Sara Shepard - Unbelievable

Ian walked up to the bench. The judge, a stern, balding man who wore an enormous class ring, glowered at him. “Mr. Thomas, how do you wish to plead?”

“Not guilty,” Ian said in a very small voice.

A murmur went through the crowd. Emily bit down on the inside of her cheek. As she shut her eyes, she saw the horrible images again—this time with a new killer, a killer that made sense: Ian. Emily remembered seeing Ian that summer when she was Spencer’s guest at the Rosewood Country Club, where Ian used to lifeguard. He’d sat atop his lifeguard stand, twirling his whistle like he didn’t have a care in the world.

The judge leaned over his high perch and glared at Ian. “Because of the seriousness of this crime, and because we have deemed you a flight risk, you are to remain in jail until your pretrial hearing, Mr. Thomas.” He banged his gavel and then folded his hands. Ian’s head slumped down, and his attorney patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. Within seconds, he was marching out again, his hands cuffed. It was all over.

The members of the Rosewood community rose to leave. Then Emily noticed a family down front that she hadn’t seen earlier. The bailiffs and cameras had blocked them. She recognized Mrs. DiLaurentis’s short, chic haircut and Mr. DiLaurentis’s handsome, aging leading-man looks. Jason DiLaurentis stood next to them, dressed in a crisp black suit and a dark checked tie. As the family embraced, they all looked incredibly relieved…and maybe the slightest bit repentant, too. Emily thought about what Jason had said on the news: I don’t talk to my family much. They’re too messed up. Maybe they all felt guilty for going so long without speaking. Or maybe Emily was just imagining things.

Everyone lingered outside the courthouse. The weather was nothing like that sublime, cloudless fall day of Ali’s memorial service just weeks earlier. Today, the sky was blurred with dark clouds, making the whole world dull and shadowless. Emily felt a hand on her arm. Spencer wrapped her arms around Emily’s shoulders.

“It’s all over,” Spencer whispered.

“I know,” Emily said, hugging back.

The other girls joined in on the hug. Out of the corner of her eye, Emily saw a camera flash. She could already imagine the newspaper caption: Alison’s Friends Distraught but at Peace. At that moment, a black Lincoln idling near the curb caught her eye. A chauffeur sat in the passenger seat, waiting. The tinted back window was rolled down the tiniest crack, and Emily saw a pair of eyes staring straight at her. Emily’s mouth fell open. She’d only seen blue eyes like that one other time in her life.

“Guys,” she whispered, clamping down hard on Spencer’s arm.

The others broke out of their hug. “What?” Spencer asked, concerned.

Emily pointed to the sedan. The back window was now closed, and the chauffeur was shifting the car into gear. “I swear I just saw…” she stammered, but then paused. They’d think she was crazy—fantasizing that Ali was alive was just another way to cope with her death. Emily swallowed hard, standing up straighter. “Never mind,” she said.

The girls turned away, drifting back to their own families, promising to call one another later. But Emily remained where she was, her heart pounding as the sedan pulled away from the curb. She watched as it cruised down the street, turned right at the light, and disappeared. Her blood chilled. It couldn’t have been her, she told herself.

Could it have?

First and foremost, I want to thank those I’ve mentioned in the dedication—the people who encouraged Spencer to kiss her sister’s boyfriends, Aria to kiss her English teacher, Emily to kiss a girl (or two), and Hanna to kiss the dorky boy in school. The people who aided and abetted in Alison’s murder first laughed at the phrase “pussies who ride small, gay horses,” and were excited about this project from the very beginning…which was, wow, three whole years ago. I’m talking, of course, about my friends at Alloy—Lanie Davis, Josh Bank, Les Morgenstein, and Sara Shandler. Being a working writer is something of an oxymoron for most, and I am immensely appreciative for all you’ve done for me. I’m lucky to work with all of you, and I seriously doubt these books would be half as good without your wonderfully creative minds…and humor…and, of course, baked goods. Here’s to more fabulous twists and turns in the future!

I’m grateful also to all those at Harper who champion these books—Farrin Jacobs, for your careful reading, and Kristin Marang, for all your dedication, attention, and friendship. And a big thanks to Jennifer Rudolph Walsh at William Morris for your belief in this series’ future. You are truly magical.

Love to the slew of people I mention in every book: Joel, my husband, for your ability to predict the future—strangely, it always involves tickling. To my father, Shep, because you like to impersonate French travel agents, because we thought you got lost in the desert this December, and because you once threatened to leave a restaurant because they had run out of red wine. To my sister, Ali, for creating the greatest team ever (Team Alison) and for taking pictures of Squee the stuffed lamb with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. And to my mom, Mindy—I hope you never take a vaccine for silliness. Thank you so much for your support of all of my writing.

I also want to thank all of the Pretty Little Liars readers out there. I absolutely adore hearing from you guys, and I’m so glad you care as much about the characters as I do. Keep your amazing letters coming!

Finally, much love to my grandma, Gloria Shepard. I’m touched that you read the Pretty Little Liars series—and I’m so happy you think the books are funny! I’ll try to include more jokes about nose hair in the future.

So after big bad Mona departed this dear world and Ian was sent away to a cold prison cell, our Pretty Little Liars were finally able to live in peace. Emily found true love at Smith College; Hanna ruled as queen bee of Rosewood Day and married a billionaire; Spencer graduated first in her class at Columbia School of Journalism and went on to be managing editor of the New York Times; Aria got her MFA from Rhode Island School of Design and moved to Europe with Ezra. We’re talking sunsets, fat babies, and blissful happiness. Nice, huh? Oh, and none of them ever told a lie again.

Are you effing kidding me? Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. There’s no happily ever after in Rosewood.

I mean, have you learned nothing? Once a pretty little liar, always a pretty little liar. Emily, Hanna, Spencer, and Aria just can’t help but be bad. That’s what I love best about them. So who am I? Well, let’s just say there’s a new A in town, and this time our girlies aren’t getting off so easily.

See ya soon. And until then, try not to be too good. Life’s always more fun with a few pretty little secrets.

Mwah!

—A

Hand Lettering by Peter Horridge

Photography by Ali Smith

Doll design by Tina Amantula

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?