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Spinning around, Spencer walked into her dad’s dark, cigar-stinky office. The last time she’d been in here, she’d burned his entire computer hard drive to a CD and found the bank account that got her into the whole Olivia mess. Scanning her dad’s bookshelves now, which contained law volumes, first-edition Hemingways, and Lucite plaques congratulating him for winning such-and-such a court battle, she noticed a red book tucked away in an upper corner. YALE LAW YEARBOOK, the spine said.
Quietly, she dragged her dad’s Aeron desk chair to the bookshelf, climbed on the wobbling seat, and grabbed the book with the tips of her fingers. As she cracked it open, the smell of mildewed paper wafted out. An old photo fluttered out too, sliding across the freshly waxed wood floor. She bent down and picked it up. It was a small, square Polaroid of a pregnant blond woman in front of a pretty brick building. The woman’s face was blurry. It wasn’t Spencer’s mom, but there was something familiar about her. She flipped the photo over. Written on the back was the date June 2, almost seventeen years ago. Could this be Olivia, Spencer’s surrogate? Spencer was born in April, but maybe Olivia hadn’t lost the baby weight right away?
Spencer slipped the photo back into the yearbook and leafed through the portraits of first-year law students. She found her father right away. He looked almost identical to how he looked today, except his face was a little less weathered and his hair was thicker and longer, almost feathery. Taking a deep breath, she flipped forward to the M’s for Macadam, her mother’s maiden name. And there she was, with the same lake-straight, chin-length blond hair and broad, dazzling smile. There was a faded yellow ring from a coffee cup above her picture, as if Spencer’s dad had propped the book open to this page, staring longingly at her mother’s picture for hours.
It really was true—her mom had been a student at Yale.
Aimlessly, Spencer flipped through more pages. The first-year students were smiling so enthusiastically, having no idea how hard law school was going to be. Then, something in her brain caught. She did a double take at one of the student’s names, then examined his picture. A young man with light-colored hair and an eerily familiar hooked, oversize nose stared back at her. Ali had always said that if she’d inherited that nose, she would have gone straight to a plastic surgeon and gotten it fixed.
Spots swam in front of Spencer’s eyes. This had to be another hallucination. She checked the student’s name again. And once more after that. Kenneth DiLaurentis. It was Ali’s father.
Beep.
The book fell from her hands. Her cell phone vibrated from inside her cardigan pocket. Spencer stared out the windows of her father’s office, suddenly feeling like someone was watching her. Had she just heard a giggle? Was that a person darting behind the fence? Her heart pounded as she opened her phone.
Think that’s crazy? Now take another spin through your dad’s hard drive . . . starting with J. You won’t believe what you find.—A
Chapter 16
It’s the Queen Bee’s Knees
Hanna and Iris sat at a round table in the Preserve at Addison-Stevens’ cafe, with steaming lattes, homemade organic yogurt, and fresh fruit cups in front of them. They definitely had the best table in the place—not only was it the farthest one from the nurses’ station, but it also gave them a prime view out the window of the hot groundskeeper, who was vigorously shoveling snow off the drive in a tight, long-sleeved thermal tee.
Iris nudged Hanna. “Omigod. Tara’s going to eat a pooberry!”
Hanna swiveled her head. Tara, who was sitting with Alexis and Ruby at the same table they’d sat at when Hanna had joined them for dinner two night ago, had just popped a blueberry into her mouth. “Ewwww,” Hanna and Iris exclaimed in unison. For whatever reason, blueberries here were called pooberries. It was a huge faux pas to eat them.
Tara stopped and smiled hopefully at them. “Hi, Hanna! What’s ew?”
“You.” Iris smirked.
Tara’s smile evaporated. A bloom of red crept into her chubby cheeks. Her eyes moved to Hanna, an acrid, vengeful look on her face. Hanna turned away haughtily, pretending she didn’t notice. Then Iris stood up and tossed her yogurt in the trash. “C’mon, Han. I have something to show you.” She grabbed Hanna’s arm.
“Where are you going?” Tara whined, but both girls ignored her.
Iris snorted as they exited the cafeteria and walked down the long corridor toward the patient rooms. “Did you see her shoes? She claims they’re Tory Burch, but they look more like Payless.”
Hanna snickered and then felt a tiny twinge of guilt—Tara had been the first girl to speak to her. But whatever. It wasn’t Hanna’s fault Tara was so clueless.
And besides, hanging out with Iris had made Hanna’s stay at the Preserve at Addison-Stevens—or the Preserve, as everyone here called it—fabulous. She’d shown Hanna the gym and the spa, and last night, they’d stolen cleansers, toners, and milk masks from a spa treatment room and given each other facials. Hanna had awoken this morning atop 1,000-thread-count sheets, well rested for the first time in what seemed like years, and her legs already looked thinner from the organic fruits and veggies she’d been eating.
Hanna and Iris had bonded instantly, spending hours in their shared bedroom talking. Iris had admitted point-blank that she was at the Preserve for an eating disorder—“the only acceptable reason to be here,” she added. Hanna had quickly said that she was here for eating issues, too—which was kind of the truth. The first time Iris was sent to the Preserve for treatment was when she was in seventh grade, she said. She’d gone a whole week without eating. She’d gotten out just in time for summer vacation—right around when Ali went missing, Hanna couldn’t help but note to herself—but Iris’s mom forced her back in by the beginning of October when her weight dropped low again. The Preserve wasn’t the only hospital Iris had been to, but she said she liked it here the best.
