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The house was empty, smelling like Murphy’s Oil Soap and Windex, meaning the Hastingses’ cleaning lady, Candace, had just left. Spencer ran upstairs, grabbed Olivia’s expandable folder from the desk in her room, and exited the house through the back door. Even though her parents weren’t here, she didn’t want to be in their house when she did this. She needed complete privacy.
She unlocked the barn’s front door and flipped on the kitchen and living room lights. Everything was as she’d left it since the last time she’d been in here, down to the half-filled water glass by the computer. She plopped down on the couch and pulled out her Sidekick. A’s message was the last text she’d received. How does disappearing forever sound?
At first, the note had scared her, but after a while, she’d seen it another way. Disappearing forever sounded fine—disappearing from Rosewood, that was. And Spencer knew just how she could.
She dumped Olivia’s file folder on the coffee table, its contents practically spilling out onto the throw rug. The Realtor’s card was right on top. With shaking hands, Spencer dialed his number. The phone rang once, then twice. “Michael Hutchins,” a man’s voice squawked.
Spencer sat up and cleared her throat. “Hi. My name is Spencer Hastings,” she said, trying to sound older and professional. “My mom is your client. Olivia Caldwell?”
“Of course, of course.” Michael sounded overjoyed. “I didn’t realize she had a daughter. Have you seen their new place yet? It’s going to be photographed for the New York Times Home section next month.”
Spencer wound a piece of hair around her finger. “Not yet. But…I will. Soon.”
“So what can I do for you?”
She crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her heart thudded through her ears. “Well…I’d like an apartment. In New York. Preferably somewhere near Olivia. Is that doable?”
She heard Michael flipping some papers. “I believe so. Hang on. Let me pull up the database of what’s available.”
Spencer bit down hard on her thumbnail. This felt surreal. She stared out the window at the rock-lined pool and hot tub, the tiered back deck, the two dogs frolicking near the fence. Then, she turned and gazed at the windmill. LIAR. It was still there, not yet painted over. Maybe her parents had left it for Spencer as a reminder, the equivalent of the big red A in The Scarlet Letter. Ali’s old house next door no longer had the Do Not Cross tape over the half-dug hole—the new owners had finally had the sense to take it down—but the hole hadn’t been filled yet. Behind the barn were the woods, thick and black and brimming with secrets.
Olivia had told her to take things slow, but moving out of Rosewood was the smartest—and safest—thing she could do.
“You there?” Michael’s voice called. Spencer jumped. “There’s a new listing at two twenty-three Perry Street. It hasn’t even gone on the market yet—the landlord is cleaning and painting—but it’ll probably go up on our Web site on Monday. It’s a one-bedroom on the parlor level of a brownstone. I’m looking at the pictures right now, and the place looks gorgeous. High ceilings, wood floors, crown molding, an eat-in kitchen, a back deck, a claw-foot tub. You’d be near the subway and a block from Marc Jacobs. You sound like you might be a Marc Jacobs girl.”
“You’re right about that.” Spencer smiled.
“You near a computer?” Michael said. “I can e-mail you some pictures of the place right now.”
“Sure,” Spencer said, giving him her e-mail address. She sprang up and walked to Melissa’s laptop, which was sitting closed on the desk. In seconds, a new e-mail appeared in her in-box. The attached photos were of a quaint brownstone with slate stairs. The apartment had wide oak floors, two bay windows, exposed brick, marble countertops, and even a little washer and dryer.
“It looks awesome,” Spencer breathed, nearly swooning. “I’m in Philadelphia at the moment, but could I come to the city on Monday afternoon and check it out?”
She heard a horn honk outside Michael’s window. “That could work, sure,” he said, the hesitation in his voice practically palpable. “But I’ve gotta warn you. Apartments like this don’t come up very often, and New York City real estate is insane. This is one of the best blocks in the Village, and people are going to jump on it. It’s likely that on Monday morning someone’s going to show up at our office as soon as the place lists with a check, sight unseen. By the time you get here, the place might be gone. But I don’t want to pressure you. There are other places I could show you in that neighborhood, too….”
Spencer tensed her shoulders, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She suddenly felt as if she were running for the ball in field hockey or fighting for a teacher’s approval in class. This was her rightful apartment, not someone else’s. She imagined her furniture in the bedroom. She pictured herself wearing her Chanel poncho on Saturday mornings while strolling to Starbucks. She could get a dog and hire one of those dog walkers that walked fifteen dogs at once. Earlier today, she’d looked into private schools in New York City if she didn’t opt to graduate early.
When she glanced down at the blank piece of paper next to the laptop, she realized that she’d doodled 223 Perry Street over and over, in cursive and block letters and calligraphy. No other apartment would do.
“Please don’t list it,” Spencer blurted out. “I want it. I don’t even have to look at it. What if I give you money now? Would that work?”
