Sara Shepard - Wicked

The door closed quietly, filling the foyer with a burst of crisp, freezing-cold air. The room was silent except for the faraway murmurings of the television. Spencer turned her Sidekick over in her hands. “I guess Wilden could be right,” she said quietly, not really believing her own words. “Maybe it’s just a copycat.”

“Yeah,” Hanna said, pausing to swallow. “I’ve gotten a couple copycat notes.”

Spencer gritted her teeth. She had, too—but they’d been nothing like this.

“Same drill, I guess?” Aria suggested. “If we get more notes, we tell each other?”

They all shrugged in agreement. But Spencer knew how well that plan had gone before—A had sent her plenty of devastatingly personal notes she hadn’t dared tell the others about, and her friends hadn’t shared theirs either. Only, those notes had been from Mona, who, thanks to Ali’s diary, knew their darkest secrets, and had been able to skulk around, digging up dirt on them left and right. Ian had been in jail for more than two months. What could he really know about them, besides that they were afraid? Nothing. And Wilden had promised to look into it.

Not that any of this made her feel much better.

There was nothing to do except to usher her old friends out the front door. Spencer watched as they trudged down her front walk toward their cars in the carefully shoveled circular driveway. The world was absolutely still, stunned by winter. A patch of long, weapon-sharp icicles hung off the garage, glittering under the floodlights.

Something flickered near the thick line of black trees that separated part of Spencer’s yard from Ali’s. Then she heard a cough, and Spencer spun around and screamed. Melissa was standing behind her in the foyer, her hands clasped at her waist, a ghostly expression on her face. “God,” Spencer said, pressing her hand to her chest.

“Sorry,” Melissa croaked. She moved quietly into the living room and brushed her hands along the top of the antique harp. “I heard what you told Wilden. You guys got another note?”

Spencer raised a suspicious eyebrow. Had Melissa been hovering in the doorway, spying? “If you were listening, why didn’t you tell Wilden that Ian called you from prison and begged us not to testify?” Spencer demanded. “Then Wilden might have believed that Ian wrote the note. He might have been able to re-arrest him.”

Melissa plucked a harp string. There was a helpless expression on her face. “Did you see Ian on TV? He looked so…thin. It’s like they didn’t even let him eat when he was in jail.”

Rage and disbelief rushed through Spencer’s body. Did Melissa actually feel sorry for him? “Just admit it,” she sputtered. “You think I’m lying about seeing Ian with Ali that night, just like I lied about the Golden Orchid. And you’d rather Ian hurt us than believe he could’ve killed her— and that he deserves to go back to jail.”

Melissa shrugged and plucked another string. A sour note filled the room. “Of course I don’t want anyone to hurt you. But…like I said. What if this is all a mistake? What if Ian didn’t do it?”

“He did ,” Spencer yelled, her chest burning. Interesting, she thought, that Melissa didn’t admit whether she thought Spencer was lying or telling the truth.

Melissa waved her hand dismissively, as if she didn’t feel like getting into it again. “In any case, I do think Wilden’s right about those notes. It’s not Ian. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to threaten you. Ian might be upset, but he’s not an idiot.”

Spencer turned away from her sister, frustrated, and peered out over the cold, empty front yard just as her mother’s car pulled into the driveway. Moments later, the door from the garage to the kitchen slammed, and Mrs. Hastings’s high heels clacked across the kitchen floor. Melissa sighed and padded down the hall. Spencer heard them murmuring, then the crackle of grocery bags.

Spencer’s heart began to pound. She had the urge to run upstairs, hide in her room, and try not to think about Ian or anything else, but this was her first opportunity to confront her mother about Nana’s will.

Rolling back her shoulders, Spencer took a deep breath and walked down the long hallway into the kitchen. Her mother was leaning over the counter, pulling a fresh-baked rosemary bread loaf out of a Fresh Fields grocery bag. Melissa scuttled in from the garage, a case of Moët champagne in her arms.

“What’s all that champagne for?” Spencer asked, wrinkling her nose.

“The fund-raiser, of course.” Melissa shot her a duh look.

Spencer frowned. “What fund-raiser?”

Melissa lowered her chin, surprised. She glanced at their mother, but Mrs. Hastings continued unpacking organic vegetables and whole-wheat pasta, her lips pressed tightly together. “We’re having a Rosewood Day fund-raiser here this weekend,” Melissa explained.

A little squeak escaped from Spencer’s throat. A fund-raiser? Event planning was something she and her mom always did together. Spencer organized the invitations, helped plan the menu, took RSVP calls, and even arranged the classical music playlist. It was one of the few things Spencer did better than Melissa—few people were OCD enough to create dossiers on each invitee, complete with information as to who didn’t eat veal and who didn’t mind sitting next to the vile Pembrokes at dinner.

Spencer turned to face her mother, her heart pounding. “Mom?”

Spencer’s mother whirled around. She touched her diamond tennis bracelet protectively, as if she thought Spencer might try to steal it.

“Do you…need help with the fund-raiser?” Spencer’s voice broke.

Mrs. Hastings tightly gripped the sides of a jar of organic blackberry preserves. “I’ve got it covered, thank you.”

There was a cold hard knot at the pit of Spencer’s stomach. She took a deep breath. “I also wanted to ask you about Nana’s will. Why was I left out? Is it even legal to give some grandchildren money and not others?”

Her mother placed the preserves on a pantry shelf and let out a chilling snicker. “Of course it’s legal, Spencer. Nana can do whatever she wants with her money.” She pulled her black cashmere cape around her shoulders and strode past Spencer to the garage.

“But…,” Spencer cried. Her mother didn’t turn around. She slammed the door on her way out. The sleigh bells hanging from the doorknob jangled loudly, startling the two dogs from sleep.

Spencer’s body went slack. So that was it. She was really, truly disowned. Maybe her parents had told Nana about the Golden Orchid debacle a few months ago. Maybe they’d even encouraged Nana to alter her will, deliberately leaving Spencer out because she’d disgraced the family. Spencer squeezed her eyes shut, wondering what her life would be like right now if she’d just kept quiet and accepted the Golden Orchid award. Could she have gone on Good Morning America, as the other Golden Orchid winners had done, and accepted everyone’s congratulations? Could she seriously have attended a college that had given her early admission based on an essay she hadn’t written—and didn’t even really understand? If she’d just kept quiet, would there still be this chatter that Ian was going to be acquitted due to lack of reliable evidence?

She leaned against the granite-topped island and let out a small, pathetic whimper. Melissa dropped a folded grocery bag to the table and walked over to her. “I’m so sorry, Spence,” she said quietly. She hesitated a moment and then wrapped her thin arms around Spencer’s shoulders. Spencer was too numb to resist. “They’re being so awful to you.”

Spencer plopped into a seat at the kitchen table, reached for a napkin from the holder, and dabbed at her teary eyes.