Sara Shepard - Killer

Emily knelt down, thinking—hoping—she’d imagined it. Her vision blurred. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

One of the names in the book was Jason DiLaurentis .

His name appeared on the page three times, first on March 6, then on March 13, then on March 20. Seven days apart. Emily flipped a page. There was Jason’s name again, on March 27, then April 3, then April 10. He’d logged into the book in the morning, and logged out in the evening. She turned the pages faster and faster. Jason’s name kept cropping up. He’d logged in on April 24, Emily’s birthday. The date was from eight years ago. Emily counted back—she’d been nine. It had been a Saturday. That year, her parents had taken Emily and her swim team friends out for a birthday dinner at All That Jazz!, her old favorite restaurant at the King James Mall. She’d been in third grade. Ali had started at Rosewood Day at the beginning of that year, her family moving here from Connecticut.

She grabbed the next book under it. Jason’s name popped up through the summer between Emily’s third-and fourth-grade years, to the winter of her fourth, to the fall of her fifth, to the summer between her fifth and sixth. He’d visited here the weekend after the first day of school when Emily, Ali, and the others started sixth grade. A few days after that, the school had announced the kickoff of the Time Capsule game. She flipped to the page that logged the next weekend, when she and her old friends sneaked into Ali’s backyard to steal her flag. Jason’s name wasn’t there.

She flipped forward to the next weekend, about the time Ali had approached all of them at the Rosewood Day Prep Charity Drive, dubbing them her new BFFs. Still no Jason. She flipped ahead. His name didn’t show up again. The weekend after the first day of school was the last time his name appeared in the log book.

Emily lowered the book to her lap, feeling woozy. What on earth was Jason DiLaurentis’s name doing in a book in this dark, dank little office? She thought about the joke Ali had made years ago— they should put him in the mental ward, where he belongs . Had she been serious after all? Was Jason an outpatient here? Perhaps this was what Ali had meant when she told Jenna about sibling problems—maybe Ali told her Jason had issues, problems big enough that he needed to go to a facility for treatment. And maybe that was what Jenna and Jason were arguing about last night—he wanted to make sure that Jenna didn’t tell a soul.

She thought of how Jason’s face had twisted and reddened when he thought she’d bumped his car. He’d stepped so close to her, his fury palpable. What was Jason really capable of? What was Jason hiding ?

There were footsteps in the hall. Emily froze. She heard someone breathing. Then a shadow appeared in the doorway. Emily started to tremble. “H-hello?” she croaked.

Isaac emerged into the light. He wore a white caterer’s suit and black shoes—Emily supposed his father was making him work tonight, now that he didn’t have a date. She shrank back, her heart beating hard.

“I thought I saw you come up here,” he said.

Emily glanced at the ledger again—it was hard to switch gears, from Jason to Isaac. She lowered her head, unable to meet his gaze. Everything they’d said to each other the night before whooshed through her head, way too present.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be up here,” Isaac said. “My dad said this hall is for employees only.”

“I was just leaving,” Emily mumbled, starting for the door.

“Wait.” Isaac perched on the arm of the dusty leather couch. A few quiet seconds passed. He sighed. “The picture you told me about, the one with your face cut out? I found it last night. In the junk drawer in the kitchen. And…and I confronted my mom. She lost it.”

Emily’s mouth dropped open; she could barely believe her ears. Isaac leapt from the arm of the couch and knelt by Emily’s side. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m a jerk—and now I’ve probably lost you. Can you ever forgive me?”

Emily bit the inside of her cheek. She knew she should feel good right now—or at least justified—but instead, she felt even worse. It would be so easy to tell Isaac it was fine. They were fine. But what he’d done yesterday stung. He hadn’t even considered believing her. He’d immediately jumped to conclusions, certain she was lying.

She moved away from him, bent down, and picked up the ledger. The cover of the book was thickly coated with dust and soot. “I might forgive you someday,” she said, “but not today.”

“W-what?” Isaac cried.

Emily shoved the book under her arm, biting back tears. Even though she hated telling Isaac something that would hurt him, she knew it was the right thing to do. “I have to go,” she blurted out.

She ran down the stairs as fast as she could. At the landing, she heard a familiar giggle from the other side of the room. She sucked in her stomach, looking nervously around. The crowd shifted, and the laugh dissipated. The only person Emily recognized across the ballroom was Maya. She was standing against the wall, holding a martini, and staring fixedly at Emily, a whisper of a smile across her wide, glossy lips.

Hanna skidded across the slippery marble floor, coming to a stop. This hotel was a maze, and somehow, she’d managed to retrace her steps and was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling tapestry of Napoleon yet again . She looked right and left, searching for Mike. The crowd of partiers was so thick, she didn’t see him anywhere.

She passed the throne room and heard a familiar voice. Inside was Noel Kahn, draped over the large, velvet throne, his shoulders shaking with laughter. There was an upside-down champagne bucket on his head, a makeshift crown.

Hanna groaned. It was unbelievable what Noel could get away with at Rosewood parties, just because his parents bankrolled the town.

She marched up to him and poked his arm. Noel turned and brightened. “Hanna!” He smelled as if he’d drunk a whole bathtub of tequila.

“Where’s Mike?”

Noel threw his legs over the chair. His pant legs rose slightly, revealing blue-and-red argyle socks. “Don’t know. But I should kiss you.”

Ugh . “Why?”

“Because,” he slurred. “You won me five hundred bucks.”

She stepped back. “Excuse me?”

Noel brought his cocktail, a reddish drink that looked a lot like Red Bull and vodka, to his lips. Liquid dribbled down his shirt and pooled on the seat of the chair. A few Quaker school girls sitting on paisley-upholstered footstools nudged one another, giggling. How could they think Noel was hot? If this were really Versailles, Noel wouldn’t be the Louis XIV. He’d be the French version of the village idiot.

“The whole lax team had a bet going to see who Mike could get to take him to the prom,” Noel explained. “You or your hottie stepsister. We made the bet after you started throwing yourselves at him. I’m going to give Mike half my winnings for being such a good sport.”

Hanna ran her hands along the piece of her Time Capsule flag, which she’d tied to the chain of her Chanel purse. She felt the color drain from her face.

Noel nudged his head toward the door. “If you don’t believe me, ask Mike yourself.”

Hanna turned. Mike was leaning against one of the Grecian-style columns, smiling at a girl from Tate Prep. Hanna let out a low growl and made a beeline to him. When Mike saw her, he grinned sheepishly.

“Your teammates bet on us?” Hanna screeched. The Tate girl quickly skittered away.

Mike sipped his wine, shrugging. “It’s no different than what you girls were doing. Except the other guys on the lax team were playing for money. What were you playing for? Tampons?”