Sara Shepard - Deadly

On Wednesday afternoon, Spencer and Chase stood on the lawn of Mr. Pennythistle’s model home. It had carefully trimmed hedges and a weed-free front walk. Daffodils exploded out of ceramic pots by the door. Birds chirped from the branches of the big oak on the front lawn. The only eyesore was the yellow police tape across the front door.

Spencer walked up to it and moved it aside. Then she looked at Chase. “Are you sure you want to help? It’s a huge mess in there.”

“Of course,” Chase insisted, walking up to the house and gingerly stepping over the police tape. “That’s why I’m here , Spencer.” Chase had called her this morning, asking what she’d been up to, and the whole story of her arrest had spilled out of Spencer before she could stop herself. He had insisted on driving out to Rosewood to comfort her, which Spencer had to admit felt . . . well, comforting.

Spencer reached for the keys Mr. Pennythistle had left for her earlier that day, but as she was about to push them into the lock, the door swung open. She froze, listening for whoever might be inside. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the tough-looking security guy behind the wheel of the SUV. He was staring straight ahead, impassive behind his dark sunglasses.

“Hello?” Spencer called into the house, her heart pounding.

“Hello?” a voice called back.

There were footsteps, and Officer Gates stepped into the living room, navigating around the four couch cushions that lay on the floor and the tipped-over furniture. He blinked at Spencer. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to clean up,” Spencer answered. “What are you doing here?”

“Dusting for prints.” Gates held up his palms; he was wearing plastic gloves. “The forensic team just left. I’m heading out, too.”

Spencer’s heart lifted. Fuji was taking her seriously. Gates was searching for Ali.

“Did you find anything?” she asked eagerly.

Gates ran his hand over his bristly red hair. “A few prints here and there, but nothing conclusive.” His cell phone bleated out a calypso ringtone, and he held up a finger to Spencer. “Hello?” he said into the speaker. After a moment, he added, “I’m on my way.”

He turned back to Spencer. “Family emergency, sorry. I bagged a couple of things as evidence, but I’m not sure it’s going to give us much.” He cast an uncertain look at Chase. “Anyway, we’re done here. You can start cleaning up the place.” He nodded at Spencer and strode out of the house.

Spencer shut the door behind him, leaned against the wall, and heaved a huge sigh. “Well, that’s disappointing.” She looked around the room. Though she’d come and gone from this place several times while the girls were investigating Ali, it looked so different now. Desk drawers hung open, and there were crayon slashes all over the walls. There was a big crack in the glass on the grandfather clock. A ceiling light had been pulled out of the plaster, the wires dangling. “How is it that there’s no trace of Ali anywhere ?”

Chase poked his head into the kitchen, which had broken glass on the floors and trash strewn everywhere. It smelled like rotten milk. “Ali’s wickedly smart. I’m sure she thought everything through before trashing this place.” He cleared his throat. “That cop was looking at me as though he thought I did it.”

“No, he just didn’t want to say anything about Ali,” Spencer assured him, picking up a flattened Coke can and dropping it into the trash. “They don’t want us to tell anyone else.” She paused, peering at him. “ Are you okay with knowing? It could be dangerous.”

Chase shrugged. “It’s not like you told me anything I didn’t already know. I’ll be fine.”

Spencer turned back toward the door to get the cleaning supplies from the car. “I guess we should get this over with, huh?”

“Wait a sec,” Chase called from the kitchen. “C’mere.”

He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, gesturing at the ceramic tile floor. Nestled between broken pieces of plates and glass was something shiny.

Spencer knelt to pick it up and frowned, holding it up to the light. It was a silver keychain, minus the key. An Acura emblem was etched into the metal. “I can’t believe Gates missed this,” she murmured. “Do you think it’s Ali’s?”

“Maybe,” Chase said. “Or maybe it’s her helper’s.”

Spencer pulled out her phone. Her finger hesitated on Fuji’s number, but she dialed Hanna instead.

“Do we know anyone who drives an Acura?” she asked when Hanna answered.

Hanna didn’t miss a beat. “Scott Chin. Mason Byers. My mom’s divorce lawyer. One of my neighbors. That lady who—”

“Whoa,” Spencer interrupted. “I didn’t realize you knew every Acura driver in Rosewood.”

“They’re nice cars,” Hanna answered matter-of-factly. “Why do you want to know?”

Spencer explained what she’d just found. “Could her helper be one of those people? Scott Chin doesn’t make sense as Ali’s secret boyfriend—he’s gay. I’m not sure Mason does, either—he moved here in sixth grade, remember? And he and Ali never seemed to get along.”

“Spence, weren’t we just at the police station turning over the case to a team of professionals? Hand the keychain over to Fuji and forget about it.”

Spencer knew Hanna was right, but it was more difficult to relinquish control than she realized. At school, when they had to do group projects, Spencer always insisted on doing most of the work. The others will just screw it up , she always thought. They won’t do it as well as I can .

Still, she dutifully stuffed the keychain into her bag, making a mental note to call Fuji when she and Chase were finished cleaning. Hanna was right. She didn’t have to worry about this anymore. It was off her plate—and that was a good thing.

She canvassed the rest of the model home, sifting among the stuffing fluff and shredded newspaper and yards of toilet paper wound around the chandelier, but found no other clues.

There was a knock at the door, and Spencer froze again. “Yoo-hoo?” Spencer’s mother’s voice called into the living room. “Spencer? Are you there?”

Frowning, Spencer padded toward the front door. Her mother, Mr. Pennythistle, and Amelia stood in the foyer, all dressed in jeans and T-shirts. They were all holding brooms, mops, and the cleaning supplies from Spencer’s backseat.

“What’s going on?” Spencer asked. Had they come over to urge her to clean faster?

Mrs. Hastings tied her short blond hair back with a stretchy headband. “We’re going to help you clean, honey.”

“R-really?” Spencer stammered.

Mrs. Hastings ran her finger along the crayon marks on the walls. Some of it came off on her skin. “It’s not fair for you to have to do it yourself. I’m not saying it was right that you took Nicholas’s keys without his permission, but it was unfair of us to assume that you were the one who did this to the place.”

Mr. Pennythistle clapped her on the shoulder. “You were home the night this place was trashed—I checked the security video in the house. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Maybe Spencer should have been more bothered that he didn’t take her at her word, but it felt like too much emotional effort. She kind of liked the stern way he was looking at Amelia right now, too. “I’m sorry for telling on you,” Amelia muttered, after he nudged her.

“And the police explained that your drug arrest was a mistake,” Mrs. Hastings added as she scrubbed the wall with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. “Thank God .”