Sara Shepard - Toxic

Then she looked at Greg, realizing something. “How do you know about this place in the Village, anyway? I thought you lived in Delaware.”

Greg nodded. “My parents divorced when I was seven, and my dad moved here. I visited sometimes.”

“That must have been fun.”

He shifted his jaw. “I was really sporty growing up, so usually I was pissed that I was missing football practice. For a long time, I didn’t appreciate what the city had to offer. And I hated my dad’s new wife. Cindy.”

Spencer rolled her eyes. “My parents split up, too. But my stepdad is okay. Maybe it’s easier because I’m older.”

“Maybe.” Greg stared blankly at the subway tracks. Spencer hated looking there for fear she’d see a rat. “Cindy used to bully me, actually.”

“Your stepmom ?” Spencer blurted. “How?”

Greg raised one shoulder. “She was insulting and manipulative. But she was sly about it—she acted like she loved me whenever my dad was around, and she denied it whenever I told him she’d been mean. No one believed me.”

“That’s awful,” Spencer whispered, feeling a tug in her heart. “What did you do?”

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets. “I just . . . took it, for a while. And then, when I had a say, I told the court that I didn’t want to visit my dad anymore. I was an idiot, though—I didn’t tell the court what Cindy was doing. I thought it would shatter my dad—they would have investigated her and him. But he found out eventually—Cindy drunkenly confessed everything shortly before she left him. He apologized up and down, but it was too little, too late.” He shuffled his feet. “I always say I stood by and watched other kids get bullied, but it’s not the truth. I’m too embarrassed to tell my story. She was, like, half my size. And old. ”

“That doesn’t matter,” Spencer urged. “Emotional abuse is emotional abuse, no matter where it comes from.”

Greg nodded slowly. Then he raised his eyes to Spencer’s, his face a little blotchy like he was about to cry. “It’s why I got this.” He showed her the tattoo of the bird on his hand. “I felt like it gave me . . . power or something. I don’t know.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve actually never told anyone about Cindy,” he admitted.

“Well, I’m glad you told me,” Spencer said softly, feeling touched.

Greg nodded. “I’m glad, too.” He rubbed the bird tattoo with his fingers. “If I can ever return the favor for you, I’m here.”

Spencer’s insides bounced and flipped. It would be nice to talk to someone other than her friends. He would believe her, she knew. About anything. She leaned forward and touched her lips to his cheeks. “Thank you.”

Greg grabbed her hands. He stared into her eyes meaningfully, and Spencer knew they were going to kiss for real. Her lips parted. She moved closer. It felt like it was only the two of them, wounded and broken but resilient, against the world.

A gust of wind kicked up. A local uptown train raged through the tunnel, and Spencer pulled away from Greg. She chided herself, feeling ridiculous. What was she doing, kissing a complete stranger? Hadn’t she just sworn off boys?

The train cars rumbled loudly over the tracks far across the station. The cars came to a stop, and the doors whooshed open. Passengers got on and off in a jumble, the platform suddenly very crowded. Spencer stared idly at the commotion so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact with Greg. A flash of blond shifted next to a pole inside a car. Spencer did a double take.

It was Ali.

She was skinny, ashen, and greasy, like Emily had described. Ali stared at Spencer challengingly, a smirk on her face. So bold. So brazen. Sort of like, Fuck you, Spencer. I can do whatever I want.

“Hey!” Spencer screamed out, rushing to the edge of her platform. But she couldn’t actually get to Ali—she was blocked by a whole set of tracks and rails.

“ Look !” Spencer pointed furiously at the girl in the car opposite them. A few people on the platform glanced at Spencer as she pointed. “It’s Alison !” she shrieked, but her words were suddenly swallowed up by a subway train rushing into the station. It was the train Spencer and Greg were waiting for, the local going downtown.

“Spencer?” Greg said, touching her arm. Or at least Spencer thought that was what he’d said—it was impossible to hear him for sure.

She turned and pointed to the open doors across the platform. Alison! she mouthed, hoping he’d understand. She’s on that train!

Greg’s brow furrowed. He shook his head, then pointed to his ear. Spencer gestured furiously, and Greg looked in Ali’s direction, but more people had crowded into her car. Her face vanished from view. “Alison!” Spencer said over and over. A few other people glanced over, too, but most of them looked at Spencer like she was crazy. Then Ali reappeared again, still in the subway car. She stared out from the window, her eyes bright and cunning. An alarm blared. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” said a recorded announcement.

Slowly, horribly, the subway doors shut, sealing Ali in. She grinned at Spencer through the glass. And as the subway pulled away, she raised a few fingers to wave. See ya , she mouthed.

And then she was gone.

For the first time in what felt like years, Emily woke up in her bed in Rosewood with a huge smile on her face.

Jordan was her first and only thought.

The possibility that she might be free and that Emily might get to spend time with her— real time, without sneaking around—overshadowed Ali. It trumped the disappointing phone call from Fuji last night that it was Spencer’s hair on the hoodie. It even trumped Spencer’s text that said she was sure she’d seen Ali on a New York City subway train. All Emily could think about was lush, beautiful, irresistible Jordan. All night long.

Humming to herself, she drifted across the bedroom and stared at her dreamy expression in the mirror. Jordan, Jordan, Jordan. She definitely had to arrange for another prison visit soon. And write her letters for sure. And maybe buy her a present. But what? Emily wondered what one could give a prison inmate. A book, perhaps? A nondangerous piece of jewelry?

She glided down the stairs to the breakfast table, where her parents were watching TV. “There are eggs,” Mr. Fields said, gesturing to the stove.

“And coffee,” Mrs. Fields added.

“Thanks,” Emily almost sang. “But I’m not hungry.” She was too hyped-up for food. And she certainly didn’t need anything artificial like coffee to make her feel more awake or alive.

She sank into the chair, smiling vaguely at the chicken-shaped napkin holder in the center of the table. Had she ever told Jordan about her mom’s chicken fetish? She’d probably think it was so funny. There was so much Emily needed to tell Jordan, minor things that only Jordan would want to know. Maybe, soon enough, Emily would have all the time in the world to do that. She let out a wistful sigh, savoring how wonderful that was going to be.

Mrs. Fields sipped her coffee. “So, do we need to get you a new dress for the Rosewood Rallies fund-raiser?” she asked Emily across the table.

Emily looked up and blinked. For a moment, she had no idea what her mom was talking about. “Oh, I’m fine,” she said after she remembered. “I’m sure I’ve got something in my closet.”

“It should be a lot of fun,” Mrs. Fields said, a small smile on her face. “Are you planning on bringing anyone?”