Sara Shepard - Toxic

“Shit,” Hanna muttered as they trudged out of the store. “Now what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer said, feeling aimless.

Emily kicked a pebble on the sidewalk. “That hair on that hoodie had better be a DNA match. Then we could get Fuji up here. She could access those surveillance tapes.”

Hanna put her hands on her hips and faced the road. “Maybe we could drive around and look for random barns. We could get lucky.”

“In the dark?” Spencer scoffed. “I doubt it.”

“Party pooper,” Hanna mumbled, slumping back into the car.

The other girls climbed in, too, leaving Spencer alone in the parking lot. Hanna looked out the window at her. “Maybe we should all sleep at my place tonight. I don’t like the idea of us being apart. We could be easy targets for Ali.”

“Yes,” Emily said quickly. “There’s no way I can sleep alone.”

“I’m in,” Aria agreed.

“Me too,” Spencer said. It was a wonderful idea—in case Ali showed up again, four against one were much better odds.

They promised to meet at Hanna’s in an hour. Then Spencer retreated to her car, sinking heavily into the leather seat. The whole day felt wasted. The only thing they’d learned was that Ali was alive . . . and furious. And they already knew that.

Her phone buzzed loudly, jarring her from her thoughts. Spencer stared at the unfamiliar 212 number on caller ID. Swallowing hard, she answered.

“Spencer Hastings?” said a woman’s voice. Spencer said that she was. “My name is Samantha Eggers. I’m the head of the National Anti-Bullying Council in New York City. It’s a new initiative created by Congress last year.”

“Of course,” Spencer said, sitting up straighter. “I know about you.” She’d researched all the bullying outreach programs available to teens while putting together her website. “You’re doing great stuff.”

“No, you’re doing great stuff,” Samantha said, her voice mirthful. “I’m a huge fan of your website. You’re giving kids a voice.” She rushed on. “Listen, I’m calling because we’re making an anti-bullying film that will be used as a tool at schools nationwide next year. I’m looking for voices on bullying, and your name kept coming up among my staff.”

“Really?” Spencer pressed a hand to her chest. “I mean, I only started my website last week. I’m really flattered.”

“So that means you’d like to be part of our video?” Samantha asked, her voice rising. “We’ll film in New York on Tuesday evening. You’re not too far, right? Just an Amtrak ride away? We’ll cover the costs.”

Spencer pushed her hair off her forehead. “That sounds awesome.” She pictured her face in classrooms all over the country, including Rosewood Day. And this was just another way to impress everyone at Princeton.

“Perfect!” Samantha cried.

She gave Spencer the details and directions. After they hung up, Spencer pressed the phone between her hands, her mood buoyed again. Your name kept coming up. She pictured everyone talking about her. Lauding her. She couldn’t wait to tell someone about this—but who? Her friends would appreciate it, of course, and Greg flashed through her mind, too, but that was crazy. She didn’t even know him.

The door to the mini-mart swung open, and Spencer looked up. A man in work pants and a plaid shirt sauntered to his car parked at pump number three. Then her gaze fixed on the registers inside. Something the cashier had said suddenly turned over in her mind. We get lots of people coming in and out of here. One blond girl buying water is the same as the next.

They’d said they were looking for a girl. They’d said Ali was blond. But they hadn’t said what she’d been buying—they weren’t even sure themselves. Why had Marcie mentioned water specifically? Did she know something?

She shut off the ignition and climbed out of the car again. When she was halfway to the mini-mart, something behind her made a loud, sizzling snap. She turned and stared. The lights at the pumps flickered off. A shadow passed behind one of them. Faint footsteps sounded from the back of the building. And then she noticed a parked car she hadn’t seen before. It was a black Acura. It seemed so out of place up here in the land of pickup trucks and practical Subarus.

She thought of the Acura keychain she’d found in her stepfather’s trashed model home. They’d found that car, hadn’t they? Or did Nick have more than one?

Then something flashed in the front seat. It was a head of blond hair.

Spencer’s heart pounded. She crept toward the car, knowing she had to see who was inside. With every step, her chest felt tighter and tighter, and her nerves crackled and snapped. Finally, she approached the car from the side. She steeled herself, then took one more step forward to peer into the front window.

The alarm went off, sending her jumping backward. It was a deafening sound, all whoops and buzzes. Spencer staggered a safe distance away, then stared into the window for real. Only now, the blonde was gone. No one was in the car. She ran her hands down her face. It made no sense. She’d definitely seen a blond head . . . hadn’t she?

It felt like a sign. Spencer fumbled for the door handle and climbed back into her car. She’d turned out of the Turkey Hill lot even before the alarm was silenced.

And before whoever was watching her could do anything worse.

The next morning, Aria stood in the cramped back room of the gallery, watching as Ella carefully swathed the sold Ali painting in Bubble Wrap. They were shipping it to the buyer in New York by a courier truck waiting outside, and they wanted to ensure it got there in one piece. Aria couldn’t wait to get rid of it.

Ella paused. “This is how you imagined she would have looked if she’d lived, right?”

Aria fiddled with a piece of packing tape. Ella had been in the hospital room the first time they’d protested to Fuji that Ali had been part of Nick’s attack, and she’d also heard Fuji shoot down the theory. It was easier for her family to believe that Aria had imagined seeing Ali instead of considering that the crazy girl was at large.

Aria’s gaze moved to Ali’s haunting eyes in the painting. She wasn’t sure how she’d managed to capture so precisely Ali’s furious, insane, and unraveled expression—it was as if something demonic had taken hold of her brush. Why had a highbrow art collector in New York City been so captivated by it? Aria had Googled John Carruthers last night; there were numerous pictures of him attending charity events at the Met, the Whitney, and the MoMA. A New York Times profile said that he and his family lived in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue and Seventy-Seventh Street with views of Central Park. His two young daughters, Beverly and Becca, had the FAO Schwarz life-size piano from Big and an authentic Keith Haring mural in their playroom. Hopefully he would hang Ali’s face somewhere the girls would never see it.

And what about Ali? Surely she’d found out that a painting of her face had sold; the deal had even gotten a mention on the Art Now blog. That worried Aria a little. Was Ali totally pissed off that Aria was profiting—hugely—off her image? Should Aria pull out of the transaction?

Stop worrying , she told herself as she helped Ella wrap the rest of the painting. She couldn’t let Ali run her life.

Ella whistled for the courier, who was waiting in the main gallery space, to haul it to the truck. “So,” she said, turning to Aria after he left, “what are you going to do with all that money?”