Sara Shepard - Deadly

Her heart thudded hard as she boarded the elevator and rode it to the third floor. As soon as she stepped onto the ward, she spied her dad and Carolyn slumped in chairs in the waiting room, asleep. There was an open Sports Illustrated magazine in her dad’s lap. Carolyn’s coat was half on, half off. Emily smiled faintly at them, noticing how sweet and friendly they looked in sleep. It gave her hope. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

A newscast played on the TV overhead: Arraignment in One Week , read a headline. Emily’s school picture appeared on the screen, followed by Spencer’s, Aria’s, and Hanna’s. Then Tabitha’s father, whom Emily had come face-to-face with quite a few times in the past few months, popped on the screen. “I’m deeply saddened by the outcome of this investigation,” the man said, his eyes lowered. “I want justice for these girls, but it still won’t bring my daughter back.”

Emily flinched. Poor Mr. Clark. She imagined him lying in bed at night, alone in his big house, thinking of that horrible video on the beach again and again. Ali wasn’t just hurting the four of them by releasing that video. There were so many other victims, too. So many lives ruined. Iris flashed in Emily’s mind again. Would she be another victim? And if she was, would Emily somehow get blamed for it? She’d been blamed for everything else , after all.

The news switched to a commercial about a new Ford pickup. Emily checked on her father and sister, but they hadn’t stirred. Spinning around, she marched over to the nurse’s station. A tired-looking woman in balloon-printed scrubs drank from a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Can you tell me which room Pamela Fields is in?” Emily asked. “I’m her daughter.”

The nurse examined Emily carefully. “Her daughter Beth?”

Emily blinked. “No. Her daughter Emily.”

The nurse’s eyes widened. “You’re not on Mrs. Fields’s list. You can’t visit.”

“But I’m her daughter.”

The nurse picked up a phone on her desk. “I’m really sorry about this. But I was told if you came . . .” She lifted the receiver to her ear. “I need security.”

Emily backed away from the desk. Security? For a split second, she didn’t understand . . . and then she did. Her family had asked to keep her away.

She wheeled around, suddenly numb. “I’m leaving,” she said, just as a figure appeared in the doorway of the waiting room. Mr. Fields was upright now, his sparse, graying hair standing in peaks atop his head, his eyes still sleepy. It looked like he’d heard the whole exchange. Emily stared at him plaintively, begging silently that he would set the nurse straight.

Mr. Fields glanced at the nurse, then back at Emily. His gaze was cold and dead but also firm and purposeful. Then he turned and walked back to the waiting room.

Well then. Swallowing a sob, Emily brushed past him for the elevator. She barely recalled the ride down, and she ran with her head lowered toward her bike.

As she unlocked her bike from the rack, her phone beeped. She pulled it out and saw Jordan’s name. A news story had just broken on CNN: Preppy Thief Apprehended in Caribbean .

Emily suddenly couldn’t breathe. She stabbed at the link. There was a picture of Jordan, tanned and beautiful but also looking stunned and upset, being led in handcuffs through a parking lot. Katherine DeLong, on the lam since March, finally caught in a small fishing village in Bonaire. Twitter activity led to her arrest .

Twitter activity . Emily inspected Jordan’s picture again. She was staring straight at the camera, seemingly right into Emily’s eyes. Her expression was rife with fury. I know you did this to me , her eyes seemed to be saying to Emily and only Emily. That photo of you cheating led them right to where I was hiding .

Emily sank into the bike’s seat, feeling like everything was spinning too fast. Suddenly, her phone beeped again. A voicemail had landed in her mailbox, but she hadn’t even heard the phone ring.

She dialed the voicemail access number and punched in her code. When the first and only message played back, the phone almost slipped from Emily’s fingers. A piercing giggle echoed through the receiver. It stopped her heart. She’d know that laugh anywhere. It was mocking. Teasing. Tormenting. Ali’s .

She looked around anxiously, considering heading straight to the FBI office and playing this for Fuji. But Fuji wouldn’t listen. She believed what she wanted to believe. She thought Ali was dead, that the girls were liars.

It explained why Ali was laughing so hard. She knew she had them beat. And to her, it was simply hilarious. Hanna was right. They were just sitting back, letting it happen.

An idea crystallized in Emily’s mind. She composed a text to Spencer, Aria, and Hanna. I’m sick and tired of Anderson Cooper ruining everything , she wrote, using the code name they’d come up with for Ali. I’m back on the hunt. Are you in or out?

She sent the text off and waited, taking steady, even breaths. All she could do now was wait. She hoped and prayed they would say yes.

That same day, Aria sat in the waiting room of a lawyer’s office. Well, sort of a lawyer’s office—she’d never known a lawyer to set up his business in a strip mall between a Five Below and a Curves, but whatever. Mike sat next to her, staring at a pamphlet about an ongoing class-action drug suit. “Hey,” he whispered. “Have you ever taken Celebrex? Prozac?”

“No,” Aria mumbled.

“Do you have mesothelioma?” Mike asked.

“I don’t even know what that is .”

“Damn.” Mike set down the pamphlet. “If you did , we’d be entitled to a big settlement.”

Aria rolled her eyes, wondering how Mike could be upbeat. She was also beginning to second-guess this meeting—she could hear techno music from Curves thumping through the walls. This morning, Mike had knocked on her door and said, “Get up. We’re talking to Desmond Sturbridge at ten AM. We’ll sneak.” “Who’s that ?” Aria had asked, and Mike had explained it was a lawyer who’d called the house yesterday volunteering to take Aria’s case. Aria had tried to tell him that Spencer’s dad was defending them, but Mike just shrugged. “It’s always good to get a second opinion. Besides, we don’t even have to pay this new guy unless we win.”

Now, a door flung open, and a tall, skinny man with a gummy smile and hair so slicked with pomade it actually shone, beamed at them. “Miss Montgomery and friend!” he boomed. “Come in, come in!”

Aria looked nervously at Mike, but he just pulled her to her feet and led her into the office. “It’ll be fine,” he murmured as they followed Sturbridge down the hall. “You have a good case. He’ll present the truth to the judge—how can it go wrong?”

Aria hoped he was right. She entered the lawyer’s office, which was decorated with bobbleheads, signed Eagles jerseys, and a whole lot of empty Arby’s wrappers. There was also a diploma from the University of Michigan on the wall, which made her feel better.

“Thanks for speaking with us,” she said as she sat down.

“Of course, of course!” Sturbridge’s eyes gleamed. “I think you have a very interesting case. And I have some ideas to keep you out of Jamaica.”

Mike raised his eyebrows encouragingly. Aria pulled a notebook out of her bag and slid it across the desk. “We don’t have too much time, since the arraignment is Friday, so I wrote down everything that’s happened so you can look it over at your leisure.” Inside the notebook were also drawings she’d started for Asher Trethewey. Not that she’d need them now.