Sara Shepard - Killer

“Did you come in here only, or did you go into the main house, too?” Jason demanded.

“J-just here.”

Jason loomed over her, his jaw clenched. “Are you telling me the truth?”

Aria bit her lip. Why did it matter? “Of course.”

“Get out,” Jason barked. He stepped aside and pointed at the door.

Aria didn’t move. “Jason,” she stated. “I’m sorry I came in here. It was a misunderstanding. Can we please talk?”

“Get. Out.” Jason whipped his arm to the side, knocking a bunch of books off the bookshelf. A glass plaque fell too, breaking into sharp, angry shards. “Get out!” Jason roared again. Aria ducked and let out a trapped, terrified wail. Jason’s face had transformed. His eyes were wide, the corners of his lips were pulled back, and even his voice sounded different. Lower. Meaner. Aria didn’t recognize him at all.

She rushed out the door and bolted down the steps, slipping a few times on some of the wet treads. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. Her lungs burned with sobs. She fumbled for her car keys and threw herself into the front seat, as if something was chasing her.

When she looked in the rearview mirror, her breath caught in her throat. Far off in the distance, she saw two shadowy shapes of a person and a dog—a Rottweiler?—slipping safely into the woods.

Spencer leaned back in her plushy seat aboard the Amtrak Acela train to New York, watching the conductor sway through the car taking tickets. Even though it was only Saturday, and even though Michael Hutchins, the Realtor, had said the landlord was using the weekend to clean out her brand-new Perry Street apartment, Spencer couldn’t wait until Monday afternoon to see it. She might not be able to get inside the place today, but that didn’t matter—merely sitting on the stoop, checking out the stores on her block, and getting a cappuccino at her soon-to-be-local Starbucks would be enough. She wanted to hit the furniture shops in Chelsea and on Fifth Avenue and put a few things on hold. She was eager to sit in a café and read The New Yorker, now that she would soon be one.

Perhaps this was what Ian felt once he’d escaped from Rosewood, free from his troubles, eager to start over. Where was Ian now? Rosewood? Or had he wised up and skipped town? She thought again about the person she’d seen in the woods outside the barn last night. It had definitely looked like Melissa…but wasn’t she in Philly? Perhaps Ian had left something behind after his dead-body stunt, something he’d asked Melissa to retrieve. But then, did that mean Melissa knew something about where he was and what he was doing? Maybe she knew who A was too. If only Melissa would call Spencer back—she wanted to ask her sister if she knew anything about the photos Emily had received. What did a photo of Ali, Naomi, and Jenna have to do with a photo of Wilden in church? And why hadn’t Aria or Hanna received any missives from A, just Spencer and Emily? Was A focusing on them first? Were they in more danger than the others? And if Spencer moved to New York City, would she finally leave this A nightmare behind? She hoped so.

The train descended into a tunnel, and the passengers began to stand. “Penn Station next,” a conductor’s voice blared over the loudspeaker. Spencer grabbed her canvas shoulder bag and got in line with the others. When she emerged into the great hall, she looked around. The signs to the subways, the taxis, and the exits were a jumble. Pulling her purse close to her side, she followed the crowd up a long elevator to the street. Cabs jammed the broad avenue. Lights flashed in her face. The gray buildings rose into the sky.

Spencer flagged down a cab. “Two twenty-three Perry Street,” she told the driver when she got in. The driver nodded, then veered into traffic, turning up the sports station on the radio. Spencer jiggled up and down giddily, wanting to tell him that she lived here, that she was going to her brand-new apartment, and that it was right around the corner from her mom’s.

The cab driver ambled down Seventh Avenue and turned into the mazelike streets of the West Village. When he took a right onto Perry, Spencer sat up straighter. It was a beautiful street. Old, well-maintained brownstones lined each side. A girl about Spencer’s age in a gorgeous winter white wool coat and a big fur hat passed, walking a labradoodle on a leash. The cab crept by a gourmet cheese shop, a store that sold musical instruments, and a quaint school, its tiny playground behind a polished iron fence. Spencer studied the printouts she’d made of the photos Michael Hutchins had sent the other day. Her future home might just be on the very next block. She scanned the street in anticipation.

“Miss?” The cab driver swiveled around, eyeing her. Spencer jumped. “Did you say two twenty-three Perry?”

“Two twenty-three Perry, that’s right.” Spencer had the address memorized.

The driver peered out the window. He wore thick glasses and had a pen tucked behind his ear. “There is no two twenty-three Perry. It would be in the Hudson.”

Sure enough, they were at the very west end of Manhattan. Across the West Side Highway was a promenade, full of walkers and bikers. Beyond that was the Hudson River. Beyond that was New Jersey.

“Oh.” Spencer frowned. She rifled through her notes. Michael hadn’t included the address in his e-mail, nor could she find the doodle from the other day. “Well, maybe I got the address wrong. You can let me off here.”

She thrust a couple of bills at the driver and got out. The cab took a right at the light, and Spencer whirled around, puzzled. She started walking east, crossing Washington, then Greenwich. Michael had told her that the apartment was right around the corner from Marc Jacobs, which was at Perry and Bleecker. The numbers of the buildings around it were 92 Perry. Eighty-four Perry. Had the apartment’s address been one of those?

She kept walking up Perry to make sure, but the numbers on the apartment buildings kept going down, not up. She made sure to look at each building carefully, trying to match it with the building from the photos, but none looked quite right. Eventually, she hit the intersection of Perry Street and Greenwich Avenue. The street ended in a T. Across the street, Perry was nowhere to be seen—there was a restaurant called Fiddlesticks Pub & Grill instead.

Spencer’s heart began to race. It felt as if she’d been plopped into a reccurring dream she’d had since second grade, the one where a teacher announced a surprise test, and while the other students eagerly began to fill in the answers, Spencer couldn’t even decipher the questions.

She pulled out her cell phone, trying to keep calm, and dialed Michael’s number. There was obviously an explanation for this.

A recording of an operator’s voice blared through the receiver—the number she had dialed had been disconnected. Spencer dug around in her bag and found Michael’s card. She keyed in his number again, repeating it back to herself to make sure she hadn’t transposed any digits. There was the same recorded message. Spencer held the phone outstretched, pain radiating at her temples.

Maybe he changed phone numbers , she told herself.

Then, she dialed Olivia’s number. But Olivia’s phone just rang and rang. Spencer held her finger on the end button for a long time. This didn’t necessarily mean anything, either—only that Olivia must not have an international calling plan.

A woman pushing a baby carriage veered out of her way, struggling to hold a bunch of grocery bags upright. When Spencer looked down the street, she noticed Olivia’s new apartment building gleaming in the distance. She started walking for it, invigorated anew. Perhaps Olivia had another number for Michael somewhere. Perhaps the doorman would let Spencer upstairs for a little peek into Olivia’s penthouse.