entirely too gross to use by the end of the trip, and she’d been holding in pee since the Georgia/Florida line. Inside the stall, she reached into the plastic bag she’d been carrying, pulled out the burner cell she’d bought at a stopover in North Carolina, and went through the steps to activate it. She hadn’t wanted to use a cell phone before this, but now that she was here, she wasn’t sure what sort of situation she might run into. After the screen announced that the phone was active, she slipped it into her pocket, feeling every ounce of its weight.

  Outside the bathroom was a big map of the Cocoa Beach area. It took some searching, but Emily located Hyacinth Street in a development several miles away. She pulled out the pen she’d swiped from a rest stop in South Carolina and wrote the directions on her hand. Then, something on the TV hanging over the ticket window caught her eye, and she looked up. Hanna’s and Spencer’s solemn, sober faces flashed on the screen, filling Emily with even more guilt. They looked so tortured. She’d caught snippets of the trial during the journey, and with each new story, she’d felt even worse for leaving them to deal with it all on their own, especially since Aria had taken off for Europe. She also hated that her suicide wasn’t a vote of confidence to the jury that they were innocent.

  Then she noticed the headline. Pretty Little Liars Found Guilty, read big red letters. Emily’s jaw dropped. The trial was over. The jury didn’t believe them. They were going to jail.

  She had to get to that house, now.

  She found the bus line to Hyacinth Street and jogged to the stop just as a bus was pulling up. After paying the fare, she collapsed into a seat, AC blaring on the back of her neck. Art deco buildings swept past out the windows. Palm trees swayed. A woman near the front was listening to loud, lively music over headphones. Emily knew Ali had a grandma in Florida; was she hiding her now? But who had helped her get here? Who had paid her way the whole distance down the coast?

  How had Ali passed unnoticed by everyone yet again?

  The bus reached her stop, and Emily hurried off and onto a desolate stretch of sidewalk. Small stucco houses lined the streets. Two yards down, an older woman in curlers tended a flower bed. Across the street, an elderly man was walking a Lakeland terrier. A pack of senior citizens in matching tracksuits disappeared around the corner, their arms pumping, power-walker style. All the cars parked on the street looked like something her grandparents would drive: either big, boatlike cruisers or efficient little Toyota Corollas.

  Emily’s throat felt dry as she walked up the block and took a right at Hyacinth. More pretty stucco houses lined the block, all painted in cheerful pastels. Emily gazed at the sprayed-on numbers on the curb—8879 . . . 8881 . . . 8893 . . . and suddenly, there was 8901, just ahead. It was a cheerful pink house with white shutters and a white fence. A sprinkler sprayed the green grass in the yard, and tropical plants grew in a few flower beds near the windows. On the porch was the same statue of a droopy-eyed dog that the old lady who lived three doors down from Emily back in Rosewood had on her porch. The driveway was empty of cars.

  Emily crouched behind a giant palm. Was this right? The place seemed like a retirement community. What if Ali had planted that envelope in the trash can for Emily to find? What if she was watching from somewhere, laughing her head off?

  Emily thought about her friends’ faces on the news again. Prison. It was unthinkable. They were going through hell, and she wasn’t by their side. What if this was a trap and she was caught? She’d go to jail and probably get double the sentence for faking her death. Her friends would hate her. Her family would hate her. Everyone would hate her. They’d think she was even more nuts than before. Maybe she would end up at The Preserve.

  But then the front door opened.

  Emily crouched down. A figure stepped down the front path and crossed the lawn toward the driveway. It was a woman, her hips swinging and her hair bouncing, and she didn’t look nearly as old as the other residents in the neighborhood. Her hair was still a fresh, buttery blond. Her body was trim and young, as if she did lots of yoga. She was wearing a sundress, blue espadrilles, and a sparkling diamond pendant at her throat.

  Emily frowned. That diamond pendant looked familiar—really familiar. Just then, she got the strangest memory: It was seventh grade, and she and the other girls were dressing up Ali to go to the high school’s Valentine’s Dance—she’d been asked by a cute freshman boy named Tegan. Emily had thrown herself into helping Ali get ready, fussing over her hair and makeup, oohing and ahhing over the teardrop-shaped diamond necklace Ali got to wear that night, on loan from her mother.

  Day. All of a sudden, Emily knew why that name was significant. Before the DiLaurentises moved to Rosewood, they’d been known as the Day-DiLaurentises. But when they’d moved away because of their daughter’s violent outbursts, wanting to change over and start fresh, they’d dropped the first half of their name.

  Could it be?

  The woman strode toward the back of the house, that familiar diamond pendant thumping at her throat. As she opened the gate, the sun struck her face, illuminating her fine-boned features, from her slanted nose to her big blue eyes to her bow-shaped lips. Emily’s mouth dropped open. A scream froze in her throat.

  It was Ali’s mother.

  Emily was so stunned that her knees gave way. But suddenly, it
made so much sense. This was why Mrs. D hadn’t attended the trial. This was why she hadn’t commented to the press. Maybe the press didn’t know where she was. And Ali might have been insane, and Mrs. D might have fully understood that, but Ali was still her daughter. And as her mother, Mrs. D probably felt an obligation to protect her. It was something Emily could easily empathize with: She had a daughter, too, little Violet. It hadn’t been that long ago that A had hinted that Violet might be in danger. Emily had gone crazy with worry, desperate to keep Violet safe.

  Maybe that’s what Mrs. D was doing, too. Not quite thinking things through, Emily shot across the street and onto the property. She unlatched the white metal gate at the front and crept through the side yard, her heart pounding. It was cooler in the backyard, the area shady with palm trees, and a water feature bubbled noisily near the sliding door.

  Mrs. D stood with her back to Emily. A white curl of cigarette smoke snaked above her head, and a glowing red cigarette tip extended from between her fingers. She looked so vulnerable, standing there, having no clue Emily was behind her. Emily felt vulnerable, too. She still had no idea what she was going to say or do.

  Taking a deep breath, she covertly pressed the CALL screen of the burner cell. Fingers trembling, she dialed 911. Someone answered immediately. “What’s your emergency?” a woman’s voice blared.

  Mrs. D’s head shot up, and she turned at the noise. When she spied Emily, her eyes narrowed, then widened.

  “H-hi,” Emily heard herself say, her voice so small.

  “What’s your emergency?” the voice said again. Emily just hoped the dispatcher wouldn’t hang up before certain things were said. Didn’t they record 911 calls?

  The color drained from Mrs. D’s face. Up close, she looked older than Emily remembered. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin seemed drawn against her face, her body too gaunt.

  “What are you doing here?” Mrs. D finally hissed, backing up. “Didn’t you . . . drown?”

  She sounded scared, Emily realized. Maybe trapped. “I’m looking for Alison,” Emily said in the steadiest voice she could manage, her gaze on Ali’s mom. “I think you’ve seen her.”

  Mrs. D looked at Emily crazily. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “I think you know where she is,” Emily went on. “I understand what you’re doing, Mrs. DiLaurentis. I have a daughter, too. If I thought she was in danger, I’d do anything to help her. But you need to do what’s right. Your daughter has hurt a lot of people and ruined a lot of lives.”

  Mrs. D dropped the cigarette to the pavers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spat. “My daughter is dead. You killed her.”

  There was a slight hiccup in her voice, and she averted her eyes. Emily’s heart jumped. “You know that’s not true,” she said loudly. “You’ve been in touch with her. In fact, I think she’s here.”

  Mrs. D shook her head. “I’ve heard things about you. They said you’d gone crazy. I figured you were the one that killed Alison. I bet it was you alone, wasn’t it?”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Emily roared. “She almost killed me.”

  “I read the things she wrote about you in her journal. You girls are monsters.”

  “Hello?” the dispatcher said. “Is someone on the line?”

  Mrs. D glanced at Emily’s pocket. “Who are you talking to?”

  Emily touched the phone through the fabric. “I’ve called the police. They’re on their way. So you’d better start telling me the truth.”

  Mrs. D’s bottom lip started to tremble. Something about her tough expression collapsed. “The police?” she squeaked. “W-why would you do that? They’ll come after you, you know. Haven’t you heard? Your friends were found guilty.”

  “They won’t come after me. You know that. Just tell me where she is. I’m not going to hurt her. I promise.”

  Though it was difficult, Emily didn’t break her poker face. Mrs. D’s eyes darted back and forth. She looked like she was going to crack.

  “Hello?” the dispatcher said again. “Ma’am, we’re . . .”

  But Emily didn’t hear the rest. She felt someone yank her from behind, pinning her arms behind her back. She let out a scream. Mrs. D’s eyes widened. And then Emily felt something cold and hard press at her temple. Her whole body went slack. It was a gun.

  “Don’t move, bitch,” a voice growled.

  A figure stepped in front of her, swimming into view. Emily saw a heavyset girl with sallow skin and dull, brown hair. It was the eyes, though, that Emily recognized right away—crystal-blue eyes that sparkled when they smiled. And the mouth, too. That beautiful, kissable bow-shaped mouth.

  Ali.

  30

  NOT GOING DOWN WITHOUT A FIGHT

  “What are you doing?” Mrs. DiLaurentis screamed at her daughter. “Go back inside!”

  “Oh, because you have this covered?” Ali howled, tightening her grip on Emily’s arms. And now her voice sounded utterly familiar, that beautiful and horrible voice Emily would never forget. “You told me you had this under control. But I saw you. You were about to tell her everything!”

  Mrs. D rushed over and tried to pry Ali off Emily, but Ali shoved her away, sending her careening into the wrought-iron table. Mrs. D recovered quickly and gave Ali a plaintive, desperate look. “Just go inside, okay? Please. She said she called the police. Just go to that place we talked about. It’s safe.”

  But Ali didn’t seem to hear her mom. She yanked Emily closer until her mouth was against Emily’s ear. “You made a big, big mistake looking for me, bitch. And now you’re going to pay.”

  Mrs. D trembled on the other side of the patio. “Alison, stop,” she said sternly. “Go inside.”

  Ali pointed at her mother. “This is your fault, you know. You should have prevented this. I trusted you.”

  Mrs. D slapped her arms to her sides. “If you just go to that place we talked about, this will be fine!” She pointed at Emily. “I’ve got her covered. She’s a murderer. Everyone is looking for her. The police will take her away.”

  “Or we could just get rid of her now,” Ali said, turning on Emily. At the same time, Emily yanked away from Ali with a quick spin, shot out her hand, and knocked the gun away. It clattered along the patio, coming to a stop by a large stone birdbath.

  “You bitch!” Ali lurched for the weapon, but Emily tackled her and pushed her to the ground. She climbed on top of her, wrapping her legs around Ali’s thickened torso. Her breath heaved. Ali wriggled under Emily’s weight, her chubby face wincing, her teeth gnashing.

  Ali spit in Emily’s face. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “I could kill you,” Emily whispered.

  Ali snickered. “Yeah, right. You don’t have it in you.”

  “I don’t?” Emily bellowed in a voice entirely not her own. She reached out and clenched her hands around Ali’s neck. Ali’s eyes bulged. Emily could feel the muscles and tendons at Ali’s throat, and she willed herself to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze. “I don’t?” she repeated. Dimly, she realized that Mrs. D was screaming.

  The furious smirk on Ali’s face turned to something more fearful. Emily relished the terror in Ali’s eyes—for once, she understood what they’d been through all these years. All she wanted was to get rid of this girl once and for all. All she wanted was for Ali to pay.

  But then she realized: It wouldn’t solve anything. And she really would be Ali’s murderer. No better than Ali was.

  She pulled her hands away. Ali turned her head and coughed violently. Emily leaned down, close to her ear. “No. You don’t deserve to die. I’m going to make you rot in jail for the rest of your life.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  There was the sound of a short, sharp click. Emily whirled around. Mrs. D stood behind them, holding the gun. “Put your hands up,” she whispered.

  Emily leapt off Ali. Ali rolled onto her side, still groaning and coughing and clutching
her throat.

  Mrs. D’s hands might have been unsteady, but she was composed enough to release the gun’s safety. Her jaw was tight. Cords stood out from her neck. “Don’t touch my daughter,” she whispered.

  Emily nodded weakly. She glanced back and forth for something to battle Mrs. D with, but there was nothing nearby. She was trapped. Mrs. D had her.

  “I’m sorry,” she heard herself say. So this was it. She really was going to die. No one would ever know she’d searched valiantly for Ali. And Ali would get away . . . again.

  A sound rose up from down the street. Emily perked up her ears. It was a siren—so the 911 dispatcher had heard her. “Back here!” Emily dared to scream. “Help!”

  After that, everything happened so quickly: She heard the sounds of footsteps and the clang of the gate. The officers exploded onto the patio, and Mrs. D dropped the gun. The cops ran and picked it up, and then there was more shouting and confusion. “What’s going on here?” the cops bellowed. “Everyone, hands where we can see them!”

  “This girl was trying to break into my home!” Mrs. D pointed at Emily. “She’s Emily Fields, the girl who’s supposed to be dead! She’s a murderer!”

  The cops turned and stared at Emily. The tall one grabbed her wrist. The dark-haired one reached for his walkie-talkie. “Wait!” Emily cried. “The girl I supposedly murdered? She’s here!”

  She gestured to where Ali had fallen—and gasped. Ali was gone.

  There was a tinny, clanking sound at the edge of the property. Emily turned and caught sight of a shadowy figure scaling the chain-link fence. Ali was halfway up by now. “It’s Alison DiLaurentis!” Emily screamed to the cops, who were next to her. “You know who she is, right?”