Sara Shepard - Deadly

She grabbed her phone, pulled up CNN, and looked again at the video. By now, eleven thousand, eight hundred, forty-two—no, forty- three —people had commented that Emily and her friends were evil incarnate. She winced as the shadowy girls beat Tabitha to death. It did look like the four of them. Besides, if the police suspected the video was a fake, wouldn’t they have already blown the thing up, used all their high-tech equipment to prove it? Ali had somehow made that video foolproof.

So figure out who N could be , a voice told her.

Another impossibility. Like the staff at The Preserve was going to allow a suspected criminal to infiltrate their building. Besides, they’d already balked when she’d asked.

But she dialed The Preserve’s number all the same, another matter on her mind. When a nurse answered, Emily coughed. “Has Iris Taylor returned?” she asked shakily.

“Let me check.” There was typing. “No, Iris Taylor isn’t here,” she answered.

Emily gripped the phone hard. “You haven’t found her?”

There was rustling on the other end, and a second voice got on the line. “Who is this?” a man demanded. “Are you another reporter?” And then, click .

The call time flashed on Emily’s screen. She set her phone down on the bedside table and stared blankly out the window. Iris was out there somewhere. Who knew if she was alive or dead? And it was all Emily’s fault.

Suddenly, a second voice sounded in Emily’s head, this one lower in pitch and eerily hypnotic. So give up , it echoed. Just stay in bed. Close your eyes. There’s no point to anything .

A door slammed outside, and Emily opened her eyes once more. Though it took a huge effort, she hefted herself out of bed and crossed the hall to the front window. Outside, her father was helping her mom out of a cab. Carolyn grabbed Mrs. Fields’s bags, and Emily’s sister Beth and brother, Jake, fluttered around, trying to be useful.

She watched her mom hobble to the front door. Mrs. Fields looked gray and old, clearly sick. The door creaked as it opened, and Emily heard voices downstairs. “Sit right here,” Mr. Fields encouraged softly. “See? Isn’t that nice?”

“Can I get you something, Mom?” That was Beth’s voice.

“How about some ginger ale?” said Jake.

“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Fields said. Her voice was scratchy, like a grandmother’s.

There were quick footsteps, the kissing sound of the fridge opening and closing. Emily hesitated at the top of the stairs, more nervous than she’d felt on the blocks before the state-championship swim meet last year. After a few heaving breaths, she squared her shoulders and walked down the stairs.

Beth and Carolyn were sitting on the couch, their hands in their laps, their smiles twitchy. Jake returned from the kitchen with a tall glass of ginger ale. Mr. Fields was squatting by the TV, doing something with the cable box, and Emily’s mom was sitting on the recliner, her face pale and lined.

When Emily reached the bottom of the stairs, everyone froze. Carolyn’s lips puckered. Jake shot to his feet. Beth looked away, which made Emily feel especially awful.

Emily stepped toward her mom. “It’s so nice to see you home,” she said shakily. “How are you feeling?”

Mrs. Fields stared at her hands. All at once, her breathing began to quicken.

“Tired?” Emily tried. “Did they feed you okay in the hospital?”

Mrs. Fields was actually wheezing now. Carolyn let out a whimper. “Dad, do something.”

“She shouldn’t be here,” Beth said quickly, sharply.

Mr. Fields rose from the TV stand. He had disconnected the cable box from the television. Were they so broke that they couldn’t even afford cable anymore? “You need to go back upstairs,” he said firmly to Emily, his eyes cold.

“I’m sorry, everyone,” she eked out. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Then she fled back upstairs, holding in her sobs only until she was safely behind her closed door. Her phone was flashing on the bed. GOOGLE ALERT FOR THE PREPPY THIEF, said the screen. Emily scanned the headlines. Jordan’s sentencing trial was scheduled for next week. Experts say her sentence will be somewhere between twenty and fifty years .

Emily threw the phone against the wall. Jordan would have been fine if it weren’t for Emily. She’d ruined her life, too.

All at once, she thought of Derrick, her pal from last summer. How many times had he held her hand in the break room when she’d poured her heart out about how scared she was about having the baby? How many times had she called him in the middle of the night because she couldn’t sleep? She’d seen him not too long ago, when A was tormenting her about Gayle, so she knew he was still around. Maybe he’d listen. Maybe he’d understand.

She scooped up her phone from the carpet and dialed his number, but the call went to voicemail. Emily hung up without leaving a message. What if Derrick saw her number and hit IGNORE? Maybe he thought she was a killer, just like everyone else did. Maybe he was still upset that she’d cost him his job with Gayle, because she hadn’t given Gayle her baby—the last time she’d seen him, he’d mentioned it. She’d negatively impacted Derrick’s life, too.

She was the opposite of King Midas—everything and everyone she touched turned rotten, and there was so little now she could fix. Suddenly, something occurred to her. A lot of this was out of her control, but there was a way she could make her family happy again, get their money back, and heal their mother. She could disappear completely.

But did she dare even think it?

Emily squeezed her pillow hard. If she weren’t here right now, if she weren’t a constant stressor, her mom would recover. But when she thought about vanishing, she didn’t mean simply leaving town. It was a bigger, scarier, more definite decision than that.

She’d save her family. And who would miss her?

A laugh exploded from downstairs. Someone opened a door and shut it again. Emily rose from her bed and stood in the middle of the room, fingertips twitching. All at once, she couldn’t get the thought out of her mind. It made so much sense. She couldn’t live like this. She couldn’t let her family suffer. She couldn’t go to Jamaica, either. Maybe the rumors weren’t swirling because Ali and her helper planted them. Maybe everyone thought it was the next logical step.

Emily shut her eyes and thought for a moment. The Rosewood covered bridge came to mind. Most of the bridge had a roof over it, the inside walls coated with graffiti, but there was a tiny walkway on the outside that was open to the water below. The stream was deep this time of year from all the melted snow. It would still be cold, too. Numbing.

Heart pounding, she pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. Then, gathering up her courage, she hefted open her window, crept onto the roof, climbed onto the oak tree, and slid down the trunk, the way she always did when she snuck out. The bridge was about a twenty-minute walk. By the time her father checked on her—if he even did check on her—she’d be long gone.

That same morning, Spencer and Melissa stood on the Rosewood Day Commons. All one hundred and six of Spencer’s senior classmates, dressed in white and black graduation gowns and blue-tasseled caps, sat on folding chairs in front of a makeshift stage. Spencer, however, was in a plain cotton dress and wore no cap at all.

Faces of kids she’d spent the last twelve years with lined the rows. Phi Templeton sat next to Devon Arliss. Spencer’s field-hockey friend, Kirsten Cullen, giggled with Maya St. Germain. Noel Kahn, still looking a little weak, sat with his lacrosse buddies. Naomi Zeigler, Riley Wolfe, and Klaudia Huusko whispered to one another. Cast members from countless school plays Spencer had starred in fiddled with their tassels. Her cohorts on newspaper and yearbook fanned themselves with their programs. None of them glanced back at her. There weren’t even four empty seats, indicating where Spencer, Aria, Emily, and Hanna should be sitting. It was like Rosewood Day had wiped them clean from its memory.