Sara Shepard: Pretty Little Liars

“Um, sure,” Spencer stammered. “Whatever I can do.”

Zombielike, she caught up with her old friends, who’d gathered under a weeping willow. “What did he want?” Aria asked.

“They want to talk to me, too,” Emily said quickly. “It’s not a big deal though, is it?”

“I’m sure it’s the same old stuff,” Hanna said.

“He couldn’t be wondering about…,” Aria started. She looked nervously to the church’s front door, where Toby, Jenna, and her dog had stood.

“No,” Emily said quickly. “We couldn’t get in trouble for that now, could we?”

They all glanced at each other worriedly.

“Of course not,” Hanna finally said.

Spencer looked around at everyone talking quietly on the lawn. She felt sick after seeing Toby, and she hadn’t seen Jenna since the accident. But it was a coincidence that the cop had spoken to her right after she’d seen them, right? Spencer quickly pulled out her emergency cigarettes and lit up. She needed something to do with her hands.

I’ll tell everyone about The Jenna Thing.

You’re just as guilty as I am.

But no one saw me.

Spencer nervously exhaled and scanned the crowd. There wasn’t any proof . End of story. Unless…

“This has been the worst week of my life,” Aria said suddenly.

“Mine too.” Hanna nodded.

“I guess we can look on the bright side,” Emily said, her voice high-pitched and jittery. “It can’t get any worse than this.”

As they followed the procession out to the gravel parking lot, Spencer stopped. Her old friends stopped too. Spencer wanted to say something to them—not about Ali or A or Jenna or Toby or the police, but instead, more than anything, she wanted to tell them that she’d missed them all these years.

But before she could say it, Aria’s phone rang.

“Hang on…,” Aria muttered, rooting around in her bag for her phone. “It’s probably my mom again.”

Then, Spencer’s Sidekick vibrated. And rang. And chirped. It wasn’t just her phone, but her friends’ phones too. The sudden, high-pitched noises sounded even louder against the sober, silent funeral procession. The other mourners shot them dirty looks. Aria held hers up to silence it; Emily struggled to operate her Nokia. Spencer wrenched her phone out of her clutch’s pocket.

Hanna read her screen. “I have one new message.”

“I do too,” Aria whispered.

“Same,” Emily echoed.

Spencer saw she did, too. Everyone hit READ. A moment of stunned silence passed.

“Oh my God,” Aria whispered.

“It’s from…,” Hanna squeaked.

Aria murmured, “Do you think she means…”

Spencer swallowed hard. In tandem, the girls read their texts out loud. Each said the exact same thing:

I’m still here, bitches. And I know everything.

—A

I owe a lot to a great group of people at Alloy Entertainment. I’ve known them for years and without them, this book could never have happened. Josh Bank, for being hilarious, magnetic, and brilliant…and for giving me a chance years ago despite the fact that I so rudely crashed his company Christmas party. Ben Schrank, for encouraging me to do this project in the first place and for his invaluable writing advice. Of course Les Morgenstein, for believing in me. And my fantastic editor, Sara Shandler, for her friendship and dedicated help in shaping this novel.

I’m grateful to Elise Howard and Kristin Marang at HarperCollins for their support, insight, and enthusiasm. And huge thanks to Jennifer Rudolph Walsh at William Morris for all the magical things she made happen.

Thanks also to Doug and Fran Wilkens for a great summer in Pennsylvania. I’m grateful to Colleen McGarry, for reminding me of our junior high and high school inside jokes, especially those about our fictitious band whose name I won’t mention. Thanks to my parents, Bob and Mindy Shepard, for their help with sticky plot points and for encouraging me to be myself, however weird that might be. And I don’t know what I’d do without my sister, Ali, who agrees that Icelandic boys are pussies who ride small, gay horses and is okay with a certain character in this book being named after her.

And finally, thanks to my husband, Joel, for being loving, silly, and patient, and also for reading every draft of this book (happily!) and offering good advice—proof that boys might just understand more about girls’ inner struggles than we think.

I bet you thought I was Alison, didn’t you? Well, sorry, but I’m not. Duh. She’s dead.

Nope, I’m very much alive…and I’m very, very close. And for a certain clique of four pretty girls, the fun has just started. Why? ’Cause I say so.

Naughty behavior deserves punishment, after all. And Rosewood’s finest deserve to know that Aria’s been doing some extra-credit smooching with her English teacher, don’t they? Not to mention the nasty family secret she’s been hiding for years. The girl is a train wreck.

While I’m at it, I really ought to tip Emily’s parents off to the reason she’s been acting funny lately. Hey there, Mr. and Mrs. Fields, nice weather, huh? And by the way, your daughter likes kissing girls.

Then there’s Hanna. Poor Hanna. Just free-falling into dorkdom. She may try to claw her way back to the top, but don’t worry—I’ll be there waiting to knock her rapidly growing behind back into a pair of stonewashed mom-jeans.

Oh my god, I almost forgot Spencer. She’s a total mess! After all, her family thinks she’s a completely worthless skank. That’s gotta suck. And just between us, it’s about to get much worse. Spencer’s keeping a deep, dark secret that could pretty much ruin all four of their lives. But who would tell such an awful secret? Oh, I don’t know. Take a wild guess.

Bingo.

Life’s so much fun when you know everything.

Just how do I know so much? You’re probably dying to know, aren’t you? Well, relax. All in due time.

Believe me, I’d love to tell you. But what’s the fun in that?

I’ll be watching. —A

Credits

Produced by Alloy Entertainment 151 West 26th Street, New York, NY 10001

Hand Lettering by Peter Horridge

Photography by Ali Smith

Doll Design by Tina Amantula

Cover Design by Jennifer Heuer

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.