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Hanna shot up, her eyes popping open. She was in her bedroom. Pale morning light streamed through the windows. It was Saturday morning—but a Saturday morning in eleventh grade, not sixth. Dot was standing on Hanna’s pillow, licking Hanna’s face. She touched her cheek. There wasn’t blood there, just doggie drool.
You need to find it, Hanna. If you find it, I’ll tell you all about it.
Hanna groaned, rubbed her eyes, and reached for her Time Capsule flag, which was smoothed out on her nightstand. It was a stupid dream, end of story.
She heard voices in the hallway, first her father’s joking tone, then Kate’s shrill laugh. Hanna grabbed a handful of sheets and squeezed. That was it. Kate might have stolen Hanna’s father, but she wasn’t stealing Mike too.
Abruptly, the urgent images from her dream faded away. Hanna bolted out of bed and pulled on her snug-fitting cashmere sweaterdress. In English class yesterday, she’d overheard Noel Kahn tell Mason Byers that the lacrosse team was meeting for a weekend workout at Philly Sports Club. She had a feeling wherever Noel went, Mike would go too. She hadn’t yet gotten back to Mike about bringing Kate to the Radley party because she hadn’t known what to say. Now she did.
There was one girl Mike should be exclusive with—Hanna. It was time to kick Kate out of the picture for good.
Philly Sports was in the section of the King James Mall that contained the non-luxe stores, ghetto places like Old Navy and Charlotte Russe and—shudder—JCPenney. Hanna hadn’t set foot in here for years—acrylic-blend fabrics, mass-market T-shirts, and designer collections by has-been celebutantes gave her hives.
She parked the Prius and forcefully hit the lock button three times, taking stock of the rusted Honda next to her. As she walked through the parking lot, her iPhone blinked, indicating she had a text. She reached for it, her stomach churning. Surely A couldn’t have found her, right?
The text was just from Emily. U around? I got another note. We need to talk.
Hanna slid the phone back in her pocket, biting her lip hard. She knew she should call Emily back—and tell her about how strangely Wilden had behaved when he drove Hanna home from running yesterday—but she was busy right now. Still, the dream she’d had this morning drifted back to her. What was her brain trying to tell her? Did Ali know where her flag had gone? Could it be true that there was something on Ali’s flag that hinted at what had happened to her? And then Ali said, Sometimes, I don’t notice I’m singing, expecting Hanna to know what she meant. Was that something Ali used to say, or was it something someone used to say to Ali? Hanna couldn’t remember either way. She’d even culled through the minor characters in Ali’s life, like the exchange student from Holland who’d given Ali a pair of wooden shoes as a token of his affection, the greasy-haired Jet Ski operator in the Poconos who always told Ali he’d “warmed up the seat just for her,” or Mr. Salt, the school’s only male librarian, who always told Ali he would bring in his first-edition Harry Potters especially for her if she ever wanted to read them—gag. Hanna couldn’t remember anyone saying anything creepy about singing. The phrase was somehow familiar, but it was probably just a stupid line from one of Kate’s show tunes, or some dorky slogan on a Rosewood Day Masterworks Choir bumper sticker.
The techno music inside the gym assaulted Hanna’s ears before she opened the front door. A girl in a perky pink bra top and black yoga pants beamed from behind the gym’s front desk. “Welcome to Philly Sports!” she chirped. “Can you sign in, please?” She held up a contraption that looked like a price scanner to check Hanna’s membership.
“I’m a guest,” Hanna answered.
“Oh!” The girl had wide, unblinking eyes, a round face, and a dopey expression. She reminded Hanna of the Tickle Me Elmo doll that belonged to her six-year-old twin neighbors. “Can you fill out the guest form, then?” the receptionist tweeted. “And it costs ten dollars to work out for the day.”
“No, thanks!” Hanna sang, breezing right past. As if she’d ever, ever pay to use this dump. The front-desk girl let out a small, indignant squeak, but Hanna didn’t turn. Her high heels clicked as she passed the shop that sold spandex shorts, neoprene iPod holders, and sports bras, and the large shelves where the towels were kept. Hanna sniffed haughtily. This shithole didn’t even have a smoothie bar? People probably peed in the locker room showers, too.
Bass from the piped-in music throbbed in Hanna’s ears. Across the room, a stick-thin girl with veiny arms whirled frantically on an elliptical machine. A guy with wet, curly hair mopped sweat off a treadmill. Hanna heard the clanging of barbells in the distance. Sure enough, the entire Rosewood Day lacrosse team was in the corner by the free weights. Noel was doing arm curls in front of a mirror, admiring himself. James Freed was making faces while balancing on a BOSU ball. And Mike Montgomery was lying down on the bench press, wrapping his hands around the bar, getting ready to lift.
Jackpot.
Hanna waited until Mike had brought the bar to his chest, then walked right up and shooed away Mason Byers, Mike’s spotter. “I can take over from here.” Then she leaned over Mike and smiled.
Mike’s eyes bugged out. “Hanna!”
“Hello,” Hanna said coolly.
Mike started to lift the bar back up to return it to the stand, but Hanna stopped him. “Not so fast,” she said. “I have something to discuss with you first.”
A few beads of sweat dotted Mike’s forehead, and his arms shook. “What?”
