Sara Shepard - Killer

“What were you doing in the woods, anyway?” Spencer asked him.

The person let out a violent, hacking cough. “I got a note.”

Emily paused. The person’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but it sounded like a girl’s, not a boy’s. “A…note?” Emily repeated.

The girl covered her face with her hands, shuddering with sobs. “I was told to come into these woods. It was really important. But I think they were trying to kill me.”

“They?” Spencer asked. She gaped at the others. The flames from the woods danced across her face.

The girl coughed again. “I was sure I was going to die.”

A slithery feeling crawled over Emily’s skin. The girl’s voice was still muffled and scratchy, but it had a tonal quality Emily hadn’t heard for a long, long time. I’ve inhaled too much smoke , she told herself. I’m hearing what I want to hear . But when she looked at the others, they had startled expressions on their faces too.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now,” Spencer murmured.

The girl tried to nod. When she took her hands away from her face, they were covered in black soot. Then she lifted her head. The soot and smoke had streaked down her cheeks, revealing clear, pink skin. When she looked at the girls for the first time and smiled gratefully, Emily’s heart stopped. The girl had bright blue eyes. A perfect, slightly upturned nose. Bow-shaped lips. As she wiped away more soot, there was her angular, heart-shaped face.

She peered at them blankly, appearing not to recognize them. But they recognized her. Hanna let out a small, pained squeak. Spencer stood very still. Emily felt so dizzy she sank to the muddy grass, clutching her head.

Here was the girl in the pictures on the news. The girl on the screen saver of Emily’s phone. The girl in the photo that had blown through the woods just moments before. The one who’d been wearing the Von Dutch T-shirt in that photo, laughing as if nothing bad would ever happen to her.

This can’t be happening , Emily thought. There is no way this can be happening .

It was… Ali .

Ha! Betcha didn’t see that one coming. But you know how it is in Rosewood—one minute you see something, and the next…poof! It’s gone. Which makes it kind of impossible to figure out what’s really going on. Soooooo frustrating, right?

The questions are probably killing you: Is Ian actually dead…or is he sipping mojitos in Mexico, plotting his revenge? Did Spencer’s faux-mommy really steal her cash…or did she simply pay my price? Is Aria’s crush a psychotic murderer…or did my notes just make her think so? Did Emily uncover a dark DiLaurentis family secret…or did yours truly leave the sign book for her to find? Did Hanna’s favorite cop just try to burn her to a crisp…or does someone else want these bitches dead? And what about me? Am I on these girls’ sides, or am I pulling all the strings?

But here’s the million-dollar question: Who—or what—did they just see rise from the ashes? Could Ali be alive? Or is it all just smoke and mirrors?

It’s enough to make anyone crazy. The Radley may be closed for business, but there are other loony bins nearby. By the time I’m done with Hanna, Aria, Spencer, and Emily, four pretty new patients might just be checking in.

Sleep tight, girlies. While you still can.

Kisses,

—A

Words cannot express how grateful and fortunate I am to have such a smart, driven, and creative editorial team behind me, helping to make Killer as twisted, riveting, and tight as it possibly could be. Enormous thanks goes to Josh Bank and Les Morgenstein, for their spot-on sense of what makes a great plot; to Kristin Marang, for all her help on the wonderful Pretty Little Liars Web site; to Sara Shandler, creative genius extraordinaire and lover of dogs; and especially to Lanie Davis, for being a pleasure to work with, for sitting through many a long phone call struggling to piece exactly how this book hinged together, and for having so many ideas that really pushed Killer to the next level. Huge thanks to Farrin Jacobs, Gretchen Hirsch, and Elise Howard at HarperCollins for all their skillful input, fastidious attention, and unrelenting support. I am forever indebted.

Thanks to the readers of these books, many of whom I have had the pleasure of meeting and talking with. Thanks to my husband, Joel; my sister, Alison; my parents, Shep and Mindy; and my parents-in-law, Fran and Doug, for allowing me to write this novel in their living room. And finally, this book is for Riley, a wonderful bear of a dog. We will miss you so.

I woke up in a dingy claw-foot bathtub in an unfamiliar pink-tiled bathroom. A stack of Maxim s sat next to the toilet, green toothpaste globbed in the sink, and white drips streaked the mirror. The window showed a dark sky and a full moon. What day of the week was it? Where was I? A frat house at the U of A? Someone’s apartment? I could barely remember that my name was Sutton Mercer, or that I lived in the foothills of Tucson, Arizona. Had someone slipped me something?

“Emma?” a guy’s voice called from another room. “You home?”

“I’m busy!” called a voice close by.

A tall, thin girl opened the bathroom door, her tangled dark hair hanging in her face. “Hey!” I leapt to my feet. “Someone’s in here already!” My body felt tingly, as if it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, it seemed like I was flickering on and off, like I was under a strobe light. Freaky. Someone definitely slipped me something.

The girl didn’t seem to hear me. She stumbled forward, her face covered in shadows.

“Hel lo ?” I cried, climbing out of the tub. She didn’t look over. “Are you deaf?” Nothing. She pumped a bottle of lavender-scented lotion and rubbed it on her arms.

The door flung open again, and a snub-nosed, unshaven teenage guy burst in. “Oh.” His gaze flew to the girl’s tight-fitting T-shirt, which said new york new york roller coaster on the front. “I didn’t know you were in here, Emma.”

“That’s maybe why the door was closed ?” Emma pushed him out and slammed it shut. She turned back to the mirror. I stood right behind her. “Hey!” I cried again.

Finally, she looked up. My eyes darted to the mirror to meet her gaze. But when I looked into the glass, I screamed.

Because Emma looked exactly like me.

And I wasn’t there.

Emma turned and walked out of the bathroom, and I followed as if something was yanking me along behind her. Who was this girl? Why did we look the same? Why was I invisible? And why couldn’t I remember, well, anything ? The wrong memories snapped into aching, nostalgic focus—the glittering sunset over the Catalinas, the smell of the lemon trees in my backyard in the morning, the feel of cashmere slippers on my toes. But other things, the most important things, had become muffled and fuzzy, as if I’d lived my whole life underwater. I saw vague shapes, but I couldn’t make out what they were. I couldn’t remember what I’d done for any summer vacations, who my first kiss had been with, or what it felt like to feel the sun on my face or dance to my favorite song. What was my favorite song? And even worse, every second that passed, things got fuzzier and fuzzier. Like they were disappearing.

Like I was disappearing.

But then I concentrated really hard and I heard a muffled scream. And suddenly it was like I was somewhere else. I felt pain shooting through my body, before a final, sleepy sensation of my muscles surrendering. As my eyes slowly closed, I saw a blurry, shadowy figure standing over me.