Perfect (6 page)

6

SIBLING RIVALRY’S A HARD HABIT TO BREAK

Monday afternoon at field hockey practice, Spencer pulled ahead of her teammates on their warm-up lap around the field. It had been an unseasonably warm day and the girls were all a little slower than usual. Kirsten Cullen pumped her arms to catch up. “I heard about the Golden Orchid,” Kirsten said breathlessly, readjusting her blond ponytail. “That’s awesome.”

“Thanks.” Spencer ducked her head. It was amazing how fast the news had spread at Rosewood Day—her mother had only told her six hours ago. At least ten people had come up to talk to her about it since then.

“I heard John Mayer won a Golden Orchid when he was in high school,” Kirsten continued. “It was, like, an essay for AP music theory.”

“Huh.” Spencer was pretty sure John Mayer hadn’t won it—she knew every winner from the past fifteen years.

“I bet you’ll win,” Kirsten said. “And then you’ll be on TV! Can I come with you for your debut on the
Today
show?”

Spencer shrugged. “It’s a really cutthroat competition.”

“Shut up.” Kirsten slapped her on the shoulder. “You’re always so modest.”

Spencer clenched her teeth. As much as she’d been trying to downplay this Golden Orchid thing, everyone’s reaction had been the same—
You’ll definitely win it. Get ready for your close-up!
—and it was making her crazy. She had nervously organized and reorganized the money in her wallet so many times today that one of her twenties had split right down the center.

Coach McCready blew the whistle and yelled, “Crossovers!” The team immediately turned and began running sideways. They looked like dressage competitors at the Devon Horse Show. “You hear about the Rosewood Stalker?” Kirsten asked, huffing a little—crossovers were harder than they looked. “It was all over the news last night.”

“Yeah,” Spencer mumbled.

“He’s in your neighborhood. Hanging out in the woods.”

Spencer dodged a divot in the dry grass. “It’s probably just some loser,” she huffed. But Spencer couldn’t help but think of A. How many times had A texted her about something that it seemed
no one
could have seen? Now she looked out into the trees, almost certain she’d see a shadowy figure. But there was no one.

They started running normally again, passing the Rosewood Day duck pond, the sculpture garden, and the cornfields. When they looped toward the bleachers, Kirsten squinted and pointed toward the low metal benches that held the girls’ hockey equipment. “Is that your
sister
?”

Spencer flinched. Melissa was standing next to Ian Thomas, their new assistant coach. It was the very same Ian Thomas Melissa had dated when Spencer was in seventh grade—
and
the same Ian Thomas who had kissed Spencer in her driveway years ago.

They finished their loop and Spencer came to a halt in front of Melissa and Ian. Her sister had changed into an outfit that was nearly identical to what their mother had been wearing earlier: stovepipe jeans, white tee, and an expensive Dior watch. She even wore Chanel No. 5, just like Mom.
Such a good little clone,
Spencer thought. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, out of breath.

Melissa leaned her elbow on one of the Gatorade jugs resting on the bench, her antique gold charm bracelet tinkling against her wrist. “What, a big sister can’t watch her little sister play?” But then her saccharine smile faded, and she snaked an arm around Ian’s waist. “It also helps that my boyfriend’s the coach.”

Spencer wrinkled her nose. She’d always suspected Melissa had never gotten over Ian. They’d broken up shortly after graduation. Ian was still as cute as ever, with his blond, wavy hair, beautifully proportioned body, and lazy, arrogant smile. “Well, good for you,” Spencer answered, wanting out of this conversation. The less she spoke to Melissa, the better—at least until the Golden Orchid thing was over. If only the judges would hurry the hell up and knock Spencer’s plagiarized paper out of the running.

She reached for her gear bag, pulled out her shin guards, and fastened one around her left shin. Then she fastened the other around her right. Then she unfastened both, refastening them much tighter. She pulled up her socks and then pulled them down again. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

“Someone’s awfully OCD today,” Melissa teased. She turned to Ian. “Oh, did you hear the big Spencer news? She won the Golden Orchid. The
Philadelphia Sentinel
is coming over to interview her this week.”

“I didn’t win,” Spencer barked quickly. “I was only nominated.”

“Oh, I’m sure you
will
win,” Melissa simpered, in a way Spencer couldn’t quite read. When her sister gave Spencer a wink, she felt a pinch of terror.
Did she know?

Ian let out a whistle. “A Golden Orchid? Damn! You Hastings sisters—smart, beautiful,
and
athletic. You should see the way Spence tears up the field, Mel. She plays a mean center.”

Melissa pursed her shiny lips, thinking. “Remember when Coach had me play center because Zoe had mono?” she chirped to Ian. “I scored two goals. In
one
quarter.”

Spencer gritted her teeth. She’d known Melissa couldn’t be charitable for long. Yet again, Melissa had turned something completely innocent into a competition. Spencer scrolled through the long list in her head for an appropriate fake-nice insult but then decided to screw it. This wasn’t the time to pick a fight with Melissa. “I’m sure it rocked, Mel,” she conceded. “I bet you’re a way better center than I am.”

Her sister froze. The little gremlin that Spencer was certain lived inside Melissa’s head was confused. Clearly it hadn’t expected Spencer to say something nice.

Spencer smiled at her sister and then at Ian. He held her gaze for a moment and then gave her a little conspiratorial wink.

Spencer’s insides flipped. She
still
got gooey when Ian looked at her. Even three years later, Spencer remembered every single detail about their kiss. Ian had been wearing a soft gray Nike T-shirt, green army shorts, and brown Merrills. He smelled like cut grass and cinnamon gum. One second, Spencer was giving him a good-bye peck on his cheek—she’d gone out to flirt, nothing more. The next second, he was pressing her up against the side of his car. Spencer had been so surprised, she’d kept her eyes open.

Ian blew the whistle, breaking Spencer out of her thoughts. She jogged back to her team, and Ian followed. “All right, guys.” Ian clapped his hands. The team surrounded him, taking in Ian’s golden face longingly. “Please don’t hate me, but we’re going to do Indian sprints, crouching drills, and hill running today. Coach’s orders.”

Everyone, including Spencer, groaned. “I told you not to hate me!” Ian cried.

“Can’t we do something else?” Kirsten whined.

“Just think how much butt you’re going to kick for our game against Pritchard Prep,” Ian said. “And how about this? If we get through the entire drill, I’ll take you guys to Merlin after practice tomorrow.”

The hockey team whooped. Merlin was famous for its low-calorie chocolate ice cream that tasted better than the full-fat stuff.

As Spencer leaned over the bench to fasten her shin guards—
again
—she felt Ian standing above her. When she glanced up at him, he was smiling. “For the record,” Ian said in a low voice, shadowing his face from her teammates, “you play center better than your sister does. No question about it.”

“Thanks.” Spencer smiled. Her nose tickled with the smell of cut grass and Ian’s Neutrogena sunscreen. Her heart pitter-pattered. “That means a lot.”

“And I meant the other stuff, too.” The left corner of Ian’s mouth pulled up into a half-smile.

Spencer felt a faint, trembling thrill. Did he mean the “smart” and “beautiful” stuff? She glanced across the field to where Melissa was standing. Her sister leaned over her BlackBerry, not paying a bit of attention.

Good.

7

NOTHING LIKE AN OLD-FASHIONED INTERROGATION

Monday evening, Hanna parked her Prius in her side driveway and hopped out. All she had to do was change clothes, and then she was off to meet Mona for their dinner. Showing up in her Rosewood Day blazer and pleated skirt would be an insult to the institution of Frenniversaries. She had to get out of these long sleeves—she’d been sweating all day. Hanna had spritzed herself with her Evian mineral water spray bottle about a hundred times on the drive home, but she still felt overheated.

When she rounded the corner, she noticed her mother’s champagne-colored Lexus next to the garage and stopped short. What was her mom doing home? Ms. Marin usually worked über-long hours at McManus & Tate, her Philadelphia advertising firm. She often didn’t get back until after 10
P.M
.

Then Hanna noticed the four other cars, stuffed one after the other against the garage: the silver Mercedes coupe was definitely Spencer’s, the white Volvo Emily’s, and the clunky green Subaru Aria’s. The last car was a white Ford with the words
ROSEWOOD POLICE DEPARTMENT
emblazoned on the side.

What the hell?

“Hanna.”

Hanna’s mother stood on the side porch. She still had on her sleek black pantsuit and high snakeskin heels.

“What’s going on?” Hanna demanded, annoyed.

“Why are my old friends here?”

“I tried calling you. You didn’t pick up,” her mother said. “Officer Wilden wanted to ask you girls some questions about Alison. They’re out back.”

Hanna pulled her BlackBerry out of her pocket. Sure enough, she had three missed calls, all from her mom.

Her mother turned. Hanna followed her into the house and through the kitchen. She paused by the granite-topped telephone table. “Do I have any messages?”

“Yes, one.” Hanna’s heart leapt, but then her mother added, “Mr. Ackard. They’re doing some reorganization at the burn clinic, and they won’t need your help anymore.”

Hanna blinked. That was a nice surprise. “Anyone…else?”

The corners of Ms. Marin’s eyes turned down, understanding. “No.” She gently touched Hanna’s arm. “I’m sorry, Han. He hasn’t called.”

Despite Hanna’s otherwise back-to-perfect life, the silence from her father made her ache. How could he so easily cut Hanna out of his life? Didn’t he realize she’d had a very good reason to ditch their dinner and go to Foxy? Didn’t he know he shouldn’t have invited his fiancée, Isabel, and her perfect daughter, Kate, to
their
special weekend? But then, Hanna’s father would be marrying plain, squirrelly Isabel soon—and Kate would officially be his stepdaughter. Maybe he hadn’t called Hanna back because Hanna was one daughter too many.

Whatever,
Hanna told herself, taking off her blazer and straightening her sheer pink Rebecca Taylor camisole. Kate was a prissy bitch—if her father chose Kate over her, then they deserved each other.

When she looked through the French doors to the back porch, Spencer, Aria, and Emily were indeed sitting around the giant teak patio table, the light from the stained-glass window sparkling against their cheeks. Officer Wilden, the newest member of Rosewood’s police force
and
Ms. Marin’s newest boyfriend, stood near the Weber grill.

It was surreal to see her three ex–best friends here. The last time they’d sat on Hanna’s back porch had been at the end of seventh grade—and Hanna had been the dorkiest and ugliest of the group. But now, Emily’s shoulders had broadened and her hair had a slight greenish tint. Spencer looked stressed and constipated. And Aria was a zombie, with her black hair and pale skin. If Hanna was a couture Proenza Schouler, then Aria was a pilly, ill-fitting sweatshirt dress from the Target line.

Hanna took a deep breath and pushed through the French doors. Wilden turned around. There was a serious look on his face. The tiniest bit of a black tattoo peeked out from under the collar of his cop uniform. It still amazed Hanna that Wilden, a former Rosewood Day badass, had gone into law enforcement. “Hanna. Have a seat.”

Hanna scraped a chair back from the table and slumped down next to Spencer. “Is this going to take long?” She examined her pink diamond-encrusted Dior watch. “I’m late for something.”

“Not if we get started,” Wilden looked around at all of them. Spencer stared at her fingernails, Aria chomped on her gum with her eyes freakishly closed, and Emily fixated on the citronella candle in the middle of the table, like she was about to cry.

“First thing,” Wilden said. “Someone has leaked a homemade video of you girls to the press.” He glanced at Aria. “It was one of the videos you gave the Rosewood PD years ago. So you might see it on TV—all the news channels got it. We’re looking for whoever leaked it—and they’ll be punished. I wanted to let you girls know first.”

“Which video is it?” Aria asked.

“Something about text messages?” he answered.

Hanna sat back, trying to remember which video it could be—there were so many. Aria used to be obsessive about videotaping them. Hanna had always tried her hardest to duck out of every shot, because for her, the camera added not ten pounds but
twenty
.

Wilden cracked his knuckles and fiddled with a phallic-looking pepper grinder that sat in the center of the table. Some pepper spilled on the tablecloth, and the air immediately smelled spicy. “The other thing I want to talk about is Alison herself. We have reason to believe that Alison’s killer might be someone
from
Rosewood. Someone who possibly still lives here today…and that person may still be dangerous.”

Everyone drew in a breath.

“We’re looking at everything with a fresh eye,” Wilden went on, rising from the table and strolling around with his hands clasped behind his back. He’d probably seen someone on
CSI
do that and thought it was cool. “We’re trying to reconstruct Alison’s life right before she went missing. We want to start with the people who knew her best.”

Just then, Hanna’s BlackBerry buzzed. She pulled it out of her purse. Mona.

“Mon,” Hanna answered quietly, getting up from her chair and wandering to the far side of the porch by her mother’s rosebushes. “I’m going to be a couple minutes late.”