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A small, relieved smile crept over her mother’s face. She put the itinerary in her cardigan pocket. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Before she could respond, Emily’s parents left the room.
14
SPENCER’S BIG CLOSE-UP
Wednesday morning, Spencer stared at herself in her mahogany Chippendale vanity mirror. The vanity and dressing table had been in the Hastings family for two hundred years, and the watermark stain on the top had allegedly been made by Ernest Hemingway—he’d set his sweaty glass of whisky on it during one of Spencer’s great-great-grandmother’s cotillions.
Spencer picked up her round boar-bristle brush and began raking it through her hair until her scalp hurt. Jordana, the reporter from the Philadelphia Sentinel, would be showing up soon for her big interview and photo shoot. A stylist was bringing wardrobe options, and Spencer’s hairdresser, Uri, was due any minute to give her a blowout. She just finished her own makeup, going for a subtle, refined, fresh-faced look, which hopefully made her look smart, put-together—and absolutely not a plagiarist.
Spencer gulped and glanced at a photo she kept wedged in the corner of the mirror. It was of her old friends on Ali’s uncle’s yacht in Newport, Rhode Island. They were all smashed together, wearing matching J. Crew bikinis and wide-brimmed straw hats, grinning like they were goddesses of the sea.
This will go fine, Spencer told the mirror, taking a deep breath. The article would probably end up being a tiny item in the Style section, something no one would even see. Jordana might ask her two or three questions, tops. A’s note from yesterday—I know what you did—had only been meant to scare her. She tried to sweep it to the back of her mind.
Suddenly, her Sidekick bleeped. Spencer picked it up, pushed a few buttons to get into her texts inbox, and squinted at the screen.
Need another warning, Spence? Ali’s murderer is right in front of you.
—A
Spencer’s phone clattered to the floor. Ali’s murderer? She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Then at the picture of her friends in the corner. Ali was holding the yacht’s wheel, and the others were grinning behind her.
And then, something in the window caught her eye. Spencer wheeled around, but there was nothing. No one in her yard except for a lost-looking mallard duck. Nobody in the DiLareuntises’ or the Cavanaughs’ yards, either. Spencer turned back to the mirror and ran her cool hands down the length of her face.
“Hey.”
Spencer jumped. Melissa stood behind her, leaning against Spencer’s four-poster bed. Spencer whirled around, not sure if Melissa’s reflection was real. She’d sneaked up on Spencer so…stealthily.
“Are you all right?” Melissa asked, fiddling with the ruffled collar of her green silk blouse. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I just got the weirdest text,” Spencer blurted out.
“Really? What did it say?”
Spencer glanced at her Sidekick on the cream-colored rug, then kicked it farther under the dressing table.
“Never mind.”
“Well, anyway, your reporter is here.” Melissa wandered out of Spencer’s room. “Mom wanted me to tell you.”
Spencer stood up and walked to her door. She couldn’t believe she’d almost told Melissa about A’s note. But what had A meant? How could Ali’s killer be right in front of her, when she was staring in the mirror?
A vision flashed in front of her eyes. Come on, Ali cackled nastily. You read it in my diary, didn’t you?
I wouldn’t read your diary, Spencer replied. I don’t care.
There were a few spots and flashes, and a white rush of movement. And then, poof, gone. Spencer blinked furiously for a few seconds, standing dazed and alone in the middle of the upstairs hallway. It felt like a continuation of the strange, fuzzy memory from the other day. But what was it?
She strode slowly down the stairs, gripping the railing for support. Her parents and Melissa were gathered around the couch in the living room. A plump woman with frizzy black hair and black plastic cat’s-eye glasses, a skinny guy with a patchy goatee and a ginormous camera around his neck, and a petite Asian girl who had a pink streak in her hair stood near the front door.
“Spencer Hastings!” the frizzy-haired woman cried when she spied Spencer. “Our finalist!”
She threw her arms around Spencer, and Spencer’s nose smushed into the woman’s blazer, which smelled like the maraschino cherries Spencer used to get in her Shirley Temples at the country club. Then, she stepped back and held Spencer at arm’s length. “I’m Jordana Pratt, style editor of the Philadelphia Sentinel,” she cried. Jordana gestured to the other two strangers. “And this is Bridget, our stylist, and Matthew, our photographer. It’s so nice to meet you!”
“Likewise,” Spencer sputtered.
Jordana greeted Spencer’s mother and father. She passed over Melissa, not even looking at her, and Melissa cleared her throat. “Um, Jordana, I believe we’ve met too.”
Jordana narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, as if a bad smell had just permeated the air. She stared at Melissa for a few seconds. “We have?”
“You interviewed me when I ran the Philadelphia Marathon a couple years ago,” Melissa reminded her, standing up straighter and pushing her hair behind her ears. “At the Eames Oval, in front of the art museum?”
Jordana still looked lost. “Great, great!” she cried distractedly. “Love the marathon!” She gazed at Spencer again. Spencer noticed she was wearing a Cartier Tank Americaine watch—and not one of the cheap stainless ones, either. “So. I want to know everything about you. What you like to do for fun, your favorite foods, who you think is going to win on American Idol, everything. You’re probably going to be famous someday, you know! All Golden Orchid winners end up stars.”
