Pretty Little Liars #15: Toxic (29 page)

She clicked over to the press release, which linked to a YouTube video.
Stand Up: Youths Speak Out Sneak Peek
, read the title. Spencer pressed
PLAY
, watching clips of herself and the others answering questions. The camera panned on the audience, pausing on Greg. Her heart jumped in her chest. Imagine what the organizers would do if they knew he was the ultimate bully, an Ali Cat.

She typed his name,
Greg Messner
, into Google. The Facebook page she’d looked at plenty of times appeared; it said he lived in Delaware, but it didn’t list a high school and certainly didn’t mention an address. Spencer culled through kids he was friends with; he’d known people from New York, Massachusetts, Maine, Indiana, California, and New Mexico. Not a single person on his friends list was from Delaware—did he live there at all? Then Spencer thought about his story about his stepmother berating and bullying him. Had that been a lie, too?

It was possible his whole persona was a lie, just like he’d made up Dominick. She could just imagine Greg and Ali plotting the whole thing out together, chuckling about how Spencer would most definitely fall for it. But here was the million-dollar question: Why had Greg turned to Ali in the first place? Because of some twisted, psychotic affliction? Had Ali promised him something?

The church bell chime she’d set as her ringtone began to blare, and she lunged for her phone, eager for answers. The caller ID listed a 212 number. Spencer picked up.

“Spencer!” a familiar voice rang out through the receiver. “It’s Alyssa Bloom! How are you?”

Spencer blinked. It took her a moment to remember that Alyssa was the editor from HarperCollins. “I-I’m fine,” she said, sitting up straighter. “How are
you
?”

“I’m doing really well.” Ms. Bloom sounded like she was smiling. “And it seems like you are, too. I saw that you were part of an anti-bullying video. And your blog is doing incredibly well.”

“Thanks,” Spencer said shakily. “I’m really glad you think so.”

“That’s not all I think,” Bloom said. “Listen, I’ve spoken to some other people at the office, and we really think the concept you created in your blog could be turned into a book. If you’re interested, I’d like to offer you a two-book contract.”

“What?”
Spencer’s legs felt shaky. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not one to joke around about these sorts of things. It’s the right time to come out with something like this, Spencer. And you’re the right person to tell these stories. Now, as for an advance . . .”

She rattled off an astonishing sum of money, so surprising that Spencer plopped down on her butt and stared blankly across the room. It was happening.
Really
happening. She was going to get to write a book—
two
books, actually. Hopefully they would be meaningful and helpful, and something good could come out of all of A’s abuse.

But suddenly, the images of the other kids on the stage for the anti-bullying video swam into her mind. And then she thought of the kids who’d emailed their tales. Some of them were in such horrible living situations. A lot of them were lower-class. A lot of them wanted the right clothes or shoes or accessories to fit in but couldn’t afford them—and
that
was the stupid reason why bullies targeted them.

The trust they’d put into her. The honest, earnest support they’d given her when they found out she was in that video. They didn’t have to. They could have felt jealous that
they
hadn’t gotten the attention instead. Which made her think of Dominick’s—or, really,
Greg’s
—words:
You’re just doing this to capitalize off of what happened to you
.

Was
she?

“Spencer? Are you there?”

Spencer cleared her throat and pressed the phone to her ear. “This all sounds wonderful,” she said. “B-but I’m wondering. Maybe everyone who contributes could be coauthors, too. I can’t accept all that advance money for myself.”

Alyssa Bloom chuckled. “You can split up the money however you like.”

She gave Spencer some more details, mostly about deadlines and on-sale dates and possible book tours. Spencer barely heard her, her heart was pounding so hard. She probably said “thank you” a hundred times before she hung up. Then she sat quietly on her bed, taking even breaths. She was already thinking of the stories she wanted to include on the pages. She couldn’t wait to tell the contributors that they’d profit from this, too. After all they’d been through, they deserved it.

Take that, Ali
, she thought with satisfaction. She thought she was so smart with her minions and her video loops and her quick-escape tricks. But here was something wonderful that had happened, and Ali hadn’t squelched it. Maybe she
was
losing her touch.

Ping.

She glanced at her phone again, wondering if it was from Ms. Bloom—she’d said she was going to follow up with an email. But it was a Google Alert for “Ashland, PA.”

She shot up and looked closer. Google didn’t link to the pool house story. Instead, a headline read
YOUNG MAN FOUND DEAD BEHIND ASHLAND
’
S TURKEY HILL MINI-MART
.

With shaking hands, Spencer opened the link to a website for the
Ashland Herald
:
OFFICIALS FOUND THE BODY OF A YOUNG MAN FACEDOWN AT THE CREEK BED BEHIND THE TURKEY HILL MINI-MART IN SOUTHWEST ASHLAND EARLY THIS MORNING AFTER GETTING A 911 CALL FROM A MAN WALKING HIS DOG. POLICE DESCRIBED THE MAN AS DARK-HAIRED AND DRESSED IN A JACKET, A SHIRT AND TIE, AND WINGTIP SHOES, AND WITH A TATTOO OF A BIRD ON THE BACK OF HIS HAND. A DRIVER
’
S LICENSE WAS FOUND ON HIM, BUT FAMILY MEMBERS HAVE NOT BEEN REACHED TO IDENTIFY THE BODY. CAUSE OF DEATH IS UNCLEAR.

Spencer was so horrified she threw the phone across the room. A shirt and tie. Wingtips.
A tattoo of a bird on the back of his hand
. It was Greg.

She stood and paced around the room.

What had happened after he left Spencer? Maybe he’d wanted to see Ali in person, finally—and he knew where she’d be. After all, he’d said he was in love with her.

Spencer stopped in her tracks, realizing something huge. Maybe it was
Greg’s
blood all over that pool house. It totally made sense. Ali had killed him because Greg had broken a cardinal Ali Cat rule.

Never kiss and tell.

35

THE MASTER PLAN

That morning, Emily sat in her bedroom, the box of Jordan’s possessions in front of her on the mattress. She ran her hands over its smooth cardboard sides, then thought about what she was about to do. After she looked at whatever was inside, she was going to tape the box back up and bury it in the backyard. It was just like how she and her friends had buried things that reminded them of Their Ali.

It wasn’t that Emily wanted to forget Jordan—not at all. There would be a real funeral for Jordan next week, in New Jersey, and Emily planned on attending. But the funeral would be strange and impersonal: Other people would be at the pulpit, giving speeches about who they thought Jordan was. None of Jordan’s family would know Emily; none of them had any idea what Emily and Jordan meant to each other. Emily would merely be another mourner, a stranger. She needed a way to honor Jordan in her own way, right here, all alone, just her. Burying the box just seemed right.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the lid and removed the Bubble Wrap. A carefully folded T-shirt was on top, followed by a pair of jeans. Emily pulled them out and felt a whoosh of pain, for they still
smelled
like Jordan, even though it was clear they’d been washed. She pressed them to her nose, inhaling again and again. The fabric felt so soft against her skin, as soft as Jordan had been. She ran her fingers along the hem of the jeans, the button at the waist. It was almost too much to handle.

But she kept going. Underneath the jeans, she found the earrings she feared she’d see, little diamond studs Jordan had worn since the first day Emily met her. They were in a plastic Baggie, and Emily was too choked up to even take them out. Below that was a small pouch containing some money, a key card to a Marriott hotel, and a receipt from McDonald’s for a six-piece chicken nugget meal and a small Diet Coke.

But it was what was at the very bottom of the box that made her heart stop. There, folded several times, the creases worn, the paper wrinkled as though it had been through the washer a few times, was a drawing Emily had given to Jordan when they were on the cruise. She’d done it on cruise ship stationery, penning a picture of herself and Jordan as stick figures, standing on a boat and holding hands.
Our trip
, she’d written, and then she’d described, in words and pictures, their adventures on the zip line, and the long walk they’d taken on the secluded beach, and the time they’d stolen the boat in Puerto Rico for a joyride around the harbor. Emily had drawn herself and Jordan kissing—their first kiss—adding
Amazing!
and drawing a little heart around the two of them in red pen.

Emily’s eyes welled. The little drawing had survived the dive into the harbor. It had survived Jordan’s travels south and all her hiding spots. And there was something else, too: a second heart around the red one, a newer one drawn in blue. Jordan must have drawn it after she’d escaped off the boat—the ink didn’t seem as faded. Which meant that even after Jordan thought Emily had betrayed her, she’d drawn the heart and carried the drawing with her anyway, not throwing it out. Maybe she, like Emily, knew that someday they’d work everything out.

The tears ran hot down Emily’s cheeks, blurring her vision. She cried for a long time, the sobs convulsive but also cathartic. Finally, once she felt drained, she placed everything back in the box except for the drawing Jordan had saved. She taped up the top, then hefted it into her arms and started downstairs.

A pang hit her halfway down.
How
could she say good-bye? How did you let someone like this go? She hated that Ali had done this. But she hoped with all her heart that the cops had actually found some evidence—or Ali herself. And that soon enough, Ali would be behind bars. Somewhere dark. And miserable. And totally hopeless.

Something out the window caught her attention. Aria had pulled up to the curb. Spencer’s car was behind hers, and Hanna drove up in her Prius and parked in the driveway. Slowly, the girls got out and stepped toward Emily’s front door with all the sobriety of government officials coming to a family’s door to tell them that their child had died in an overseas battle.

Emily swallowed hard. None of them had announced they were coming. Had they found out something she hadn’t? Was there news about
Ali
?

She placed Jordan’s box on the steps and opened the front door before they could ring the bell. “What’s going on?” she hissed, stepping onto the porch and shutting the door behind her. Her parents were in the den; the last thing she needed was for them to listen in. They’d already asked her a ton of questions about all the stuff barricading the doors this morning. “What happened? It’s the pool house, isn’t it? Did they find Ali?”

“Slow down.” Spencer caught Emily’s arm. “We haven’t heard anything. We thought you might have.”

Emily stopped and peered at them.
“Nothing?”

“Aside from Greg turning up dead at a creek,” Spencer said. “Which was probably Ali’s doing. He told me he knew her, and that was a big mistake. So she killed him.”

Emily’s stomach swooped. “Do you think it was his blood in the house?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Spencer stared down the street. Emily’s next-door neighbors, an older couple named the Gauls, were hard at work setting up sprinklers on their front lawn. When they saw the girls, they waved. Everyone waved back, though not nearly as enthusiastically.

“But we haven’t heard anything about the pool house investigation,” Aria continued. “I even tried calling the local police station, but when someone asked my name, I hung up.” Then she looked at the plastic bag in her hands. “I don’t know what to do with this.” She opened it a little; Emily could see the crumpled dress they’d pulled out of the house the night before. “Drop it off anonymously at the police station? Burn it?”

“Do you think we should go up there?” Emily asked. “What if they have Ali under arrest? What if she’s caught and they haven’t even told us?”
That would be just like Fuji
, she thought bitterly.

Spencer shook her head. “The place is probably crawling with cops—us being there would complicate things. We’ll know soon enough. But I feel really positive, you know? I feel like this could be it. And now we can go on with our lives for real.”

Emily bit her lip. Tears rushed to her eyes. She had been about to
bury
her life. She couldn’t imagine blithely moving forward.

A siren wailed down the street, and everyone looked up. Seconds later, a police car appeared from around the corner and began to roll toward them. It was followed by a second police car, then a third. Emily took a quivering step back, momentarily frozen in the lights. Then she realized who was in the front seat of the first car.

Fuji.

The cop cars rolled up to the curb in front of Emily’s house and came to a stop. Agent Fuji, dressed in a crisp black suit and sunglasses, stepped out of the vehicle and strode toward them. The agent’s face was stern and hard as she approached the girls. She came to a stop and looked around at all of them. A few beats passed. Behind her, Emily heard her front door open. She knew without looking that her mom was standing there, staring.

“We need to speak to you,” Fuji said in a gruff voice.

“Of course,” Spencer said quickly. “Whatever we can do to help.”

“This is about the pool house, right?” Hanna asked excitedly. “What did you find?”

Fuji winced. She reached into her pocket and whipped out a ziplock bag marked
EVIDENCE
and shoved it in the girls’ faces. “We found this.”

The bag shook before Emily’s eyes. Slowly, her vision adjusted. Something pearly and white and tipped in blood was caught in the bag’s corner. Emily frowned, then backed up. A
tooth.