Sara Shepard - Toxic

Harrison beamed. “Well, I’ll let you finish up with the galleries—I think I’ve got all I need for my post. But hey, I never like to miss a gallery show of the artists I feature—maybe I could snag an invite?”

“Of course!” Aria cried, wondering if she should ask him if he’d be her date. She’d only just met him, though.

Harrison looked pleased. He stood, rummaged in his pocket, and handed her a slim white card. The swirly Fire and Funnel logo was at the top, and below was his name in gray ink. Her fingers brushed his as she took his card. Aria moved toward him, wanting to get in that hug after all, but now Harrison was fiddling with his bag. When he looked at her again, she felt shy.

So she stuck out her hand. “Great to meet you.”

“Absolutely.” Harrison shook her hand, his fingers pressed against hers for an extra beat. Aria was pleased to note that her stomach did a little flip. “See you soon,” he added.

When he was gone, Aria turned back to her phone, eager to call the galleries back. Which should she go with? Who would give her a better show? She felt like a princess who had too many suitors to choose from. It was crazy to think that just moments before, in her interview, she’d been unsure about how to answer the question about her future. Now it was like it had been served to her on a silver platter, every detail falling into place. This is your start , Harrison had said to her excitedly.

And suddenly it felt like the truth.

The Ulster Correctional Facility rose above a forest of dark green trees, gray and bland against the cloudy sky. On Tuesday afternoon, Emily pulled her car through a set of electronic gates toward a sign that said GUEST PARKING. The lot was desolate, save for a rusty Toyota pickup truck in the last spot. A gust of wind pushed a Coke can across the pavement. Even though it was summer, the trees on the prison lot were bare.

Emily cut the engine and sat for a moment. Her head pounded from all the coffee she’d had to get her through the long drive to the prison outside New York City. Her heart was beating fast, too, though she doubted it was from caffeine. In moments, she was going to walk into a prison. And see Jordan.

Deep breath .

She climbed out and glanced over her shoulder into the scrubby woods. The whole drive, she’d felt like someone was following her, but whenever she’d checked her rearview mirror, she’d always seen a different car—or no car at all. Ali could be anywhere right now, though. Why had she run off without killing Emily? Why hadn’t Fuji gotten back to them with the DNA results? How long did testing take, anyway?

She thought, too, about a blog post she’d read this morning on one of the most popular Ali Cat sites. The poster, whose name was an androgynous WeWillAlwaysRemember, had written: Any enemy of Alison is an enemy of mine. She was a VICTIM. If you hate her, I hate you. I think you know who I’m talking about.

The post worried Emily. What if Ali Cats were more than twisted freaks who worshipped a psychopath? What if they actually had it out for people who didn’t like Ali—namely, Emily and the others? She’d forwarded it to the others . . . and, after some thought, to Fuji. Of course Fuji hadn’t responded.

She crossed the lot and pulled open a heavy metal door marked ENTRANCE. The latch caught loudly behind her, and she was greeted by a sad-sounding country song on a tinny radio. A woman in a navy uniform looked up from behind a gated window. “ID,” she said to Emily in a bored voice.

Emily slipped her driver’s license through a small opening. The woman inspected it, her eyes droopy and tired.

“You’re here to see Jordan Richards?” the woman asked. Emily nodded, too afraid to speak.

She was given a guest pass with her name on it. There was a loud buzzing sound, and the woman directed Emily into another hall, where a guard who looked like a weathered, hardened version of Tina Fey patted her down. Emily had done a little reading on the prison last night; unlike the prison she’d been stuck in for a day when she’d been falsely arrested for Tabitha’s murder, the Ulster Correctional Facility was only for women and only employed women. The only other information she could get out of the place was that it provided educational services to inmates, which meant it couldn’t be all that bad, right?

Then again, the air smelled like a mix of mustiness and ammonia. Fluorescent lights buzzed loudly over Emily’s head, and everything from the slamming doors to Emily’s footsteps to the sound of one guard’s furious gum-chewing had a hollow, lonely echo. Haggard Tina Fey gestured for Emily to follow, and they passed through a series of unadorned halls with puke-green cinder-block walls. As they passed one door, Emily caught a whiff of what she could only describe as rotten mashed potatoes. Jordan had once told her that her family was so well-off and she was left alone for so much of the time as a girl that she usually ordered takeout from the five-star French restaurant down the block. How on earth was Jordan surviving?

The guard punched a set of numbers into a keypad, and after another loud buzz , the latch gave way. They walked into a large, windowless room peppered with tables and chairs. A water fountain sat in one corner. A door to a bathroom was on the far wall.

A burly, red-haired girl in an orange prison jumpsuit was sitting at a table with a girl in a denim jacket and a hood pulled tight around her head. Both stood up as soon as Emily arrived and rushed in opposite directions. The hoodie girl used the door through which Emily had just come; a frizzy-haired guard took the redhead’s arm and led her toward an interior door, presumably back to her cell. But before she made the turn into the hall, the redheaded prisoner pivoted and stared at Emily, her eyes moving up and down her body. She was eyeing her up, maybe . . . or checking her out. Emily wasn’t sure she liked either prospect.

“Sit.” Emily’s guard pointed to one of the tables. Emily did, and the guard crossed the room to a second interior door. Then, a familiar figure stepped through. Emily drew in a breath. Yes, Jordan was in an orange prison uniform, and yes, her hair looked a little greasy and her face was a little drawn, but she was still the beautiful girl Emily remembered.

All sorts of memories rushed back at once. The two of them floating on that stolen boat in the San Juan harbor. Snuggling in the bed in their stateroom as the cruise ship drifted toward another port. How good it felt to kiss her. How wrenched she’d felt when Jordan jumped overboard.

Jordan met Emily’s eyes and smiled. Emily shot to her feet, unable to control her excitement. She never thought she’d see Jordan again. She never thought Jordan would want to see her. And here she was. It was just so . . . incredible .

“Fifteen minutes,” Haggard Tina Fey said gruffly. “Time starts now.”

Jordan rushed over to Emily. “H-hey,” she eked out, her mouth wobbling. Up close, she smelled like soap. The same tiny freckles were sprinkled across her cheeks. Emily wanted to touch each one. “You’re . . . here.”

Emily let out a choked laugh, so overjoyed to hear Jordan’s voice. “I’m here,” she answered, caressing Jordan’s shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Jordan’s eyes widened, and she glanced nervously at Emily’s hand. “We’re not supposed to touch,” she whispered, pulling away slightly.

A lump formed in Emily’s throat, but she tucked both hands in her lap as she sat down. Jordan sat across from her, her hands on the table. It took everything in Emily’s power not to grab them and never let go.