Sara Shepard: Ruthless

But there were some secrets Aria hadn’t shared with Noel. Like what she’d done to Tabitha or what had really happened on their trip to Iceland. The Iceland incident alone would have made Noel dump Aria long ago. Maybe, in a twisted, karmic way, she deserved this.

She heard a snicker and peered into the open classroom door. Klaudia sat in the front row, her injured foot propped up on a spare chair. Kate Randall, Naomi Zeigler, and Riley Wolfe sat next to her—of course they’d all become fast friends with the equally devious and gossipy Klaudia. All four girls stared at her and Noel, big grins on their faces. They had front-row seats to the breakup. The news would be all over school in minutes. Pretty Little Loser was just Pretty Little Dumped!

Aria spun on her heel and marched toward the bathroom before the tears started to fall. She peeked over her shoulder, longing for Noel to call out her name, but he’d turned and was walking in the opposite direction. When he saw Mason Byers, one of his good friends, he stopped and gave him a high five. Like he was carefree. Happy. Thrilled to be rid of kooky Aria Montgomery once and for all.

On Thursday evening, as the sun was sinking into the trees and dyeing the sky orange, Hanna Marin pressed her iPhone to her ear and waited for the voice mail message to beep. “Mike, it’s me again. Are you ever going to pick up? How many times can I say I’m sorry?”

She pressed END. She’d left him sixteen voice mail messages, eleven texts, tons of Twitter posts, and a bunch of emails in the past two weeks, but her ex-boyfriend, Mike Montgomery, hadn’t returned a single one. She knew how rash it had been to break up with him when he’d warned her about skeevy Patrick Lake, the photographer who told Hanna that she could be a model in New York. But how was she supposed to know Patrick would take compromising photos of Hanna and threaten to post them online if she didn’t pay him off?

Hanna missed Mike. She missed watching American Idol with him and making fun of the singers. She’d heard he’d taken a small role in the school’s production of Macbeth . When they were dating, they consulted one another before joining activities—Hanna would definitely have put the kibosh on the play.

And she especially missed Mike in light of what was happening with A and Tabitha. Hanna wouldn’t have told Mike what she and the others had done, but to have someone around who cared about her would be so comforting right now. Instead, she felt alone and scared. She so wanted to believe that what they’d done to Tabitha was in self-defense. They’d thought Tabitha was Real Ali, who was hell-bent on murdering them. But no matter how many ways Hanna rationalized it, everything boiled down to one devastating fact: They had killed an innocent girl. They were all guilty. They knew it. And A knew it, too.

Hanna stepped out of her Toyota Prius and looked around. The circular driveway of her father’s new house, a six-bedroom redbrick McMansion in Chesterbridge, two towns away from Rosewood, was edged with a few fledgling saplings, tethered by feeble-looking ropes. White Grecian columns supported the porch, a large fountain in the front yard burbled peacefully, and rows of perfectly manicured shrubs that looked like upside-down ice cream cones lined either side of the front entrance. Such a grand abode seemed excessive for three people—her father, his new wife, Isabel, and Isabel’s daughter, Kate—but it did seem like a fitting house for a man who was running for United States senator. Mr. Marin’s campaign had kicked off a few weeks ago, and he had a great shot at winning. Unless, of course, A spilled Hanna’s secret about Tabitha.

Hanna rang the doorbell, and Isabel whipped the door open almost immediately. She was dressed in a Tiffany-blue cashmere sweater, a black pencil skirt, and sensible low heels. The perfect dowdy wife of a senator-to-be.

“Hello, Hanna.” The pinched look on Isabel’s face said that she didn’t quite approve of Hanna’s boho Anthropologie dress and gray suede boots. “Everyone’s in Tom’s office.”

Hanna swished down the hall, which was adorned with silver-framed photos of Isabel and her father’s wedding last summer. She scowled at the picture of herself dressed in the ugliest bridesmaid gown Isabel could have selected: a mint-green, floor-sweeping number that made Hanna’s hips look huge and her skin look sickly. She turned the frame around so that it faced the wall.

Her father and his campaign staff were sitting around the walnut desk in his office. Her stepsister, Kate, was perched on a Victorian sofa, fiddling with her iPhone. Mr. Marin’s eyes lit up when he saw Hanna. “There she is!”

Hanna smiled. A few weeks ago, when his campaign consultants told him that she’d tested well with the voting public, she’d suddenly become her dad’s favorite daughter.

Isabel slipped into the room after Hanna and shut the French doors. “This is why I called you here.” Mr. Marin pushed a series of flyers and website screen grabs across the table. The pages said things like The Truth About Tom Marin and Don’t Believe the Lies and Not a Man You Can Trust .

“These are all paid for by Tucker Wilkinson’s committee,” Mr. Marin explained.

Hanna clucked her tongue. Tucker Wilkinson was her father’s biggest rival for the party nomination. He’d served as state senator for years and had oodles of campaign funds and tons of friends in high places.

She scootched forward to look at his photo. Tucker Wilkinson was a tall, handsome, dark-haired man who looked vaguely like Hugh Jackman. He had that slightly unnerving, ultra-white politician smile, the kind that tried so hard to say Trust me.

Sam, a senior staff member who had droopy eyes and a penchant for wearing bow ties, shook his head. “I heard Wilkinson bribed a Harvard admissions officer to let in his oldest son, even though he had a two-point-oh GPA.”

Vincent, who managed Mr. Marin’s website, stuffed a piece of Trident gum in his mouth before saying, “He does everything he can to dig up the skeletons in everyone’s closets during campaigns, too.”

“Luckily, he hasn’t found anything on us.” Mr. Marin looked around at his staff. “And he won’t —unless there’s something I need to know. What Jeremiah did was a shock. I don’t want to be blindsided again.”

Hanna flinched at the mention of Jeremiah, her father’s aide who’d recently been dismissed for stealing $10,000 from the campaign’s petty cash fund. The thing was, Jeremiah hadn’t stolen the money . . . Hanna had. But she’d had to. It was the only way to keep Patrick quiet about the photos he’d taken.

Kate’s phone chimed. She read the screen and giggled.

“Kate?” Mr. Marin sounded impatient. “Maybe you could put that away?”

“Sorry.” Kate turned the iPhone facedown and glanced pointedly at Hanna. “Sean just texted me the funniest thing.”

Hanna bristled inside, but she tried not to let it show. Kate had recently started dating Sean Ackard, Hanna’s ex. Hanna didn’t miss Sean in the slightest, but it did hurt that he’d chosen to date the girl she hated most.

Mr. Marin stacked the printouts in a neat pile. “So. Is there anything anyone would like to come clean with?”

Hanna’s insides churned. Would Wilkinson’s people find out about Tabitha? She glanced out the window. A car rolled slowly down the road. She squinted toward the silhouetted trees that served as a barrier between her dad’s property and the neighbor’s. For a split second, it looked like a shadow darted between the trees.