Then she remembered: Tabitha. But she pushed that aside for the moment, deciding to concentrate on this and only this. For one day, she could have her family back just the way she wanted it. She’d probably never have a moment like this again.
“Come on,” Mrs. Fields said, picking up one of Emily’s bags and dragging it into the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll make you some tea, and you can tell me all about your trip.”
Emily let her mom guide her through the living room and sit her down at the kitchen table. It felt good to watch her fill the teapot with water and place it on the stove. She was about to launch into a description of the ship and the islands they visited, but then an Express Mail envelope caught her eye. Emily Fields, said the script in the address window.
She held it up. “What’s this?”
Mrs. Fields glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “I don’t know. It just came this morning.”
Emily ripped open the envelope and pulled out a postcard. When she saw the picture of the Bermuda International Airport on the front, her heart did a flip. The postcard was unsigned, but she knew immediately who it was from. Then she read the date, and her mind stalled. April 3. That was two days ago, the day of the explosion on the boat. She pictured Jordan’s body leaping from the top deck of the ship, the bubbles in the water, the FBI boats searching the bay. A smile spread across her face. Then she looked down and read the note once more.
Emily: I’m okay. Not going to where we planned, but somewhere even better. We’ll find each other someday—that’s a promise.
34
THE FUN HASN’T EVEN BEGUN
The doorbell at Byron’s house pealed around 8 A.M. the following morning, and Aria shot up from the couch. The house was empty—Byron was at work, and Meredith had taken baby Lola to a doctor’s appointment.
She peered through the window in the door. Hanna, Spencer, and Emily were standing on the porch, grave looks on their faces.
“Thanks for coming,” Aria said in a small voice when she pulled the door open.
No one answered. She led them to the den. All three of her friends lined up on the couch facing the TV. They sat with perfect posture, their eyes glazed and red-rimmed, like they were at a funeral. Which, of course, they sort of were.
“Are you sure we should do this?” Spencer blurted.
Everyone exchanged a glance. “I don’t want to,” Hanna whispered.
“Me neither,” Emily said. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
Aria perched on the wing chair, feeling just as conflicted. Every moment of this morning had felt like the end of an era. It was the last time she’d ever wake up in her bed. The last time she’d ever brush her teeth in her bathroom. The last time she’d ever kiss Lola without a prison guard standing over her. Would Meredith even bring Lola to visit her in prison? A’s taunting text haunted her, too: Will Aria’s boyfriend visit her in jail?
Hanna picked at her nails. Emily stared at a coffee cup she was holding, but couldn’t seem to bring herself to drink it. And Spencer kept picking up a magazine, staring at the cover, and then putting it right back down again.
“Maybe we’ll get a really kind judge,” Emily said. “Maybe someone who understands how scared we were about Real Ali coming back to hurt us.”
Spencer scoffed. “No judge will buy that. They’ll say everyone knew Real Ali was dead.”
Emily wriggled in her seat, either looking like she was about to burst or pee her pants. “Actually, not if we tell the court I left the door open for her the day of the fire.”
Everyone’s heads shot up. “Excuse me?” Spencer sputtered.
Emily buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t just leave her on the floor like that. I don’t know if she got out, but I did leave the door open.”
“But I saw the door,” Hanna said. “You shut it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Aria stared at the ceiling, trying to recall those hot, horrible, frantic moments before the house blew up. She swore she’d looked back and saw that the door was closed tight—or was that just a fabrication in her mind after the fact?
“God, Emily,” Spencer whispered, her eyes wide.
Hanna ran her hands down the length of her face. “Is this why you’re so convinced Real Ali is the one stalking us now?”
“I guess so.” Emily fiddled with the coaster on the coffee table. “But I’ve been thinking about it, and, you guys, maybe it’s a good thing. If I bring up how the door was left open and how afraid we were that she’d escaped, maybe the judge will understand our paranoia in Jamaica.”
“Or maybe he’ll think we’re crazy,” Hanna snapped.
Aria shook her head. “You should have told us about this before now.”
“I know.” Emily looked tortured. “And I’m sorry. But would it really have changed anything? We probably would have been even more convinced Tabitha was Ali in Jamaica.”
“Or we would have gone to the police instead of handling it ourselves,” Aria said.
“This might never have happened,” Spencer added.
Emily slumped down. “I’m sorry.”
“Do you realize what this means?” Aria pushed her fingers through her hair. “Real Ali could be out there! She could be A!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Emily urged. “Ali makes the most sense. She and Tabitha had been such good friends that Tabitha carried her picture in a locket. Maybe she was with Tabitha in Jamaica, and maybe the plan had been to push us off the roof, not the other way around. Maybe that was why she was waiting on the sand, taking those pictures. But then, when things went wrong, she’d decided to torture us instead.”
“But what about Graham?” Spencer asked. “He makes a lot of sense, too. And we’re certain he’s alive.”
Aria swallowed hard. “I thought it didn’t matter since we were confessing, but I overheard Jeremy and this cop talking yesterday, and Graham’s in the hospital.”
Hanna squinted. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe from the blast. It was unclear.”
“Who cares if Graham’s in the hospital?” Spencer threw up her hands. “He’ll get out eventually. And then he’ll tell about everything we did.”
“There was something else weird, too,” Aria said. “The cop said they identified two figures on the surveillance tape from the boiler room—one was definitely Graham. They couldn’t identify the second person, but they thought it was a guy.”
Spencer cocked her head. “Do you remember anyone else being down there?”
Aria shook her head. Emily tapped the table. “Maybe they just caught you at a weird angle or something. Or maybe it was a worker just randomly down there the same time you were.”
“Maybe,” Aria said slowly. Then she shut her eyes. She was so sick of talking about this, going back and forth as to who might be A, letting A torment their lives. She was done.
“We’re telling the cops about Tabitha right now,” she decided.
“Okay,” Emily whispered, widening her eyes at Aria’s authoritative tone. Spencer just nodded. Hanna swallowed hard, but then nudged her head toward Aria’s cell phone.
“Good.” Aria felt electrically charged and a little crazy. She grabbed her phone and looked up the number for Michael Paulson, the man at the FBI in charge of the murder trial. It was a Washington, DC, area code. She punched the numbers on her phone unnecessarily hard.
She pressed the last digit and listened as the line rang. After a moment, someone at the front desk answered. “Can I speak to Michael Paulson, please?” she asked, placing the call on speaker.
“May I ask who’s calling?” the woman said in a bored voice.
Aria glanced at her friends, then turned back to the phone. “Someone who has information on the Tabitha Clark murder case.”
There was a loaded pause. “Mr. Paulson’s at a press conference right now,” she said after a moment. “But if it’s important, I’ll be able to reach him. Can he call you back shortly?”
Aria said that was fine and hung up. She set the phone down on the coffee table, her heart hammering. What was she going to say when the detective called her? How was she going to blurt it out? As soon as she did this, their lives would change. Was she seriously ready for that?
Hanna grabbed for the remote and turned on the TV. “I need some noise,” she said. “I can’t stand this.” A commercial for ice cream cakes popped on the screen. Everyone stared at it absently. Aria wondered if they were all thinking the same thing—they’d probably never have something as frivolous and celebratory as ice cream cake again.
The commercial for ice cream cake ended, and one for Ford trucks came on. Then one for a local pizza parlor, then life insurance. After that, the local news appeared. The weatherman blathered about how it was going to be cloudy today, but there was a high-pressure system moving in tomorrow. “Break out your shorts and T-shirts!” he announced. “It’s going to be unseasonably warm!”
“God, does he have to be so cheerful?” Spencer snarled at the screen.
Emily looked desperately at the phone. “Why doesn’t he call back? Doesn’t he know it’s important?”
Hanna cradled a pillow. “There’s something I didn’t mention about my conversation with Naomi yesterday. Apparently, Real Ali called her when she was back in Rosewood as Courtney and told her everything.”
Now it was her everyone stared at. “What do you mean, everything?” Aria asked.
“The truth, I guess. Everything that was in that letter she slid under the door at the Poconos. Naomi didn’t believe her, though. She thought she was crazy.”
Spencer blinked hard. “Why would Ali give away such a big secret?”
Hanna shrugged. “She thought Naomi would take her side. She told me Ali tried to recruit her, just like Mona tried to recruit you, Spencer. Ali said, ‘We’re going to get those bitches, Naomi.’”
“‘We’?” Aria blurted.
“That’s what she said,” Hanna looked at Aria in puzzlement. “What’s weird about that?”
Aria pushed her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. It just sounded weird for a second, like Ali had a team of people out to get us. But maybe not.”
Suddenly, Spencer, who had been looking at her phone, lifted her head. “You know how you said Graham was in the hospital, Aria? Actually, I think he’s in a coma.”
She turned her phone outward. THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE CRUISE CLAIMS A VICTIM, said the headline of an online story. Aria scanned the text. Graham Pratt was hospitalized from injuries following the explosion on board the Splendor of the Seas Eco Cruise ship. The medical staff in Bermuda says he is in a coma but resting comfortably.
“Whoa,” Aria whispered, her heart pounding hard. A coma? Had he been knocked out from the blast? But why hadn’t she seen him lying like an X on the boiler-room floor, unconscious?
