Sara Shepard - Twisted

His optimism was getting on Hanna’s nerves. How many times had she told Mike about her daddy issues? How many times had he been up close and personal with Kate? That was the thing about guys, though: Sometimes, they had the emotional depth of a flea.

Hanna took a deep breath and stared blankly at the heads of the study hall students in front of them. “The only way I’m going to end up in a commercial is if I do it on my own. Maybe I should call that photographer.”

Mike’s chopsticks fell to his lap. “That poseur who was drooling all over you at the shoot? Are you serious?”

“His name’s Patrick Lake,” Hanna said stiffly. He’d said she was amazing on camera, and had badmouthed Kate right in front of her. That part was her favorite.

“Why would you say he’s a poseur?” she asked after a moment. “He’s totally professional. He wants to take pictures of me and hook me up with a modeling agency.” She’d googled Patrick on her iPhone during lunch, gazing at his Flickr photos and Facebook links. On his website, Patrick listed that he’d taken photos for several Main Line magazines as well as a fashion insert for the Philadelphia Sentinel . Plus, he shared a first name with Patrick Demarchelier, Hanna’s favorite fashion photographer.

“More like professionally sleazy. He doesn’t want to turn you into a model, Hanna. He wants to do you.”

Hanna’s mouth dropped. “You don’t think I’m capable of getting signed by a modeling agency?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You pretty much did.” Hanna angled her body away from Mike, feeling a flush of anger. “So basically, anyone who approaches me just wants to bone me, right? I’m not pretty enough to take seriously.”

Mike shut his eyes like he suddenly had a migraine. “Would you listen to yourself? Only pretty girls get hit on—and that’s you . If you were a dog, he wouldn’t be after you. But that dude was nasty. He reminded me of that artist freak who had a thing for Aria on our trip to Iceland.”

Hanna stiffened, knowing immediately what artist Mike was talking about—he’d plunked down next to them at a bar in Reykjavik and deemed Aria his new muse. “Let me text Aria,” Mike went on, pulling out his phone. “I bet she’ll tell you the same thing.”

Hanna caught his hand. “You’re not texting your sister about this,” she blurted. “We’re not really friends anymore, okay?”

Mike lowered his phone, not even flinching. “I already figured that out, Hanna,” he said evenly. “I just didn’t think it would take you so long to admit it.”

Hanna swallowed, surprised. She’d figured he just hadn’t noticed. He probably wanted to know why Hanna and Aria weren’t speaking, too—but she couldn’t tell him that.

Suddenly, Hanna couldn’t bear to be in the same room as Mike. When she stood up and grabbed her bag off the floor, Mike touched her elbow. “Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” Hanna answered haughtily. “Am I allowed ?”

Mike’s eyes turned cold. “You’re going to call that photographer, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” She tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder.

“Hanna, don’t.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

Mike crumpled up the Tokyo Boy bag in his hands. “If you do, you can forget about me coming to any more of your dad’s campaign events.”

Hanna couldn’t believe it. Mike had never issued an ultimatum before. The whole time they’d been dating, he’d treated her like a queen. Now, it looked like someone had forgotten his place.

“In that case . . .” Hanna swept into the aisle. “How about we just forget about everything?”

The skin around Mike’s mouth slackened. Obviously he’d been bluffing. But before he could protest, Hanna was already out the door.

She marched past the office, the nurse’s station, and Steam, the school’s upscale coffee bar, which always smelled like burnt coffee beans this time of day, finally stopping at the double doors to the Commons. It had a tiny alcove where you could make a cell phone call without teachers noticing. Hanna dug her phone out of her purse and dialed Patrick’s number.

The phone rang three times, and a groggy voice answered. “Patrick?” Hanna said in her most professional-sounding voice. “This is Hanna Marin. We met at my father’s photo shoot on Saturday.”

“Hanna!” Patrick suddenly sounded much more awake. “I’m so happy you called!”

In less than a minute, everything was arranged: Hanna would meet Patrick in Philadelphia tomorrow after school, and he would take some test shots of her for his portfolio. He sounded perfectly respectable, speaking to her without even the slightest tinge of flirtatiousness. When they hung up, Hanna held the phone between her palms, her heart pounding hard. Take that, Mike. Patrick wasn’t a skeev. He was going to make Hanna a star.

As she dropped her phone back into her bag, she saw a shadow flicker in the corner. Reflected in the glass door to the Commons was a blond girl. Ali.

Hanna whipped around, half expecting to see Ali standing at a locker behind her, but it was only poster of Ali’s seventh-grade school picture on the wall. There were smaller pictures of Jenna Cavanaugh and Ian Thomas, and then a larger photo of Real Ali after her return as her dead twin. ALL IT TOOK WAS ONE LIT MATCH, said a headline under the images. Below it were details of the made-for-TV program, Pretty Little Killer .

Unbelievable. Even Rosewood Day was in on the hype. Hanna ripped down the poster and balled it up in her hands.

Suddenly, a teasing, familiar voice from Jamaica echoed in her ear: I feel like I’ve known you girls forever. But that’s impossible, right? Followed by an eerie giggle.

“No,” Hanna whispered, purging the voice from her head. She hadn’t heard it in a long time—not since right after they’d returned from the trip. She wasn’t about to let the voice—or the guilt—invade her mind again.

A trio of girls clad in North Face jackets and Ugg boots crossed the Commons. An English teacher flitted down the hall with an armful of books. Hanna tore up the photo of Ali until it was in a thousand satisfying pieces. She brushed off her hands into the wastebasket. There. Ali was gone.

Just like the Real Ali. Of that, Hanna was absolutely sure.

On Monday evening, Emily pulled her family’s Volvo station wagon into the driveway of the Rolands’ house and yanked up the emergency brake. Her palms were sweating. She couldn’t believe she was about to go into the house where Jenna and Toby had lived.

In the side yard was the stump of what used to be Toby’s old tree house, the site of the awful prank that had blinded Jenna. There was the big bay window through which Ali and the others spied on Jenna when they had nothing better to do. Ali was ruthless with Jenna, picking on her high-pitched voice, her pale skin, or how she brought tuna sandwiches to lunch and then had tuna breath for the rest of the day. But unbeknownst to them, Ali and Jenna shared a secret: Jenna knew that Ali had a twin. It was why, in the end, Real Ali had killed her.

Suddenly, the red-painted oak door whipped open, and Chloe appeared. “Hey, Emily, come on in!”

Emily stepped inside tentatively. The house smelled like apples, the walls had been painted deep reds and oranges, and bejeweled Indian tapestries hung on the big space under the stairs. The furniture was a mismatch of Stickley chairs, threadbare sixties-upholstered divans, and a coffee table made out of one large slab of curly maple. It was like walking into a funky junk shop.

She followed Chloe into the back room, which had big floor-to-ceiling doors that opened out onto the patio. “Here’s Gracie,” Chloe said, pointing to the baby in a swing in the corner. “Gracie, remember your best friend Emily?”