Sara Shepard - Ruthless

Spencer rolled her eyes. Only Naomi, Riley, and Kate would hold the cast party at Otto, a fancy bistro down the street. Usually, the cast fetes were held in the auditorium or the gym. Two years ago, they’d thrown it in the cafeteria.

“We also suggest you all dress nicely, as the Philadelphia Sentinel is going to be there,” Riley added nasally, now glowering at the other actors, who usually looked as though they were going to a Renaissance Faire—even when they weren’t rehearsing Shakespeare. “Hopefully, they’ll interview all of us.”

Pierre snorted. “We’d better work our asses off, then.” He spied Spencer in the back row. “Speaking of which, Mr. M? Lady M? Are you ready?”

Spencer jumped up. “Definitely.” Beau rose, too.

Naomi and Riley gazed longingly at Beau as he sauntered up the aisle. “Good luck,” Naomi said, fluttering her eyelashes. Beau shot her a dismissive smile.

Then the girls turned to Spencer and snickered. “There’s something really off about her, don’t you think?” Naomi whispered loud enough for Spencer to hear, her buttery blond hair falling into her face. “Maybe someone’s lost her dramatic touch.”

“Personally, I think the girl who played her on Pretty Little Killer was a much better actress than she is,” Kate said. The others tittered.

Spencer stepped onto the stage, ignoring them. Pierre narrowed his eyes at Spencer. “We’re going to rehearse the scene where you tell Mr. M to kill the king. I hope you’ve got it a bit more together today.”

“Absolutely,” Spencer chirped, pushing a lock of blond hair over her shoulder. At Beau’s house yesterday, they’d rehearsed dozens of scenes, and she felt prepared and connected. She kept repeating a mantra in her head: I’m going to nail this, and Princeton is going to want me. She exchanged a glance with Beau, who had walked onto the stage as well. He shot her a kind, encouraging smile, and she smiled back.

“Okay.” Pierre prowled around the stage. “Let’s take it from the top, then.”

He gestured to Beau, who began the monologue about how Macbeth wasn’t sure whether he should commit murder. When it was Spencer’s cue to enter, she repeated the mantra in her head again. I’m going to nail this, Princeton is going to want me .

“ How now, what news? ” she said.

Beau spun around and looked at her. “ Hath he asked for me? ”

Spencer gave him an annoyed look, as though he were actually her husband and yet again hadn’t listened to one word she’d said. “ Know you not he has? ”

Beau lowered his eyes and said that they must not discuss the murder any further—he couldn’t go through with it. Spencer stared at him, trying to put herself in Lady Macbeth’s position, as Beau had encouraged. Become one with Lady Macbeth . Put yourself in her place. Surrender to her problems.

And for Spencer, that meant: surrender to Tabitha. She had aided in Tabitha’s murder, after all. Her motives were different from Lady Macbeth’s, but it had accomplished the same end. “ Was the hope drunk wherein you dress’d yourself? ” she sputtered. “ Hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale at what it did so freely? ”

They continued to argue. Lady Macbeth told her husband that he wasn’t a man if he didn’t go through with the murder. Then she revealed her plan: get the king’s chambermaids drunk and kill him while they slept. Spencer tried to make the argument sound as logical as possible, feeling more and more connected to her character. She’d been the voice of reason with her friends that night in Jamaica, too, telling her friends Tabitha needed to be stopped. And when Aria pushed Tabitha off the roof, Spencer had been the one who rallied them together, telling them they’d done the right thing.

Suddenly, she noticed a flutter out of the corner of her eye and looked up. Standing beyond Beau, nearly translucent against the strong stage lights, was a blond girl in a yellow sundress. Her face was ashen and bloodless, her eyes were lifeless, and her head hung at a strange angle on her neck, as if it had been broken.

Spencer gasped. It was Tabitha.

Fear streaked through her. She glanced down at the floor, afraid to look in the corner again. Beau shifted on the stage, waiting for Spencer to deliver her final set of lines. Finally, she peeked across the stage where she’d seen the figure. Tabitha was gone.

Spencer straightened up. “ Who dares receive it other, as we shall make our griefs and clamour roar upon his death? ” she sputtered, clutching Beau’s hands. And Beau nodded, saying he was going to go through with the vile deed.

Thankfully, the scene was over after that. Spencer scuttled behind the curtain and collapsed on an old couch once used for a set, taking deep, desperate breaths as though she’d just swum the English Channel. Disaster. Pierre probably thought that long pause between lines was because she’d lost her place, not because she’d seen an apparition on the stage. She was probably out of the play for good. Maybe she should write to Princeton and forfeit to Spencer F. now. Her future was ruined.

Footsteps approached. “Well, well, well, Miss Hastings,” Pierre’s voice said above her.

Spencer drew her hands away from her face. Pierre’s waxy, made-up face looked delighted. “It looks like someone’s done her homework between then and now. Excellent job.”

She blinked at him. “Really?”

Pierre nodded. “I believe you’ve finally connected with Lady M. Loved the little shrieks, too. And you kept looking off into the distance, as though possessed. You might nail this part yet.”

Then Pierre pivoted on his heel and swished back to the stage. Beau ran toward Spencer, a huge smile on his face. “That was awesome!” he gushed, taking Spencer’s hands. “You’re really getting there!”

Spencer grinned weakly. “I thought I blew the whole thing. I acted like a spaz.”

Beau shook his head. “No, you were amazing. ” He stared deeply into her eyes with such intensity that Spencer felt her cheeks get hot. “You really tapped into something scary inside yourself, didn’t you? I could tell.”

“Um, not really.” Spencer peered out beyond the curtain. There was still no one in the corner where Tabitha had stood. “You didn’t notice anyone watching backstage, did you?” she asked.

Beau looked around, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He squeezed her hands. “Anyway, I think with a few more practice sessions, you’ll be amazing. Let’s meet at your house next time. How about Thursday afternoon?”

“That sounds good,” Spencer said shakily. And then Beau leaned close, a shy look on his face. Spencer closed her eyes, certain he was going to kiss her lips, but then a faint whisper sounded in her ears.

Murderer.

She opened her eyes again and pulled away. The hair on her arms stood on end. “Did you just hear that?”

Beau looked around. “No . . .”

Spencer listened hard, but heard nothing else. Maybe it was her imagination. Or maybe, just maybe, it was something—someone—much more sinister than that.

A.

Later that same Tuesday night, Aria sat in a secluded nook at Wordsmith’s, the bookstore a block away from the Rosewood Day campus. Classical music tinkled over the stereo, and the place smelled like the freshly baked cookies from the bakery next door. But nothing smelled as good as Ezra’s cologne, which Aria was inhaling deeply as she snuggled next to him on the oversized loveseat in the café at the back of the store. It was daring for them to cuddle in broad daylight—Aria still thought of Ezra as her taboo, sexy teacher—but no Rosewood Day student came into Wordsmith’s unless they were forced to, and absolutely no one from school patronized the café. That was a holdover from the days when Real Ali was still alive—she had started a rumor that someone had found a whole finger in one of the brownies, and everyone, even upperclassmen, had banned the place. Four months into her relationship with Noel, Aria caught him sneaking into Wordsmith’s between classes, and he finally confessed that he had a major jones for the café’s cranberry nut muffins. Aria had loved him for going against the fray.