Pretty Little Liars #15: Toxic (19 page)

“The cops are assholes.” Greg looked angry.

“Yeah.” Spencer pretended to pick lint off her T-shirt.

“Well,
I
believe you.”

Spencer looked up as Greg took her hand. A lump formed in her throat. It felt so good to hear someone say those words. “Thanks,” she said softly. “It’s nice to hear that.”

Greg shook his head. “It’s a horrible thing to feel like you have no one to turn to and no one who will listen. But I will
always
listen. You can always talk to me. What’s your plan?”

“We have no plans,” Spencer said automatically. There was no way she was telling him about the pool house or the surveillance cameras. But his voice was so tender that tears came to her eyes. “Thank you, though. For . . . being here.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stared at each other meaningfully. Then Greg moved into the seat next to Spencer and touched his lips lightly to hers. The coffee smells and faint French music fell away, and all Spencer felt was his soft mouth. Her head throbbed with pleasure. She pulled Greg closer, his firm, strong chest pressed against hers. She could feel his biceps through his shirt, his strong back muscles, too. Even his body felt safe. He really
would
protect her. And maybe, unlike the other boys she’d known, he wouldn’t leave when things got scary.

They pulled away, grinning at each other. Spencer sought for something cute and witty to say, but then she blurted, “Will you go to a benefit in Rosewood with me?”

Greg looked amused. “I’d be honored. When is it?”

“Tomorrow.” Spencer grimaced guiltily. “I’m sorry I’m inviting you so late. But I would love it if you could make it. It’s for troubled and disadvantaged youth around Rosewood. Apparently, I’m their honored guest—maybe because I’m so troubled.” She winced.

“Ooh,” Greg said. “Well, in my book, you’re
always
the honored guest.”

Spencer was about to playfully punch him, but her buzzing phone threw her off. She glanced down into her open bag.
NEW EMAIL FROM DOMINICKPHILLY
.

She groaned. What could
he
want? She knew she should ignore it, but she was still thinking very much about Dominick’s presence in New York. Especially how he’d sauntered out of the room saying,
I hope you’re happy, little liar
.

“Excuse me,” she said to Greg, reaching for it. Slowly, she pressed the button to bring up the message. Her face fell.

“What is it?” Greg asked.

Spencer swallowed hard. “A new note from Dominick.”

“That guy who heckled you?”

She nodded, then turned her phone to show him. Greg’s brow furrowed as he inspected the screen. “
You can run to Philly
,” he read aloud, “
but you can’t hide from the fact that you’re a fraud
.” He set his jaw. “How does he know you’re in Philly?”

She ran her hands down the length of her face. “I don’t know,” she said shakily. She stared out the window, half expecting to see him on a park bench across the street, glaring. But the park’s only visitors were some pigeons. “Maybe he’s following me,” she said softly.

“But . . . why?”

Suddenly, Spencer had a horrible thought. She turned to Greg. “Have you heard of the Ali Cats?”

Greg frowned. “That Alison fan club?”

“Yeah. I haven’t wanted to think they’re dangerous, but who knows? Maybe Dominick is one of them.” Spencer had discounted Emily’s theory until she’d reread the Ali Cat post. The person who’d said they hated all enemies of Ali
did
seem pretty vehement. There were a lot of crazy people out there in the world—and Dominick seemed right up there.

“So he’s out to get you?” Greg looked skeptical.

“I don’t know.” Spencer felt like she might cry. She blinked again and again, trying to wipe away the image of Dominick’s scowling face.

Greg curled her hand in his. “I do know, Spencer. I get it, I promise.” He slung his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Spencer,” he said in a warm, soft voice.

Spencer sank her face into his chest, holding on to him tightly, wishing she would never have to let go.

20

ROCK BOTTOM

Emily’s sleep was interrupted by knocking from somewhere muffled and far away. She opened one eye, then the other, and then looked around. Clothes on hangers loomed over her head. A dirty sneaker lay on its side next to her nose. She’d fallen asleep in her closet.
Again.

She uncurled from a tight ball and kicked open the door. Sun streamed through the window onto her neatly made bed. Then she heard the knocking again. Someone was at her door. “Emily?” came her mom’s voice. “Something came for you.”

She glanced around her room, noticing the heap of blankets in the closet, Jordan’s picture on her bed, and the surveillance video screens already up on her laptop—it wasn’t her turn to monitor yet, but somehow she felt safer with them on all the time, and so she’d left the feed up all night. She tucked Jordan under the mattress and closed her laptop lid, then padded across the room and opened it a crack.

Mrs. Fields held a box in her hands, a concerned look on her face. “You got something from the Ulster Correctional Facility?”

A chill went through Emily’s body. “Thanks,” she said quickly, grabbing it and shutting the door.

Her mom stuck her foot in the gap before Emily could close the door completely. “Didn’t you get a letter from there, too?” she went on, her voice cracking. “Do you . . .
know
someone from there?”

Emily hugged the box tightly to her chest.
EMILY FIELDS
, it said on the top. “No,” she mumbled. It was the truth, after all.

“Then why is someone from a
prison
sending you things?”

See?
That
was why Emily hadn’t told her mom anything. Sure, she was dying to explain that the love of her life was gone . . . and that Ali had done it . . . and that she felt like she was falling into a dark, deep chasm that she’d never be able to climb out of. But her mom wouldn’t hear any of that. She wouldn’t hear anything past the fact that Emily had loved someone in
prison.
She wouldn’t absorb any of Jordan’s good qualities, or that she would have been freed soon. So why even bother getting into it?

Emily turned around jerkily and walked back to her bed. “I’m really tired.”

She hoped her mom would take that as a hint to leave, but Mrs. Fields remained in the doorway. A moment later, Emily heard a sniff and turned. Mrs. Fields’s face was red, her eyes full of tears. “What’s wrong with you, honey?” she begged Emily. “Please tell me.”

“Nothing,” Emily groaned.
Now go away so I can open this box
, she wanted to scream.

Mrs. Fields still didn’t move. Her gaze drifted to the bruises on her neck. “You’re going to explain those right now,” she demanded, now sounding angry. She often took on an angry tone, Emily knew, when she got
really
scared. “Otherwise, I’m going to think someone hurt you.”

Emily balled up a fist. “I did it myself,” she blurted before she could think.

Her mom’s eyes widened. “You deliberately
hurt
yourself? Why?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Emily roared. She stomped back to the door and closed it tight. “I’m fine, Mom! Just give me some space!”

She twisted the lock on the knob and waited. She could hear her mother standing outside, sniffing a little, her clothes rustling. And then, without saying another word, Mrs. Fields turned and padded down the hall. Emily listened as she walked down the stairs. She heard a jingle of keys, then the rumble of the garage door rising. Where was her mother going? Emily wasn’t sure she’d been out since her heart attack. But maybe it was a good thing. She’d asked for space; now she was getting it.

She looked at the box, then felt under the mattress and pulled out the picture of Jordan she’d hidden. Jordan smiled happily up at her, blissfully unaware of what her future would hold. Emily stared at the picture until her eyes blurred, trying to imagine that Jordan was still alive. But all she saw when she closed her eyes was Jordan’s body on a cold, hard slab in the morgue. Gone.

Slowly, she opened the box. On top of a layer of Bubble Wrap was a small typewritten note. Emily picked it up and examined it closely.
Jordan Richards’s possessions
, it read. And then,
Delivered to: Emily Fields.

A knot formed in Emily’s chest, and she shut the box tight. This must be the stuff Jordan had on her when she was arrested. For whatever reason, Jordan had wanted
her
to have it, not her parents. What was inside? A watch, maybe. Some earrings.
Personal
items, things Emily couldn’t bear to see right now. Or maybe ever.

She needed noise, news,
something.
Carrying her phone and the laptop with the surveillance feed, she padded downstairs. The house was quiet, the TV in the den off and the breakfast dishes stacked neatly in the drying rack. Emily switched on the TV in the kitchen and stared at a commercial for a local car dealership. A plate full of Danish from the local bakery sat on the kitchen table, probably a hint that Emily should eat something. But she couldn’t imagine putting food in her mouth, and swallowing, and feeling full. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat anything ever again.

The commercials on TV were over, and the news was back on. “We have new developments from the disturbing murder of the young woman in prison known as the Preppy Thief,” the anchor, a generic-looking blond woman with an ascot around her neck, was saying.

Emily’s head snapped up. It was as if the news were showing this just to torment her. On the screen was a picture of Jordan on a boat dock, her long hair blowing in the wind, a huge, brilliant smile on her face. It was gut-wrenching to look at. Jordan seemed so
alive
. So vibrant. Emily moved zombielike toward the TV and touched Jordan’s cheek, the TV zapping her with static.

“The assailant is Robin Cook, who’d been incarcerated for assault and battery. Miss Cook went missing from her prison cell a few days ago. Citizens in the Ulster County area are on alert to be on the lookout for her—she could be violent and dangerous.”

A picture of the killer appeared, the very first one Emily had seen—she’d scoured Google for any information on Robin Cook but had found nothing. Emily studied it hard, then stood back. She knew this girl. It was the burly red-headed girl she’d seen in the visitation room the day she’d talked to Jordan. The one who’d looked Emily up and down, like she was checking her out.

That
was Jordan’s killer? She and Jordan had barely
looked
at each other. No animosity had passed between them.

Then Emily thought about Robin Cook’s visitor that day. It had been a girl in a hoodie, right? Emily couldn’t really remember her; the girl had hurried so quickly out of the room when Emily arrived. It had seemed like Emily spooked them.

What if that was because the visitor was
Ali
?

Emily’s thoughts started to whirl. Was it possible? Maybe, somehow, Ali knew this girl. And maybe she’d met with her that morning to plan how Robin was going to kill Jordan. Maybe Hanna and the others were right: Ali
hadn’t
broken into prison and killed Jordan. She’d had someone else do it—and then, presumably, she’d broken that someone out of jail.

Robin was an Ali Cat.

She placed her palms on the table and let out a scream. The sound echoed satisfyingly through the room . . . but it wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. Suddenly, she felt antsy, as if her clothes were made of hair. A harsh and dangerous feeling awoke inside her, something she barely recognized but immediately embraced. That was
it.
The final straw. She stood up and grabbed her keys. It was time to actually
do
something.

She was going to that house. She was going to find Ali, no matter what it took.

An hour later, Emily sat in her car, her fingers squeezing and squeezing the leather steering wheel like a stress ball. Trees, hills, open space, and occasional barns swept past, but she didn’t pause to look at the scenery. And her phone, which sat on the passenger seat, kept buzzing.

It was her friends, checking in on her. Maybe they’d seen the Jordan/Robin news on TV, too. But Emily couldn’t answer their calls—there was no way she could tell them she was driving to Ashland alone. They were already worried about her. Something about seeing Robin’s face—and knowing she’d been right
next
to Emily the day Jordan died, and that Emily could have
stopped
her, maybe—changed something in her. Now all she could imagine was seizing Ali and squeezing her hard around the neck. Harder, then harder still, until she couldn’t breathe. She pictured Ali’s eyes bulging wide, her mouth gasping for air she couldn’t breathe. Ali finally turning to Emily and begging her to stop.

And would Emily stop?
No, she wouldn’t.
At least, not in her fantasies. She wasn’t ashamed of feeling that way, either. She felt like she’d passed some point of no return, and couldn’t go back.

She turned at the red mailbox marked
Maxwell
and climbed the steep hill up the driveway. The main house stood tall and proud, a
FOR SALE
sign now in the front yard. Emily parked the car under one of the big birch trees, got out, and grabbed the metal baseball bat from the backseat, the only weapon-like item she could find in her house. Then she looked around. Leaves swished playfully on the branches. Somewhere, a dog barked. It was so quiet up here. So peaceful.

And so horrible.

Emily hurried around to the pool house. Adrenaline coursed vigorously in her blood as she marched up to the windows. She cupped her hands and peered inside. The room was dark. But Ali
had
to be here. Emily would accept nothing less.

Emily’s brain snapped and fizzed. When she kicked the door open, it felt like it wasn’t her body doing it, but someone else’s—someone strong and brave. The door swung open into the empty room, and she stepped inside, nostrils flaring, bat poised. The room still smelled sickeningly of vanilla soap. Emily never wanted to smell vanilla again.