Sara Shepard: Heartless

“So now what?” Aria whispered.

Emily whimpered, Spencer fiddled with her IV, and Hanna looked like she was going to keel over. All their perfectly crafted theories had gone up in smoke—literally. Maybe Wilden hadn’t set the fire—but Aria had seen someone out there in the woods. Which unfortunately meant only one thing.

Whoever had lit that match was still out there. Whoever had tried to kill them was still on the loose, maybe waiting for a chance to try it again.

As the dim, midwinter Sunday sun disappeared over the horizon, Spencer stood in her family’s backyard, surveying the fire’s destruction. Her mother stood next to her; her eye makeup was smudged, her foundation blotchy, and her hair limp—she hadn’t gotten her daily blowout from Uri, her hairdresser, this morning. Spencer’s dad was there too, for once without his Bluetooth headset fastened to his ear. His mouth wobbled slightly, as if he was trying to hold in a sob.

Everything around them was ruined. The towering, old-growth trees were blackened and battered, and a stinky gray haze hung over the treetops. The family’s windmill was now not much more than a carcass, the blades charred, the latticework splintered and crumbled. The Hastingses’ lawn was crisscrossed with tire treads from the emergency vehicles that had rushed to the fire. Cigarette butts, empty Starbucks cups, and even a drained can of beer were strewn across the grass, remnants of the rubberneckers who had swarmed the scene and lingered long after Spencer and the others had been taken to the ER.

But the worst, most heartbreaking result of the fire was what it had done to the family’s barn apartment, which had been standing since 1756. Half the structure was still intact, though the wood siding, once cherry red, was now a charred, toxic gray. Most of the roof was missing, all of the leaded glass in the windows had blown out, and the front door was a pile of ash. Spencer could see straight through the empty shell into the barn’s great room. There was a huge puddle of water on the Brazilian cherrywood floor, left over from the gallons of water the firemen had pumped into the barn. The four-poster bed, plush leather couch, and mahogany coffee table were ruined. So was the desk where Spencer, Emily, and Hanna had gathered just the night before, IMing Ian about who really killed Ali.

Only, it looked like Jason and Wilden weren’t Ali’s murderers. Which meant Spencer was back to knowing absolutely nothing.

She turned away from the barn, her eyes tearing up from the gas fumes. Closer to the house was the spot where she and her friends had collapsed on the lawn after running from the flames. Like the rest of the yard, it was littered with trash and soot, and the grass was scrubby and dead. There was nothing special about it at all, no magical indication that Ali had been there. Then again, Ali hadn’t been there—they’d hallucinated her. It had been nothing more than a side effect of inhaling too much smoke. Workers had found her decomposed body in the DiLaurentises’ old backyard months ago.

“I’m so sorry,” Spencer whispered as a piece of red roofing dislodged itself from the barn and tumbled to the ground with a thud.

Slowly, Mrs. Hastings reached out and grabbed Spencer’s hand. Mr. Hastings touched her shoulder. Before Spencer knew it, both her parents were wrapping their arms around her, engulfing her in a shaking, blubbering hug. “I don’t know what we would have done if something had happened to you,” Mrs. Hastings cried.

“When we saw the fire, and then when we heard you might be hurt . . .” Mr. Hastings trailed off.

“None of this matters,” Mrs. Hastings went on, her voice thick with sobs. “All of this could’ve burned down. At least we still have you.”

Spencer clung to her parents, her breath catching in her bruised throat.

In the past twenty-four hours, her parents had been beyond wonderful to her. They’d sat by her hospital bed all night, hyper-vigilantly watching Spencer’s chest rise and fall with every ragged breath. They’d bugged the nurses about getting Spencer water as soon as she wanted it, pain pills as soon as she needed them, and warmer blankets when she felt cold. When the doctor discharged her this afternoon, they’d taken her to the Creamery, her favorite ice cream parlor in Old Hollis, and bought her a double scoop of maple chip. It was a big change—for years, they’d treated her like the unwanted kid they begrudgingly let live in their home. And when she’d recently come clean about plagiarizing her award-winning Golden Orchid essay from her perfect sister, Melissa, they’d basically excommunicated her.

Only now there really was a reason for them to hate her, and the minute Spencer told them, their concern, their rare show of love, would vanish. Spencer squeezed them hard, savoring the very last moment they’d probably ever speak to her again. She’d put this off for as long as she possibly could, but she had to tell them sometime.

She stepped back and squared her shoulders. “There’s something you need to know,” she admitted, her voice hoarse from the smoky air.

“Is it about Alison?” Mrs. Hastings’s voice swooped. “Because, Spence—”

Spencer shook her head, cutting her off. “No. Something else.”

She gazed at the blackened branches high in the sky. Then the truth spilled out in rapid succession. How, after Spencer’s grandmother, Nana Hastings, didn’t leave Spencer any money in her will, Melissa suggested Spencer might have been adopted. How Spencer registered with an online adoption site and just days later received a message that her birth mother had been found. How her visit with Olivia Caldwell in New York had been so wonderful that Spencer decided she wanted to move to the city permanently. Spencer just kept talking, afraid that if she stopped, she’d burst into tears. She didn’t dare look at her parents, either, for fear their devastated expressions would break her heart.

“She had left behind her real estate agent’s card, so I called and gave him my college savings account number to cover the security deposit and first month’s rent,” Spencer went on, curling her toes inside her gray suede slouch boots. She could barely get the words out.

A squirrel scuttled in the grimy underbrush. Her father groaned. Her mother squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hand to her forehead. Spencer’s heart sank. Here we go. Commence Operation: You’re Not Our Daughter Anymore. “You can guess what happened next.” She sighed, gazing at a tall birdhouse near the deck. Not a single bird had approached it since they’d been out here. “The broker was obviously working with Olivia, and they cleaned out the account and disappeared.” She swallowed hard.

The backyard was silent and still. Now that the sunlight was almost gone, the barn looked like a ghost town relic, the dark windows like hollow eye sockets in a skull. Spencer sneaked a peek at her parents. Her dad was pale. Her mom sucked in her cheeks, as if she’d swallowed something sour. They exchanged a nervous look, then checked the front yard, perhaps scanning for press vans. Reporters had been pulling up to the house all day, grilling Spencer about whether she’d really seen Ali.

Her dad took a deep breath. “Spencer, the money doesn’t matter.”

Spencer blinked, startled.

“We can trace what happened to it,” Mr. Hastings explained, wringing his hands. “It’s possible we’ll be able to get it back.” He gazed off at the weather vane on top of the roof. “But . . . well, we should have seen it coming too.”

Spencer frowned, wondering if her brain was screwed up from inhaling residual fumes from the fire. “W-what?”