Pretty Little Liars #15: Toxic (15 page)

Everyone on the stage gasped. Samantha, who was sitting on the sidelines, leapt to her feet. “This is inappropriate. I think you should leave.”

“What about freedom of speech?” Dominick protested.

Samantha’s eyes blazed. “We’re trying to help people get through terrible ordeals. What we
don’t
need is someone invalidating their feelings.”

“Wah, wah, wah.” Dominick simpered, rolling his eyes.

“That’s it.” Samantha signaled to a man Spencer hadn’t noticed in the corner, and he swept forward, pushing into the aisle and taking Dominick’s arm. Everyone watched as the guard pulled Dominick up the aisle and out the exit.

Just before the door closed, Dominick turned around and glared at Spencer—and only Spencer. “I hope you’re happy, little liar,” he said ominously.

Spencer flinched. “Hey,” Greg said gruffly, leaping up. He looked like he was about to jump off the stage, but Jamie waved at him to sit back down.

“Sorry about that, folks,” Samantha said after the door slammed shut. “I guess it shows that bullies are everywhere, huh?” She chuckled uncomfortably. “Let’s get back on track, shall we? We’ll edit all that out.”

Spencer was able to finish the video, even staying focused, but she had to hide her shaking hands under her thighs. She could feel Greg sneaking peeks at her, and she kept a smile pasted on her face.

After another half hour, Jamie signaled for the cameras to stop. He beamed at the panel. “You guys were amazing. I think we have everything we need and more.”

“Celebratory party at Heartland Brewery!” Samantha crowed happily, bursting into applause. “You all deserve it!” She glanced at the audience. “You all are welcome, too.”

Spencer stood and followed the others off the stage. Greg caught her arm on the way to the green room. “You going to the party?” he asked.

Heartland Brewery, Spencer had heard, was where all the
Saturday Night Live
cast members had their after-parties. But when she thought about attending a party, her heart started to pound. Dominick had unsteadied her. She didn’t want to be in a crowd.

Greg cocked his head, studying her. “Or we could go somewhere quieter?” he suggested. “I know a great coffee place in the Village. It’s only a subway ride away.”

“That sounds perfect,” Spencer breathed. This Greg was the same as the guy from the emails: intuitive, sympathetic, and understanding of just what she wanted without her having to explain a thing.

Which was exactly what she needed.

They descended the concrete stairs below the huge office building to the subway station. As they walked through a tunnel toward the F train, Spencer kept trying to think of something to say to Greg, but all she could think about was Dominick. Greg had called up and gotten into the audience easily; clearly, Dominick had, too. But why? Expressly to yell at Spencer? To humiliate her
?

“So was that guy an ex or something?” Greg asked as he bought them both MetroCards.

Spencer’s head swung up. It was stupid to play dumb; the stress from Dominick was probably obvious on her face. “His name is Dominick. I only know him from my blog—he has it out for me for some reason. I don’t know why. Some people are just haters.”

Greg walked toward the stairs leading to the downtown platform. “Well, try to forget about him. You did a great job tonight. You’re so comfortable on camera.”

“Well, I’ve been interviewed enough times that I’m used to it,” Spencer said, laughing bashfully.

They stepped onto the downtown platform. A sign said that the local train, which they were waiting for, would pull in on one track, and the express train would arrive on another. At the moment, there was no train on either track. The uptown trains were across the platform, separated by a bunch of steel beams and dangerous-looking rails. For the most part, the platforms were desolate, with only a few people wandering up and down, wearing earbuds or scrolling through their phones. Spencer began to pace the length of the station, gazing at the posters on the walls. There was one for a new HBO drama series coming out; someone had blacked out the main actress’s teeth and given her devil horns.

Then she looked at Greg, realizing something. “How do you know about this place in the Village, anyway? I thought you lived in Delaware.”

Greg nodded. “My parents divorced when I was seven, and my dad moved here. I visited sometimes.”

“That must have been fun.”

He shifted his jaw. “I was really sporty growing up, so usually I was pissed that I was missing football practice. For a long time, I didn’t appreciate what the city had to offer.
And
I hated my dad’s new wife. Cindy.”

Spencer rolled her eyes. “My parents split up, too. But my stepdad is okay. Maybe it’s easier because I’m older.”

“Maybe.” Greg stared blankly at the subway tracks. Spencer hated looking there for fear she’d see a rat. “Cindy used to bully me, actually.”

“Your
stepmom
?” Spencer blurted. “How?”

Greg raised one shoulder. “She was insulting and manipulative. But she was sly about it—she acted like she loved me whenever my dad was around, and she denied it whenever I told him she’d been mean.
No one
believed me.”

“That’s awful,” Spencer whispered, feeling a tug in her heart. “What did you do?”

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets. “I just . . . took it, for a while. And then, when I had a say, I told the court that I didn’t want to visit my dad anymore. I was an idiot, though—I didn’t tell the court what Cindy was doing. I thought it would shatter my dad—they would have investigated her
and
him. But he found out eventually—Cindy drunkenly confessed everything shortly before she left him. He apologized up and down, but it was too little, too late.” He shuffled his feet. “I always say I stood by and watched other kids get bullied, but it’s not the truth. I’m too embarrassed to tell
my
story. She was, like, half my size. And
old.
”

“That doesn’t matter,” Spencer urged. “Emotional abuse is emotional abuse, no matter where it comes from.”

Greg nodded slowly. Then he raised his eyes to Spencer’s, his face a little blotchy like he was about to cry. “It’s why I got this.” He showed her the tattoo of the bird on his hand. “I felt like it gave me . . . power or something. I don’t know.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve actually never told anyone about Cindy,” he admitted.

“Well, I’m glad you told me,” Spencer said softly, feeling touched.

Greg nodded. “I’m glad, too.” He rubbed the bird tattoo with his fingers. “If I can ever return the favor for you, I’m here.”

Spencer’s insides bounced and flipped. It would be nice to talk to someone other than her friends. He would believe her, she knew. About
anything.
She leaned forward and touched her lips to his cheeks. “Thank you.”

Greg grabbed her hands. He stared into her eyes meaningfully, and Spencer knew they were going to kiss for real. Her lips parted. She moved closer. It felt like it was only the two of them, wounded and broken but resilient, against the world.

A gust of wind kicked up. A local uptown train raged through the tunnel, and Spencer pulled away from Greg. She chided herself, feeling ridiculous. What was she doing, kissing a complete stranger? Hadn’t she
just
sworn off boys?

The train cars rumbled loudly over the tracks far across the station. The cars came to a stop, and the doors whooshed open. Passengers got on and off in a jumble, the platform suddenly very crowded. Spencer stared idly at the commotion so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact with Greg. A flash of blond shifted next to a pole inside a car. Spencer did a double take.

It was
Ali.

She was skinny, ashen, and greasy, like Emily had described. Ali stared at Spencer challengingly, a smirk on her face. So bold. So brazen. Sort of like,
Fuck you, Spencer. I can do whatever I want.

“Hey!” Spencer screamed out, rushing to the edge of her platform. But she couldn’t actually
get
to Ali—she was blocked by a whole set of tracks and rails.

“
Look
!” Spencer pointed furiously at the girl in the car opposite them. A few people on the platform glanced at Spencer as she pointed. “It’s
Alison
!” she shrieked, but her words were suddenly swallowed up by a subway train rushing into the station. It was the train Spencer and Greg were waiting for, the local going downtown.

“Spencer?” Greg said, touching her arm. Or at least Spencer
thought
that was what he’d said—it was impossible to hear him for sure.

She turned and pointed to the open doors across the platform.
Alison!
she mouthed, hoping he’d understand.
She’s on that train!

Greg’s brow furrowed. He shook his head, then pointed to his ear. Spencer gestured furiously, and Greg
looked
in Ali’s direction, but more people had crowded into her car. Her face vanished from view. “Alison!” Spencer said over and over. A few other people glanced over, too, but most of them looked at Spencer like she was crazy. Then Ali reappeared again, still in the subway car. She stared out from the window, her eyes bright and cunning. An alarm blared. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” said a recorded announcement.

Slowly, horribly, the subway doors shut, sealing Ali in. She grinned at Spencer through the glass. And as the subway pulled away, she raised a few fingers to wave.
See ya
, she mouthed.

And then she was gone.

16

PARADISE LOST

For the first time in what felt like years, Emily woke up in her bed in Rosewood with a huge smile on her face.

Jordan
was her first and only thought.

The possibility that she might be free and that Emily might get to spend time with her—
real
time, without sneaking around—overshadowed Ali. It trumped the disappointing phone call from Fuji last night that it was Spencer’s hair on the hoodie. It even trumped Spencer’s text that said she was sure she’d seen Ali on a New York City subway train. All Emily could think about was lush, beautiful, irresistible Jordan. All night long.

Humming to herself, she drifted across the bedroom and stared at her dreamy expression in the mirror.
Jordan, Jordan, Jordan.
She definitely had to arrange for another prison visit soon. And write her letters for sure. And maybe buy her a present. But what? Emily wondered what one could give a prison inmate. A book, perhaps? A nondangerous piece of jewelry?

She glided down the stairs to the breakfast table, where her parents were watching TV. “There are eggs,” Mr. Fields said, gesturing to the stove.

“And coffee,” Mrs. Fields added.

“Thanks,” Emily almost sang. “But I’m not hungry.” She was too hyped-up for food. And she certainly didn’t need anything artificial like coffee to make her feel more awake or alive.

She sank into the chair, smiling vaguely at the chicken-shaped napkin holder in the center of the table. Had she ever told Jordan about her mom’s chicken fetish? She’d probably think it was so funny. There was so
much
Emily needed to tell Jordan, minor things that only Jordan would want to know. Maybe, soon enough, Emily would have all the time in the world to do that. She let out a wistful sigh, savoring how wonderful that was going to be.

Mrs. Fields sipped her coffee. “So, do we need to get you a new dress for the Rosewood Rallies fund-raiser?” she asked Emily across the table.

Emily looked up and blinked. For a moment, she had no idea what her mom was talking about. “Oh, I’m fine,” she said after she remembered. “I’m sure I’ve got something in my closet.”

“It should be a lot of fun,” Mrs. Fields said, a small smile on her face. “Are you planning on bringing anyone?”

Emily smiled dreamily. If only she could bring Jordan. They’d have
so
much fun there, dancing, stockpiling delicious desserts, sneaking off to make out . . .

“Emily?” Mrs. Fields gazed at her curiously. “You all right?”

Emily smiled. She was tempted to tell her mom about Jordan, especially because she might be free in a few short months. But maybe it would be better to wait a little while longer, until her mom recovered a bit more from her heart attack.

“I’m just glad it’s Wednesday!” she chirped, staring wistfully at the ceiling.

Her parents exchanged a nervous glance. Mrs. Fields cleared her throat. “We’re worried about those bruises.
Where
did you get them again? The pool?”

Emily touched her neck. She’d almost forgotten about them. “It doesn’t matter,” she said faintly. “I’m fine.”

Then, Mr. Fields shifted forward in his seat. “Oh dear,” he said with a grunt, his brow furrowing at something on the TV screen.

Emily followed his gaze. The mug shot of Nick appeared. It was an update on the murder case.

“Nicholas Maxwell’s lawyers have informed us that Maxwell will try to plead insanity for all the murders,” a male reporter in an ugly sweater-vest announced. “He has been a patient at mental hospitals in the past, and his counsel is confident he wasn’t a mentally stable member of society when he committed these crimes.”

“What?” Emily squeaked, frustrated. It didn’t seem fair that Nick could plead insanity—he’d just be thrown back into The Preserve or something. She wanted him to rot in jail.

Mrs. Fields glanced anxiously at Emily. “Maybe we should turn this off.”

“It’s okay,” Emily said quickly. She wanted to see the rest.

Then came a still shot of the Maxwells’ house, a large estate in New Jersey. Emily had actually visited the house with Iris only a few weeks ago. Iris had had an unrequited crush on Nick—she’d known him as Tripp—while they were at The Preserve, and she’d wanted to go through his things to see if he’d felt the same way. While they searched the house, they found an old phone of his; Ali’s picture had been on it. It had been the only clue that Ali and Nick were secretly linked.

“This is the home where Maxwell grew up,” the reporter’s voice said, the big house still on the screen. “Since the story broke, vandals have broken windows and tried to damage the property in other ways. Protesters have done the same thing to the Maxwells’ other homes in the area. The family has had a long history of making real estate investments and flipping homes, having several properties on the market at any given time.”