Authors: Sara Shepard

Twisted (29 page)

BOOK: Twisted

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Chapter 35

Don’t close your eyes . . .

Emily sank to the floor, the awful truth swarming in her head like a hive of bees.
Tabitha wasn’t Ali. Tabitha was innocent. We killed an innocent girl.

It didn’t seem possible, and yet there it was on the screen. Tabitha had a whole life that was nothing like Ali’s. She had parents. A home. Her burns had been from a house fire when she was young, not an explosion in the Poconos. Whatever she was doing to them in Jamaica must have been a silly ruse, a dare she’d wagered with herself, a game of chicken she didn’t want to lose.

“M-maybe she just heard about us on the news or something,” Aria said out loud, echoing everyone’s thoughts. “Maybe she followed the tabloid websites, all those news reports . . .”

“There might have been sites that told more about us than we realized,” Spencer murmured faintly, her eyes glazed and unblinking. “Maybe she was, like, obsessed. And when she saw us . . .”

“. . . she thought she’d fuck with us,” Hanna finished, placing her head in her hands and rocking her body side to side. “You guys, I was about to go to the police about this. I was going to tell them about A, and Ali, and even what we did in Jamaica.”

“Jesus,” Spencer whispered. “Thank God you didn’t.”

Tears pricked Hanna’s eyes. “Oh God. Oh
God
. What have we done? They’re going to trace the murder back to us!”

“A sent that picture of me and Tabitha dancing,” Emily whispered. “It’s proof we knew her. What if A sent that photo to Tabitha’s parents, maybe? Or the cops?”

“Wait a minute.” Aria pointed at the screen.

The reporter was pressing her finger into her ear again, clearly receiving a new set of information. “The sheriff is deeming this death an accident,” she said. “Given the proximity to the The Cliffs resort, which is notorious for underage drinking and partying, investigators hypothesize that Ms. Clark had too much to drink one night and died in a tragic accident.”

The camera cut to a shot of the sheriff, a tall Jamaican in a shiny blue uniform. He stood on a makeshift platform right behind the dilapidated fishing boat that had exhumed Tabitha’s bones. “Our guess is that Ms. Clark decided to go swimming while intoxicated,” he said into a series of microphones. “The Cliffs resort has had trouble with underage drinking, and it’s time to put a stop to it. As of today, the resort is shut down indefinitely.”

Flashbulbs popped. Reporters lobbed questions. Emily sat back in her chair, feeling numb. Spencer blinked. Aria pulled her knees up to her chest. Hanna shook her head and burst into tears again. Emily knew she should feel relieved, but the feeling didn’t come. She knew the truth. It hadn’t been an accident. Tabitha’s blood was on their hands.

The fireplace snapped and crackled. The sharp, woodsy smell reminded Emily of so many things at once—like the campfire they’d sat around in the woods the summer after the Jenna Thing. By dying firelight, Ali had presented them with their string bracelets, making them promise never to tell what they’d done until the day they died. The bracelet on Tabitha’s wrist had been eerily identical to the ones Ali had made for them, three different colors of blue string wound together to make the colors of a clear, clean lake.

But it must have been a coincidence. And now, they had a new secret they had to keep until the day they died. One that was way, way worse than the last.

The smoky smell reminded Emily of something else, too: the charred, blazing Poconos cabin the day Ali set fire to it, hoping to kill them all. For a brief moment, Emily allowed herself to revisit the memory of when she’d raced toward the kitchen door, desperate to get free. Ali had been there, too, grappling to get out before the others so she could barricade them inside. But Emily caught Ali’s arm and spun her around.

“How could you do this?” she demanded.

Ali’s eyes blazed. A small smile appeared on her lips. “You bitches ruined my life.”

“But . . . I
loved
you,” Emily cried.

Ali giggled. “You’re
such
a loser, Emily.”

Emily squeezed Ali’s shoulders hard. And then, a loud boom filled the air. The next thing Emily knew, she was lying on the ground by the door. As she scrambled for safety, she knocked something to the floor. It was an orange tassel that had hung over the doorknob ever since she could remember. Every time Emily entered the Poconos house, giggling with Ali, ready for a fun weekend, she’d run her fingers through the tassel’s silky threads. It made her feel like she was home.

Not knowing quite why, Emily slipped the tassel into her pocket. Then, she glanced over her shoulder one more time. She saw something she would never tell another soul, partly because she wasn’t sure it was true or something she’d hallucinated after inhaling too much smoke, partly because she knew her friends wouldn’t believe her, and partly because it was too scary and awful to even utter out loud.

When she’d looked back through the open doorway into the about-to-explode house, Ali wasn’t anywhere. Had she been surrounded by too much smoke? Had she simply crawled farther into the kitchen and resigned herself to death?

Or maybe, just maybe, she was trying desperately to get out of the house, too. What Emily did next she would never forget. Instead of slamming the door hard, even shoving an Adirondack chair in front of it to make sure Ali wouldn’t escape, she’d left the door unlatched and ajar. One weak push, and Ali would be out. Safe. Free. Emily just couldn’t let her die in there. Even if Ali had said all those horrible things, even if Ali had broken Emily’s heart in a million different ways, she couldn’t do that.

Now, in Spencer’s den, Emily reached into her pocket and touched the silky orange tassel once more. That horrible scene in Jamaica flashed before her eyes.
Everyone thought you died in the fire
, Emily had said to the girl they all swore was Ali.
But—

But what?
The girl interrupted.
But I
escaped
? Any ideas how
that
could have happened, Em?
Then she’d pointedly glanced at Emily’s pocket as though she had X-ray vision and could see the orange tassel Emily had carried everywhere even then, the tassel that hung on the very door that had allowed for Ali’s escape.

Tabitha knew what Emily had done. But . . .
how?

When Emily’s phone beeped in her bag, shrill and loud in the silent room, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Moments later, Spencer’s cell phone buzzed. Aria’s let out a car honk. Hanna’s made a bird-tweet. The noises cycled once more, the ringing and buzzing a cacophony of wails. The girls stared at one another, terrified. If Tabitha wasn’t Ali, and Tabitha had died that night, then who was doing this to them? Ali
still
could have survived the fire. Was A
still
Ali, tormenting them with the juiciest, most heinous secret of their lives?

Slowly, Spencer reached for her phone. So did Aria, then Hanna. Emily pulled her own phone out of her bag and stared at the screen.
ONE NEW TEXT
. From anonymous. Of course.

You think that’s all I know, bitches? It’s only the
tip of the iceberg . . . and I’m just getting warmed up. –A

What happens next . . .

Did you really think it was over? Please. As long as these girls are misbehaving, I’ll be watching. And boy, have they been bad. Shall we recap?

Hanna’s boob nearly made Page Six. And, sure, she paid off Patrick, but she’s about to find out that there’s more than one way to kill Daddy’s campaign.

Emily shattered Chloe’s family. Last time I checked, that’s not what friends are for. Perhaps Chloe should return the favor and tell Mrs. Fields exactly how Emily spent her summer break . . . or maybe I’ll do it for her.

When push came to shove, Aria became pretty . . . vicious. Now, Klaudia’s leg isn’t the only thing that’s broken. Can Aria and Noel’s relationship survive Hurricane Klaudia? As they say in Finland: Ja right.

And finally we come to naughty, naughty Spencer. Think Zach is the only person whose life she’s ruined? Think again. She pulled some very dirty tricks to get into her dream school—and someone got trampled in the process.

But here’s the question that’s on all of our minds: Just how long will Hanna, Emily, Aria, and Spencer be able to keep what they did in Jamaica under wraps? Or I guess the real question is: How long will I let them?

Stick with me, kids. It’s about to get so good . . .

—A

Acknowledgments

First off, let me say how thrilled I am that the Pretty Little Liars saga continues. As soon as I wrote the very first sentence of this book, I felt so . . . right, so thrilled and privileged to delve into the twisted lives of Spencer, Aria, Emily, and Hanna once more. As always, I owe a ton of gratitude to the smart, lovely people who helped create the new web of lies and threats for our Liars to face: Les Morgenstein, Josh Bank, Sara Shandler, and Lanie Davis at Alloy. It’s been such a pleasure working with all of you on this series—there is truly something magical that happens whenever we convene.

Also big thanks to the amazing people on the other side of the country who have made Pretty Little Liars a success on the small screen—namely, Marlene King, Oliver Goldstick, Bob Levy, and Lisa Cochran-Neilan; the fabulous actresses Lucy Hale, Ashley Benson, Troian Bellisario, and Shay Mitchell, and all the rest of the cast; the wonderful writers for understanding the series so completely and giving it your own cheeky, spooky, excitingly different spin; and everyone else who works on the project, even in the smallest role. Thanks so much, too, to Farrin Jacobs and Kari Sutherland at HarperTeen, who always have amazing insight (and good memories) about the series, and much love to Kristin Marang and Allison Levin at Alloy for your awesome work on all things PLL online—including keeping the blog fresh and funny and interesting! A huge shout-out to Andy McNicol and Jennifer Rudolph-Walsh at William Morris for making PLL 9–12 a reality. I’m probably forgetting tons of other people in the amazing PLL process—the list keeps on growing!

As usual, much love to my family and husband, Joel, who is always there with forensic advice. But mostly, I want to dedicate this book to all of the readers of the series, from the very first girls who decided to give the hardcover of
Pretty Little Liars
a try back at my very virgin reading in Carle Place, New York, to the many fans I met in the sweltering heat in Fort Myers, Florida, to the lovely girls and librarians at the Jewish Library in Montreal, to everyone at events in between, as well as all the readers I’ve met on Twitter and Facebook and in chats and Skype talks. Without your unflagging enthusiasm and love for the series,
Twisted
wouldn’t exist. I value each and every last one of you more than words can say.

About the Author

SARA SHEPARD
is the author of the #1
New York Times
bestselling series Pretty Little Liars and THE LYING GAME. She graduated from NYU and has an MFA from Brooklyn College. Sara’s Pretty Little Liars novels were inspired by her upbringing in Philadelphia’s Main Line, where she lives today.

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www.AuthorTracker.com
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Credits
JACKET DESIGN BY TOM FORGET

Copyright © 2011 by Alloy Entertainment and Sara Shepard All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-0-06-208101-8

11 12 13 14 15
CG/BV
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

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