Sara Shepard - Killer

Tears welled in Spencer’s eyes. She’d been trying so hard for her parents for so long…for what? She turned back to the computer. The Acela ticket was for 4 P.M. tomorrow. That sounds great , she wrote back. See you then . She hit send.

Almost immediately, a little bloop sound filled the room. Spencer closed her in-box and checked to see if the CD had finished loading, but the program was still running. Then, she noticed a flashing IM window. Instant Messenger must have automatically logged on to Melissa’s account when Spencer had turned on the computer. Hey Mel , a new message said. You there?

Spencer was ready to type, Sorry, not Melissa, when a second message came in. It’s me. Ian.

Her stomach flipped. Right. Whoever wrote this didn’t have a very good sense of humor.

Another bloop. You there?

Spencer looked at the unfamiliar IM screen name. USCMidfielderRoxx. Ian had gone to USC, and he played midfield in soccer. But that didn’t mean anything. Right?

The bloops kept coming. I’m sorry I left without telling you…but they hated me. You know that. They found out that I knew. That’s why I had to run. Spencer’s hands began to shake. Someone was messing with her, just like they’d messed with Ian’s parents. Ian didn’t run . He was dead.

But why was there no trace of his remains in the woods? Why hadn’t the cops found a single thing?

Spencer waved her fingers over the keys. Prove it’s really you, she typed, not bothering to explain that it wasn’t Melissa. She shut her eyes, trying to think of something personal about Ian. Something that Melissa and Spencer would know. Something that wasn’t in Ali’s diary, either. The press had done an exposé of everything Ali had written in her diary about Ian, like how they’d gotten together after a soccer game the fall of seventh grade, how Ian had crammed for the SATs using a Ritalin pill a friend had given him, and how he hadn’t been sure if he really deserved being named the Rosewood Day varsity soccer team’s MVP—Ali’s brother, Jason, was far more talented. Whoever was pretending to be Ian would know all that. If only she could think of something super private.

Then the perfect thing came to her. Something she was pretty sure that even Ali didn’t know. What’s your real middle name? she typed.

There was a pause. Spencer leaned back, waiting. When Melissa was a senior in high school, she’d gotten drunk on eggnog on Christmas Day and confessed that Ian’s parents wanted him to be a girl. When Mrs. Thomas popped out a boy, they decided his middle name would be the girl’s name they’d chosen for him. Ian never, ever used it—in old Rosewood Day yearbooks Spencer had leafed through when she was yearbook editor, he hadn’t even listed a middle initial.

There was a bloop. Elizabeth , said the message.

Spencer blinked hard. This wasn’t possible.

The light in the kitchen in the main house snapped off, enveloping the backyard in darkness. A car slid down the cul-de-sac, schussing loudly over the wet pavement. Then Spencer began to hear noises. A sigh. A snort. A giggle. She jumped up and pressed her forehead to the cold, thick windowpane. The porch was bare. There were no shadows by the pool, the hot tub, or the deck. There was no one creeping around the windmill, although the newly painted word LIAR seemed to glow.

Her Sidekick buzzed. Spencer jumped, her heart hammering. She glanced at the computer again. Ian had signed off Instant Messenger.

One new text message . With shaking hands, Spencer pressed Read.

Dear Spence, When I told you that he had to go, I didn’t mean he had to die. Still, there’s something really sketchy in this case…and it’s up to you to figure out what it is. So better get searching, or the next one “gone” is you. Au revoir!

—A

The following morning, Emily cinched the hood of her pale blue anorak tight and ran across the icy blacktop to the Rosewood Day Elementary School swings, her friends’ special meeting spot. For the first time all week, the long driveway was free of news vans. Since everyone now thought Emily and the others had made up seeing Ian’s body in the woods, the press had no reason to interview students.

Across the courtyard, Emily’s friends were gathered around Spencer, staring at a sheet of computer paper and her cell phone. Last night, Spencer had called Emily to tell her that Ian had IM’ed her and that A had sent a text. Afterward, Emily hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. So A was back. And Ian…maybe…wasn’t dead.

Something hard hit her shoulder, and Emily whirled around, her heart leaping to her throat. It was only an elementary-school boy pushing past her, running for the ball field. She placed one hand in the other, trying to stop it from trembling. Her hands had been shaking like crazy all morning.

“How could Ian have faked his death?” Emily blurted when she reached the circle. “We all saw him. He looked… blue .”

Hanna, bundled in a white wool coat and faux-fur scarf, raised her shoulders. The only color in her face was her red-rimmed eyes; it looked like she hadn’t slept much last night, either. Aria, wearing a thin, trendy-looking gray leather jacket and green fingerless gloves, shook her head, saying nothing. She wasn’t wearing her usual sparkly makeup. Even neat-as-a-pin Spencer looked disheveled—her hair was in a greasy, lumpy ponytail.

“It fits,” Spencer croaked. “Ian pretended to be dead, and he called us to the woods because he knew we’d go to the police and tell them we saw him.”

Aria sank down onto one of the swings. “But why wouldn’t Ian just run? Why would he put on a show for us?”

“When the cops found out he was missing, they started searching for him immediately,” Spencer explained. “But then when we saw his body, they turned their attention to the woods instead. We distracted them for a few days, long enough so Ian could really escape. We probably did exactly what he wanted us to.” She gazed up at the clouds, a helpless expression on her face.

Hanna sank onto her left hip. “What do you think A has to do with this? A lured us into the woods so we’d see Ian. A is obviously working with him.”

“This text makes it pretty obvious that Ian and A were in cahoots,” Spencer said, shoving her phone at them. Emily read the first two lines again. When I said he had to go, I didn’t mean he had to die. Still, there’s something really sketchy in this case…and it’s up to you to figure out what it is. She bit her lip hard, then gazed at the dragon-shaped slide behind them. Years ago, whenever something or someone at school scared her, she would hide inside the dragon’s head at the top until she felt better. She felt an overwhelming urge to do that now.

“It seems like A helped Ian bust out,” Spencer went on. “They worked together—when Ian met me on my back porch last week, A threatened that if I told the cops, I’d get hurt. If I would’ve told them, they would’ve rearrested Ian…and he couldn’t have escaped.”

“A was worried about any of us saying anything,” Emily piped up. “All of my notes said that if I didn’t tell A’s secret, A wouldn’t tell mine.”

Hanna looked at Emily, a curious smile on her lips. “This A knows some secrets about you?”

Emily shrugged. For a while, A was taunting Emily about how she’d kept her sexuality from Isaac. “Not anymore,” she said.

“What if Ian is A?” Aria suggested. “It still makes a lot of sense.”