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Spencer looked up at the TV, staring as a bunch of pretty girls walked down a makeshift runway in a morgue, modeling what looked like crosses between bikinis and straitjackets. Suddenly, the TV went dark. Spencer cocked her head. Candace let out a frustrated grunt. A news logo flashed on the screen. “We have breaking news from Rosewood,” said a voice-over. Spencer reached over to the remote and turned up the volume.
A bug-eyed reporter with a crew cut stood in front of the Rosewood courthouse. “We have an update about the much-anticipated Alison DiLaurentis murder trial,” he announced. “Despite speculation about lack of evidence, the D.A.’s office announced just minutes ago that the trial will take place as scheduled.”
Spencer pulled her cashmere cardigan closer around her, letting out a huge sigh of relief. Then the broadcast cut to a shot of the front of Ian’s house, a big, rambling compound with an American flag prominently over the front porch. “Mr. Thomas has been released on temporary bail until his trial begins,” the reporter’s voice announced off-camera. “We spoke with him last night to see how he was doing.”
Ian’s image swam onto the screen. “I’m innocent,” he protested, his eyes wide. “Someone else is guilty of this, not me.”
“Ugh,” Candace spat, shaking her head. “I can’t believe that boy was ever in this house!” She picked up a can of Febreeze and squirted it toward the TV camera, as if Ian’s mere presence on the screen had let a bad odor into the room.
The report ended, and ANTM came back on. Spencer stood up, feeling dizzy. She needed to get some air…and clear Ian from her head. She stumbled out the back door and onto the patio, a chilly gust of wind hitting her in the face. The heron-shaped thermometer that swung from a post next to the grill said the temperature was only thirty-five degrees, but Spencer didn’t bother to go back inside to get a jacket.
It was quiet and dark on the porch. The woods behind the barn—the very last place Spencer had seen Ali alive—seemed darker than usual. When she turned and looked toward her front yard, a light in the Cavanaughs’ house snapped on. A tall, dark-haired figure floated by the living room bay window. Jenna. She was pacing around, talking into her cell phone, her lips moving quickly. Spencer shuddered, uneasy. It was such a disconnect to see someone wearing sunglasses indoors…and at night.
“Spencer,” someone whispered, very close.
Spencer whirled around toward the voice, and her knees buckled. Ian was standing on the other side of the deck. He wore a black North Face down jacket zipped up to his nose and a black ski hat pulled down to his eyebrows. The only thing Spencer could see was his eyes.
Spencer started to cry out, but Ian held up his hand. “Shhhh. Just listen for a sec.”
Spencer was so terrified, she could have sworn her heart was leaping around in her chest. “H-how did you get out of your house?”
Ian’s eyes glimmered. “I have my ways.”
Spencer glanced into the back window, but Candace had left the kitchen. Spencer’s Sidekick was only feet away, nestled in its mint green Kate Spade leather case on the wet patio table. She started to reach for it.
“Don’t,” Ian pleaded, his voice softening. He unzipped his jacket slightly and took off his hat. It looked as if he’d lost weight in his face, and his tawny blond hair stood on end. “I just want to talk to you,” he said. “You and I used to be such good friends. Why did you do this to me?”
Spencer’s mouth dropped open. “Because you murdered my best friend, that’s why!”
Ian rummaged in his jacket pocket, his eyes on her the whole time. Slowly, he pulled out a pack of Parliaments and lit one with a Zippo. It was something Spencer thought she’d never see. Ian used to do local public service ads for the Great American Smokeout with several other clean-cut Rosewood kids.
A plume of bluish smoke trailed out of his mouth. “You know I didn’t kill Alison. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head.”
Spencer gripped the smooth wooden posts along the side of her deck for balance. “You did kill her,” she reiterated, her voice wobbly. “And if you think the notes you’ve sent us are going to scare us into not testifying against you, you’re wrong. We’re not afraid of you.”
Ian cocked his head, confounded. “What notes?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Spencer squeaked.
Ian sniffed, still acting confused. Spencer glanced at the hole in the DiLaurentises’ yard. It was so close. Her eyes moved to the barn, the site of their very last sleepover.
They’d all been so excited that seventh grade was over. Sure, there’d been some tension between all of them, and sure, Ali had done a lot of things that had pissed Spencer off, but Spencer had been certain that if they spent enough time together that summer, away from everyone else at Rosewood Day, they’d be as close as ever before.
But then she and Ali had had that stupid fight about closing the blinds so Ali could hypnotize them. Before Spencer knew it, the argument had spiraled out of control. She told Ali to leave…and Ali did.
For a long time, Spencer felt terrible about what happened. If she hadn’t told Ali to leave, maybe Ali wouldn’t be dead. But now she knew that nothing she could’ve done would have made a difference. Ali had been planning to ditch them all along. She was probably dying to meet Ian to see what he’d decided—to break up with Melissa, or to let Ali tell the world about their oh-so-inappropriate relationship. Ali thrived on stuff like that, seeing just how far she could manipulate people. Still, that didn’t give Ian permission to murder her.
