The doorbell rang. Hanna groaned, then rolled off the couch, not bothering to fix her army-green ribbed tank top, which was turned around and practically exposing her boob. She cracked the oak door and then slammed it shut again.

  Whoa. It was that cop, Mr. April. Er, Darren Wilden.

  “Open up, Hanna.”

  She checked him out through the peephole. He stood with his arms crossed, seeming all business, but then his hair was a mess and she didn’t see his gun anywhere. And what kind of cop worked at 10 A.M. on a cloudless Saturday morning like this?

  Hanna glanced at her reflection in the round mirror across the room. Jesus. Sleep marks from the pillow? Yes. Puffy eyes, lips in need of gloss? Absolutely. She quickly ran her hands over her face, pushed her hair into a ponytail, and put on her round Chanel sunglasses. Then she flung open the door.

  “Hey!” she said brightly. “How are you?”

  “Is your mom home?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Hanna said flirtatiously. “She’s out all morning.”

  Wilden pursed his lips together, looking stressed. Hanna noticed Wilden had a little clear Band-Aid right above his eyebrow. “What, did your girlfriend deck you?” she asked, pointing at it.

  “No…” Wilden touched the Band-Aid. “I banged it on my medicine cabinet when I was washing my face.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not the most graceful person in the morning.”

  Hanna smiled. “Join the club. I fell on my ass last night. It was so random.”

  Wilden’s kind expression was suddenly grim. “Was that before or after you stole the car?”

  Hanna stood back. “What?”

  Why was Wilden looking at her as if she were the love child of space aliens? “There was an anonymous tip that you stole a car,” he enunciated slowly.

  Hanna’s mouth fell open. “I…what?”

  “A black BMW? Belonging to a Mr. Edwin Ackard? You crashed it into a phone pole? After you drank a bottle of Ketel One? Any of this sound familiar?”

  Hanna shoved her sunglasses up her nose. Wait, that was what happened? “I wasn’t drunk last night,” she lied.

  “We found a vodka bottle on the driver’s-side floor in the car,” Wilden said. “So, someone was drunk.”

  “But—” Hanna started.

  “I have to bring you into the station,” Wilden interrupted, sounding a little disappointed.

  “I didn’t steal it,” Hanna squeaked. “Sean—his son—said I could take it!”

  Wilden raised an eyebrow. “So you admit you were driving it?”

  “I—” Hanna started. Shit. She took a step back into the house. “But my mom’s not even here. She won’t know what happened to me.” Embarrassingly, tears rushed to her eyes. She turned away, trying to get her shit together.

  Wilden shifted his weight uncomfortably. It seemed like he didn’t know what to do with his hands—first he put them in his pockets, then they hovered near Hanna, then he wrung them together. “Listen, we can call your mom at the station, all right?” he said. “And I won’t cuff you. And you can ride up front with me.” He walked back to his car and opened the passenger door for her.

  An hour later, she sat on the police station’s same yellow plastic bucket seats, staring at the same Chester County’s Most Wanted poster, fighting back the urge to start crying again. She’d just been given a blood test to see if she was still drunk from last night. Hanna wasn’t sure if she was—did alcohol stay in your body for that long? Now Wilden was hunching over his same desk, which held the same Bic pens and a metallic Slinky. She pinched her palm with her fingernails and swallowed.

  Unfortunately, the events of last night had coalesced in her head. The Porsche, the deer, the airbag. Had Sean said she could take the car? She doubted it; the last thing she could remember was his little self-esteem speech before he’d ditched her in the woods.

  “Hey, were you at the Swarthmore battle of the bands last night?”

  A college-age guy with a buzz cut and a uni-brow sat next to her. He wore a ripped flannel surfer’s shirt, paint-spattered jeans, and no shoes. His hands were cuffed. “Um, no,” Hanna muttered.

  He leaned close to her, and Hanna could smell his beery breath. “Oh. I thought I saw you there. I was and I drank too much and started terrorizing someone’s cows. That’s why I’m here! I was trespassing!”

  “Good for you,” she answered frostily.

  “What’s your name?” He jingled his cuffs.

  “Um, Angelina.” Like hell she was giving him her real name.

  “Hey, Angelina,” he said. “I’m Brad!”

  Hanna cracked a smile at how lame that line was.

  Just then, the station’s front door opened. Hanna jerked back in her seat and pushed her sunglasses up her nose. Great. It was her mom.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” Ms. Marin said to Wilden.

  This morning, Ms. Marin wore a simple white boat-neck tee, low-waisted James jeans, Gucci slingbacks, and the exact same Chanel shades that Hanna was wearing. Her skin radiated—she’d been at the spa all morning—and her red-gold hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail. Hanna squinted. Had her mom stuffed her bra? Her boobs looked like they belonged to someone else.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Ms. Marin said to Wilden in a low voice. Then she walked over to Hanna. She smelled of seaweed body wrap. Hanna, certain that she smelled of Ketel One and Eggo waffles, tried to shrink in her seat.

  “I’m sorry,” Hanna squeaked.

  “Did they make you take a blood test?” she hissed.

  She nodded miserably.

  “What else did you tell them?”

  “N-n-nothing,” she stuttered.

  Ms. Marin laced her French-manicured hands together. “Okay. I’ll handle this. Just be quiet.”

  “What are you going to do?” she whispered back. “Are you going to call Sean’s dad?”

  “I said I’ll handle it, Hanna.”

  Her mother rose up from the plastic bucket seats and leaned over Wilden’s desk. Hanna tore through her purse for her emergency pack of Twizzlers Pull-n-Peel. She’d just have a couple, not the whole pack. It had to be in here somewhere.

  As she pulled out the Twizzlers, she felt her BlackBerry buzzing. Hanna hesitated. What if it was Sean, chewing her out via voice mail? What if it was Mona? Where the hell was Mona? Had they actually let her go to the golf tourney? She hadn’t stolen the car, but she’d come along for the ride. That had to count for something.

  Her BlackBerry had a few missed calls. Sean…six times. Mona, twice, at 8 A.M. and 8:03. There were also some new text messages: a bunch from kids at the party, unrelated, and then one from a cell number she didn’t know. Hanna’s stomach knotted.

  Hanna: Remember the KATE toothbrush? Thought so! —A

  Hanna blinked. A cold, clammy sweat gathered on the back of her neck. She felt dizzy. The Kate toothbrush? “Come on,” she said shakily, trying to laugh. She glanced up at her mother, but she was still bent over Wilden’s desk, talking.

  When she was in Annapolis, after her father told Hanna that she was, essentially, a pig, Hanna shot up from the table and ran inside. She ducked into the powder room, shut the door, and sat down on the toilet.

  She took deep breaths, trying to calm down. Why couldn’t she be beautiful and graceful and perfect like Ali or Kate? Why did she have to be who she was, dumpy and clumsy and a wreck? And she wasn’t sure who she was angriest at—her dad, Kate, herself, or…Alison.

  As Hanna choked on hot, angry tears, she noticed the three framed pictures on the wall across from the toilet. All three were close-ups of someone’s eyes. She recognized her father’s squinty, expressive eyes right away. And there were Isabel’s small, almond-shaped ones. The third pair of eyes were large, intoxicating. They looked like they were straight out of a Chanel mascara ad. They were obviously Kate’s.

  They were all watching her.

  Hanna stared at herself in the mirror. A peal of laughter floated in from outside. Her stomach felt like it was bursting from all the popcorn everyone had watched her eat. She felt so sick, she just wanted it out of there, but when she leaned over the toilet, nothing happened. Tears spilled down her cheeks. As she reached for a Kleenex, she noticed a green toothbrush sitting in a little porcelain cup. It gave her an idea.

  It took her ten minutes to work up the nerve to put it into her throat, but when she did, she felt worse—but also better. She started crying even harder, but she also wanted to do it again. As she eased the toothbrush back in her mouth, the bathroom door burst open.

  It was Alison. Her eyes swept over Hanna kneeling on the floor, the toothbrush in her hand. “Whoa,” she said.

  “Please go away,” Hanna whispered.

  Alison took a step into the bathroom. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Hanna looked at her desperately. “At least close the door!”

  Ali shut the door and sat on the side of the tub. “How long have you been doing this for?”

  Hanna’s lip quivered. “Doing what?”

  Ali paused, looking at the toothbrush. Her eyes widened. Hanna looked at it too. She hadn’t noticed before, but KATE was printed on the side in white letters.

  A phone rang loudly in the police station and Hanna flinched. Remember the Kate toothbrush? Someone else might have known about Hanna’s eating problem, or might have seen her going into the police station, or might even know about Kate. But the green toothbrush? There was only one person who knew about that.

  Hanna liked to believe that if Ali were alive, she’d be rooting for her, now that her life was so perfect. That was the scene she replayed in her mind constantly—Ali impressed by her size 2 jeans. Ali oohing over her Chanel lip gloss. Ali congratulating Hanna on how she’d planned the perfect pool party.

  With shaking hands, Hanna typed, Is this Alison?

  “Wilden,” a cop shouted. “We need you in the back.”

  Hanna looked up. Darren Wilden rose from his desk, excusing himself from Hanna’s mom. Within seconds, the whole precinct burst into action. A cop car flew out of the parking lot; three more followed. Phones rang maniacally; four cops sprinted through the room.

  “It looks like something big,” said Brad, the drunk trespasser sitting next to her. Hanna flinched—she’d forgotten he was there.

  “A donut shortage?” she asked, trying to laugh.

  “Bigger.” He jiggled his handcuffed hands excitedly. “Looks like something very big.”

  29

  GOOD MORNING, WE HATE YOU

  The sun streamed in through the barn’s window, and for the first time in Spencer’s life, she was awakened by the chirping of high-on-life sparrows instead of the frightening ’90s techno mix her dad blasted from the main house’s exercise room. But could she enjoy it? Nope.

  Although she hadn’t drunk a drop last night, her body felt achy, chilled, and hungover. There was zero sleep in her fuel tank. After Wren left, she’d tried to sleep, but her mind spun. The way Wren held her felt so…different. Spencer had never felt anything remotely like that before.

  But then that IM. And Melissa’s calm, spooky expression. And…

  As the night wore on, the barn creaked and groaned, and Spencer pulled the covers up to her nose, shaking. She chided herself for feeling paranoid and immature, but she couldn’t help it. She kept thinking of the possibilities.

  Eventually, she’d gotten up and rebooted her computer. For a few hours, she searched the Internet. First she looked at technical websites, searching for answers on how to trace IMs. No luck. Then she tried to find where that first e-mail—the one titled “covet”—had come from. She wanted, desperately, for the trail to end at Andrew Campbell.

  She found that Andrew had a blog, but after scouring the whole thing, she found nothing. The entries were all about the books Andrew liked to read, dorky boy philosophizing, a couple of melancholy passages about an unrequited crush on some girl he never named. She thought he might slip up and give himself away, but he didn’t.

  Finally, she plugged in the key words missing persons and Alison DiLaurentis.

  She found the same stuff from three years ago—the reports on CNN and in the Philadelphia Inquirer, search groups, and kooky sites, like one showing what Ali might look like with different hairstyles. Spencer stared at the school picture they’d used; she hadn’t seen a photo of Ali in a long time. Would she recognize Ali if she had, for instance, a short, black bob? She certainly looked different in this picture they’d created.

  The main house’s screen door squeaked as she nervously pushed through it. Inside, she smelled freshly brewed coffee, which was odd, because usually her mom was already at the stables by now and her dad was riding or at the golf course. She wondered what had happened between Melissa and Wren after last night, praying she wouldn’t have to face them.

  “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Spencer jumped. At the kitchen table were her parents and Melissa. Her mother’s face was pale and drained and her dad’s cheeks were beet red. Melissa’s eyes were redrimmed and puffy. Even the two dogs didn’t jump up to greet her as they normally did.

  Spencer swallowed hard. So much for praying.

  “Sit down, please,” her father said quietly.

  Spencer scraped back a wooden chair and sat next to her mother. The room was so still and silent, she could hear her stomach, nervously on spin cycle.

  “I don’t even know what to say,” her mother croaked. “How could you?”

  Spencer’s stomach dropped. She opened her mouth, but her mother held up her hand. “You have no right to talk right now.”

  Spencer clamped her mouth shut and lowered her eyes.

  “Honestly,” her father said, “I am so mortified you’re my daughter right now. I thought we raised you better.”

  Spencer picked at a rough cuticle on her thumb and tried to stop her chin from wobbling.

  “What were you thinking?” her mother asked. “That was her boyfriend. They were planning to move in together. Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “I—” Spencer started.

  “I mean…,” her mother interrupted, then wrung her hands and looked down.

  “You’re under eighteen, which means we’re legally responsible for you,” her father said. “But if it were up to me, I’d lock you out of this house right now.”

  “I wish I never had to see you again,” Melissa spat.

  Spencer felt faint. She half-expected them to set down their coffee cups and tell her they were just kidding, that everything was all right. But they couldn’t even look at her. Her dad’s words stung in her ears: I am so mortified you’re my daughter. No one had ever said anything like that to her before.

  “One thing’s for certain; Melissa will be moving into the barn,” her mother continued. “I want all of your stuff out and back into your old bedroom. And once her town house is ready, I’m turning the barn into a pottery studio.”

  Spencer balled up her fists under the table, willing herself not to cry. She didn’t care about the barn, not really. It was what came with the barn that mattered. It was that her dad was going to build shelves for her. Her mom was going to help her pick out new curtains. They’d said she could get a kitten and they’d all spent a few minutes thinking up funny names for it. They were excited for her. They cared.

  She reached out for her mother’s arm. “I’m sorry—”

  Her mother slid her body away. “Spencer, don’t.”

  Spencer couldn’t manage to swallow her sob. Tears started running down her cheeks.

  “It’s not me you need to apologize to, anyway,” her mother said in a low voice.

  Spencer looked at Melissa, sniveling across the table. She wiped her nose. As much as she hated Melissa, she’d never seen her sister this miserable—not since Ian broke up with her back in high school. It was wrong to flirt with Wren, but Spencer hadn’t thought it would go as far as it did. She tried to put herself in Melissa’s place—if she’d met Wren first, and Melissa had kissed him, she’d be shattered too. Her heart softened. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Melissa shuddered. “Rot in hell,” she spat.

  Spencer bit the inside of her mouth so hard she tasted blood.

  “Just get your things out of the barn.” Her mother sighed. “Then get out of our sight.”

  Spencer’s eyes widened. “But—” she squeaked.

  Her father gave her a withering look.

  “It’s just so despicable,” her mother murmured.

  “You’re such a bitch,” Melissa threw in.

  Spencer nodded—perhaps if she agreed with them, they would stop. She wanted to shrivel up into a tiny ball and evaporate. Instead, she mumbled, “I’ll go do it now.”

  “Good.” Her father took another sip of coffee and left the table.

  Melissa made a small squeak and pushed back her chair. She sobbed the whole way up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door.

  “Wren left last night,” Mr. Hastings said as he paused in the doorway. “We won’t be hearing from him, ever again. And if you know what’s best for you, you won’t talk about him ever again.”

  “Of course,” Spencer mumbled, and set her head down on the cool oak table.

  “Good.”

  Spencer kept her head firmly on the table, breathing yoga fire breaths and waiting for someone to come back and tell her that everything would be okay. Nobody did. Outside, she heard an ambulance siren screaming in the distance. It sounded like it was coming toward the house.

  Spencer sat up. Oh God. What if Melissa had…hurt herself? She wouldn’t, would she? The sirens howled, coming closer. Spencer shoved back her chair.

  Holy shit. What had she done?

  “Melissa!” she yelled, running to the stairs.

  “You’re a whore!” came a voice. “You’re a fucking whore!”