Sara Shepard - Crushed

Nope, but a similar thing happened to me, which is why I’m interested.

What do you mean?

There was a pause, then the screen flashed again. I was stalked. I went to an all-boys’ boarding school, and I had a psycho roommate . He became obsessed with me. He tried to kill me. His parents had a lot of money, though, and they kept the story out of the news.

Spencer sat back. Whoa. I’m so sorry. Were you hurt?

A long beat went by. I don’t like talking about it .

So did that mean his stalker did hurt him . . . or didn’t? Suddenly, Spencer was curious as hell. She clicked on the ABOUT US link of the website again, but it was just that stupid cat video.

Still, Spencer instantly sympathized with him. She certainly knew what it was like to be tormented. Are you still having a hard time with it? she asked. Do people always look at you like you’re . . . contagious, or something?

Totally , Chase wrote back. I’ve definitely lost some friends because of it. But I do a lot of stuff to take my mind off things. Besides being an amateur PI, I’m into snowboarding and guitar. And it might sound nerdy, but I do sandcastle-building competitions in the summer.

I was in one of those! Spencer wrote. She and Melissa entered a competition when they were summering at their nana’s place in Longboat Key, Florida. It was practically the only thing Spencer had beaten her sister at. I got fourth!

Nice—I’ve won a couple , Chase wrote. Everyone thinks it’s dorky—they say I should be playing beach volleyball or something. An eye-rolling emoticon popped up on the screen. But it’s a hobby I’ve been into since I was a kid. I still really like it.

Are you out of high school? Spencer asked.

Yep, graduated last June , Chase wrote. I’m working at a bio lab in Center City for a year before I start college. We research cancer meds.

So you’re smart , Spencer wrote, adding a smiley.

You seem pretty smart, too , Chase wrote. You in college?

Princeton , Spencer replied. She left out the part about not actually going there yet.

Whoa, smart squared, was Chase’s reply. If we got together, the combined IQ in the room would be out of control.

Spencer giggled. Was he cyber-flirting?

The screen flashed again. But enough about me, Miss Spears—how are you connected to Alison?

Spencer hesitated. She wasn’t sure how much she should tell him. She’d never seen him, after all. And even though he said the cops didn’t want him to post anything about the case, what if he exposed her anyway? I’m just a concerned individual who knows a lot , she finally answered. That’s all I can say right now. And I have reason to believe she’s alive, too.

Chase replied quickly. Her bones would have been in the rubble, right? They would have found jewelry or teeth. But there was nothing. I think she got out of the house before it exploded.

Definitely , Spencer wrote, wishing she could tell him that Emily had left the door open for Ali to escape. But the police said that sometimes bones get ground up so finely that it’s hard to distinguish them from ash.

Maybe , Chase wrote back. But it seems convenient—I still think she made it out.

And did what? Spencer typed. The house was on fire. Even if she managed to slip outside, wouldn’t she have been hurt? Did she go to a hospital?

Chase’s answer was instantaneous, like he’d anticipated the question. I doubt it. I think she got a private nurse to take care of her. I also think she has at least one friend helping her out. Someone who was waiting for her in the woods that night the house exploded. Someone who took her away to get her the care she needed.

A man behind Spencer grunted, but when she turned, he was staring at his screen. She turned back to her own computer, shivering at Chase’s response. Someone else in the woods that night. It made perfect sense, especially given their theory that Ali had a helper.

Do you think she had help killing Ian Thomas and Jenna Cavanaugh, too? she typed.

Absolutely , Chase wrote. I’ve found out some intel about a private nurse, too . I doubt Alison’s nurse went through an employer or medical supplier, so even the supplies she got for Alison would have had to have been bought through regular drugstores. I have a friend who works for CVS who was able to get into the database of a bunch of stores in the area. There’s one in Center City that has regular orders of massive amounts of gauze and bandages and wound-cleaning supplies. He also got me video surveillance of the person picking up the supplies.

Spencer leapt on the keys. Who is she?

A friend from a hospital IDed her as Barbara Rogers. She’s in her mid-fifties, but I haven’t been able to figure out much more about her , Chase answered. One more thing: There’s also the issue of drugs. Ali wouldn’t be using a prescription, so someone would have to be getting it illegally. There was a pharma theft not long ago at the William Atlantic Burn Clinic in Rosewood.

Spencer gasped so loudly that a pale, skinny woman with dishwater-blond hair two consoles down gave her a strange look. This was all connecting in terrible ways.

She checked her watch and realized that it was getting late—she should probably get home. She signed off with Chase, making him promise that they would talk again.

As she stood, a tinkling laugh drifted through the air. Spencer shot up, but the other patrons were still staring at their screens. The pierced barista puttered behind the counter. A girl in a FedEx uniform worked a crossword puzzle at a table.

Spencer pulled out her cell phone, but she hadn’t received any texts. She gazed out the window at the train tracks again. For a split second, a ghostly image stared back at her from inside the station house. Her heart stopped. Ali?

The train rushed past. Spencer didn’t blink the whole time, waiting for a glimpse of that station window again. But when she finally got another look, the face was gone.

That afternoon, Hanna and Mike lounged on the couch at her father’s house, watching an episode of Parks and Recreation on DVR. She had her hands in the pockets of Mike’s hooded sweatshirt, and Mike wound his socked feet around Hanna’s bare ones. Mr. Marin sat behind the glass doors of his office, talking to someone about his senatorial campaign.

The doorbell rang, and she and Mike looked at each other and frowned. Hanna padded to it and peered through the glass. Standing on the other side was Chassey Bledsoe, looking perfectly put-together in a silk dress and brown boots and holding a bakery box in her hands. Hanna frowned down at her stained University of Pennsylvania yoga pants.

“Uh . . . hi?” she asked as she opened the door.

“Hey, Hanna!” Chassey smiled. “I was in the neighborhood, and I just wanted to say I’m really honored to run against you for queen.”

Hanna stared at the box she was holding. Through the clear plastic top, she could see twenty iced cupcakes all lined up. Each of them bore the words VOTE CHASSEY FOR QUEEN!

“Oh!” Chassey noticed her looking and opened the lid. “Would you like one? I’ve been passing them around to potential voters.”

Hanna snorted. “They probably have shingles germs all over them.”

Chassey looked confused. “I don’t have shingles.”