Sara Shepard - Twisted

A brunette reporter stood in front of the DiLaurentises’ old house, the wind blowing her hair around her face. “A year ago this Saturday, Alison DiLaurentis, whose killing spree baffled an entire nation, died in a horrific self-ignited fire in the Pocono Mountains,” she announced. “A whole year has passed since the bizarre events, but the town of Rosewood still hasn’t recovered.”

Images of Jenna Cavanaugh and Ian Thomas, two of Real Ali’s victims, flashed on the screen. Then there was the seventh-grade portrait of Courtney DiLaurentis—the girl who’d taken the real Ali’s place in sixth grade, the girl whom Real Ali killed during their seventh-grade sleepover. “Many are still puzzled that Ms. DiLaurentis’s body was never found in the rubble. Some have speculated Ms. DiLaurentis survived, but experts have claimed that there’s no possibility of that.”

A shiver ran down Aria’s spine.

Noel covered Aria’s eyes with his hands. “You shouldn’t watch that.”

Aria wriggled free. “It’s hard not to.”

“Have you been thinking about it much?”

“Sort of.”

“Do you want to watch the movie together?”

“Oh God, no .” Aria groaned. Noel was referring to Pretty Little Killer , a biopic condensing the events of last year into two TV-ready hours. It was beyond tacky.

Suddenly, an influx of people flowed through the door from immigration. Many were tall, blond, and pale, surely from the Helsinki flight. Noel grumbled. “Here we go.” He waved the HUUSKO sign.

Aria peered through the crowd. “What’s his first name, anyway?”

“Klaudius?” Noel mumbled. “Something like that.”

Older men lugged suitcases past as they spoke on iPhones. Three lanky girls giggled together. A blond family carrying a towheaded child struggled to open a baby stroller. No one looked like a Klaudius.

Then, a voice floated through the crowd of travelers. “Mr. Kahn?”

Aria and Noel stood on their tiptoes, trying to locate the speaker. Just then, Aria noticed a boy with a drawn, elongated face, fleshy lips, zits on his cheeks and forehead, and an Adam’s apple that protruded at least an inch from his neck. It was Klaudius, all right. He was even carrying a small instrument case that might just be a recorder. Poor Noel.

“Mr. Kahn?” the voice called again, but the boy Aria thought was Klaudius hadn’t opened his mouth.

The crowd parted. A figure in a trapper hat, a down jacket, and fur lined boots emerged. “Hallo! It’s you! I am your new exchange! Klaudia Huusko!”

Klaudia. Noel’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Aria stared at the figure in front of them, nearly choking on her gum. Noel’s exchange student certainly wasn’t a tall, gangly, pock-marked, flute-playing boy. Instead, Klaudia was a girl. A blond-haired, blue-eyed, throaty-voiced, large-breasted, tight-jeans-wearing Scandinavian wet dream.

And she’d be living just down the hall from Noel.

“Spencer.” Mrs. Hastings leaned across the restaurant table. “Don’t touch the bread. It’s rude to start eating before everyone is seated.”

Spencer’s fingers released the squishy, buttery piece of ciabatta back into the basket. If she died from starvation before the others got here, it would be her mother’s fault.

It was Sunday night, and Spencer, Melissa, and her mother were sitting at the Goshen Inn, a stuffy restaurant inside an old 1700s house that had allegedly once been a boarding house for redcoat soldiers. Mrs. Hastings kept clucking about how nice the surroundings were, but Spencer thought the restaurant was as gloomy as a funeral home. It was definitely Colonial Philadelphia chic, with lots of Revolutionary War muskets mounted on the wall, three-cornered hats tucked into window boxes, and candles in old-timey glass lanterns on the tables. And because the clientele looked as old as the décor, the room smelled like an unpleasant mix of musty basement, slightly overdone filet mignon, and Vicks VapoRub.

“What’s this Nicholas guy do, anyway?” Spencer folded and refolded the cloth napkin on her lap.

Mrs. Hastings stiffened. “He’s Mr. Pennythistle until further notice.”

Spencer snickered. Mr. Pennythistle sounded like the name of a pornographic clown.

“I know what he does,” Melissa volunteered. “I didn’t make the connection at the party, but we totally studied him in my entrepreneurs class. He’s the biggest real estate developer in the area. The Donald Trump of the Main Line.”

Spencer made a face. “So he bulldozes farmland and wildlife sanctuaries to make way for ugly tract homes?”

“He created Applewood, Spence,” Melissa gushed happily. “You know, those beautiful carriage houses on the golf course?”

Spencer turned her fork over in her hands, unimpressed. Whenever she drove around Rosewood, it seemed like a new development was springing up. Apparently it was this Nicholas guy’s fault.

“Girls, shh .” Mrs. Hastings snapped suddenly, her eyes on the doorway. Two people walked toward their table. One was a tall, burly man who looked like he could’ve been a rugby player in a past life. He had neatly combed graying hair, steel blue eyes, a regal, slanting nose, and the beginnings of jowls. His navy blue blazer and khaki pants looked freshly ironed, and he wore gold cuff links embossed with the tiny initials NP. In his hand were three long-stemmed, dethorned, blood-red roses.

A girl of about fifteen was with him. A velvet headband held back her short, curly black hair, and she wore a gray jumper that looked like a chambermaid’s uniform. There was a bitter scowl on her face as though she’d been constipated for days.

Mrs. Hastings rose clumsily, bumping her knee on the underside of the table and making their water glasses wobble. “Nicholas! It’s so lovely to see you!” She blushed happily as he handed her one of the flowers. Then she gestured around the table. “These are my daughters, Melissa and Spencer.”

Melissa stood, too. “So nice to meet you,” she said, pumping Nicholas’s—er, Mr. Pennythistle’s—hand. Spencer said hello, too, though less enthusiastically. Ass-kissing just wasn’t her style.

“Very nice to meet you both,” Mr. Pennythistle said in a startlingly kind, gentle voice. He handed each of the girls a rose, too. Melissa cooed with delight, but Spencer just twirled it in her fingers suspiciously. There was something about the whole thing that was very The Bachelor.

Then Mr. Pennythistle gestured at the girl next to him. “And this is my daughter, Amelia.”

Amelia, whose own red rose was peeking out of the top of her ugly messenger bag, shook everyone’s hands, though she didn’t look very happy about it. “I like your headband,” Spencer offered, trying to be magnanimous. Amelia just stared at her blankly, her lips still a tight, straight line, her eyes canvassing Spencer’s long blond hair, gray cashmere sweater dress, and black Frye boots. After a moment, she let out a sniff and turned away, as if Spencer was the fashion faux pas, not her.

“Zachary will be along soon,” Mr. Pennythistle said as he sat down. “He had an Advanced Placement study group that ran late.”

“Understandable.” Mrs. Hastings lifted her water glass. She turned to her girls. “Both Zachary and Amelia go to St. Agnes.”

The ice cube Spencer had been sucking on slipped down her throat. St. Agnes was the snootiest school in the Main Line, so uptight that it made Rosewood Day look like juvie. Spencer had met a girl named Kelsey from St. Agnes this summer, while she was in an accelerated AP program at Penn. At first they’d been best friends, but then . . .