Sara Shepard - Twisted

Simply looking at the aerial view made her sick. A memory formed in her mind, sharp and distinct: Tabitha standing there at the bar, smirking at Aria. Looking at her like she knew exactly who she was . . . and exactly what her secrets were.

“Who could have sent this?” Hanna whispered.

“It’s just a coincidence,” Spencer said forcefully. “Someone’s screwing with us.” She looked around again for someone hiding in the bushes or giggling on the DiLaurentises’ old porch, but all was silent. It felt like they were the only people outside for miles.

Then Hanna turned the postcard over and squinted hard at the message there. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Spencer asked. Hanna didn’t answer, just shook her head frantically and passed the postcard to her.

One by one, each girl read the inscription on the back. Spencer covered her eyes. Emily mouthed no . When it was Aria’s turn, she focused on the capital letters. Her stomach tightened and her mind began to spin.

I hear Jamaica is beautiful this time of year. Too bad the four of you can’t EVER go back there.

Missed you! –A

The words on the postcard blurred before Spencer’s eyes. The wind gusted, and tree branches scraped up against the side of the DiLaurentises’ old house. It sounded like screams.

“Could this be . . . real?” Emily whispered. The air was so cold that her breath came out in eerie white puffs.

Spencer looked at the card again. She desperately wanted to say that it was a joke, just like the countless other fake A notes they’d received since Ali died. They’d arrived in her mailbox, addressed to Spenser Hastengs or Spancer Histings or, even more amusing, Spencer Montgomery. Most of the notes were innocuous, saying simply I’m watching you or I know your secrets . Others were notes of sympathy—although, bizarrely, they were still signed A . Some notes were more worrisome, pleas for money with threats if their requests weren’t met. Spencer had taken those sorts of A notes to the Rosewood police department, and they’d handled them. Done and done.

But this one was different. It referred to something real, something Spencer hadn’t dared to think about for an entire year. If the wrong people found out about it, they’d be in more trouble than they could ever dream of. They could kiss their futures good-bye.

“How is this possible?” Hanna whispered. “How could someone know this? No one was around. No one saw what Aria did.”

Aria’s lips parted slightly. A look of guilt washed across her face.

“What we all did,” Spencer clarified quickly. “We were all part of it.”

Hanna crossed her arms over her chest. “Okay, okay. But no one was there. We made sure.”

“That might not be true.” Emily’s eyes glowed in the iPhone’s artificial light.

“Don’t even say it,” Spencer warned. “It can’t be . . . her . It can’t.”

Hanna turned the card over and looked at the picture of the resort again. Her brow furrowed. “Maybe it’s not about what we think. Lots of stuff happened in Jamaica. Maybe whoever wrote this could be talking about something else. Like how Noel stole those little bottles of rum from the bar and took them to our room.”

“Yeah, like someone really cares about that a whole year later,” Aria said sarcastically. “That wouldn’t be reason enough that we couldn’t ever return to Jamaica. We know what this is about.”

Everyone fell silent again. A dog barked a few houses down. An icicle chose that exact moment to break from the eaves of the DiLaurentises’ garage and smash to the ground, shattering into a billion pieces. They jumped back.

“Should we tell the cops?” Emily whispered.

Spencer looked at her like she was insane. “What do you think?”

“Maybe they wouldn’t ask what happened,” Emily said. “Maybe we could get around talking about it. If this is someone real, someone who’s after us, we have to stop them before someone gets hurt.”

“The only person who’d want to hurt us is someone who knows what we did,” Aria said in a small voice. “It’ll come out if we go to the cops, Emily. You know it.”

Emily looked shiftily back and forth. “But, I mean, we aren’t even sure what happened that night.”

“Stop,” Spencer interrupted, shutting her eyes. If she even allowed herself to think about this, the remorse and paranoia would rush over her like a strong ocean current, pulling her under, choking her. “Someone is screwing with us, okay?” She grabbed the postcard from Hanna’s grip and shoved it into the pocket of her duffel coat. “I’m not going to be jerked around again. We’ve been through enough already.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Aria threw up her hands.

“We ignore the note,” Spencer decided. “We pretend we never got it.”

“But someone knows , Spencer.” Emily’s voice was pleading. “What if A goes to the cops?”

“With what evidence?” Spencer stared around at them. “There is none, remember? There’s no link to us except for what we remember. No one saw. No one even knew her. No one was looking for her the rest of the time. Maybe Hanna’s right—maybe this is about something else. Or maybe someone has picked up on the fact that we’re not as close as we used to be and figured it might’ve had something to do with Jamaica.”

Spencer paused and thought about how Wilden had watched her with curiosity at the party last night. Anyone could have noticed that their friendship had disintegrated. “I’m not going to be bullied by this,” she said. “Who’s with me?”

The other girls shifted their weight. Emily played with the silver bracelet she’d bought to replace the old string bracelet Ali had made for her. Aria jammed her hands in her pockets and chewed feverishly on her bottom lip.

Then Hanna straightened. “I’m with you. The last thing I need is another A. Being tormented is so last year.”

“Good.” Spencer regarded the others. “What about you guys?”

Emily kicked at a pile of dirty snow at the curb. “I just don’t know.”

Aria also had an ambivalent look on her face. “It’s such a weird coincidence . . .”

Spencer slapped her arms to her sides. “Believe what you want, but don’t drag me into it, okay? Whoever this stupid A is isn’t part of my life. If you guys are smart, you won’t let it be part of yours, either.”

At that, she spun on her heel and walked back toward her house, her shoulders squared and her head held high. It was ridiculous to think that a new A had emerged or that someone knew what they had done. Their secret was locked up tight. Besides, everything was going so well for Spencer right now. She wasn’t going to let A ruin her senior year . . . and she definitely wasn’t going to let A take Princeton away from her.

Her resolve remained steady for about ten more steps. Just as she reached the glowing light of her front porch, a memory flickered, uninvited, to the forefront of her mind: After dinner that first night in Jamaica, Spencer went to use the bathroom. When she exited the stall, a girl was sitting on the counter in front of the mirror, holding a metal flask in her hand. The blonde Emily swore was Ali.

At first, Spencer wanted to backtrack into the stall and slam the door tight. There was something odd about her—she had a smirk on her face as if she was in on a huge practical joke.

But before Spencer could escape, the girl smiled at her. “Want some?” She extended the flask toward Spencer. Liquid sloshed in the bottom. “It’s this amazing homemade rum an old woman sold me on the drive here. It’ll blow your mind.”