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Paddling strongly, Emily tried to let her mind go blank, which Raymond said would help her swim her fastest. But she kept thinking about the postcard in Ali’s mailbox. Who sent it? Had someone seen what they did? No one had witnessed what they’d done in Jamaica. There had been no couples kissing on the sand, no faces peering out of windows, no hotel staff cleaning the back deck. Either A had taken a wild guess—or else A was the person Emily feared most.
Emily touched the wall to finish, breathing hard. “Good time, Emily,” Raymond said from the edge of the pool. “It’s nice to see you back in the water.”
“Thanks.” Emily wiped her eyes and looked around the natatorium. It, too, hadn’t changed since Emily started here as a six-year-old. There were bright yellow bleachers in the corner and a big mural of water polo players. Motivational sayings covered the walls, and gold plaques of pool records lined the hallway just beyond the doors. When Emily was little, she’d ogled the records, hoping to one day break one of them. Last year, she’d broken three. But not this year . . .
Raymond’s whistle made a short, sharp tweet, and Emily pushed off the wall for one hundred number two. The laps flew by, Emily’s arms feeling strong, her turns steady and sure, her times slowly dropping. When the set was over, Emily noticed someone videotaping her from the bleachers. He lowered the camera and met her eyes. It was Mr. Roland.
He strolled over to Emily’s lane. “Hey, Emily. Have a sec?”
A swimmer flip-turned right next to Emily, sending a plume of water into the air. Emily shrugged and pushed out of the pool. She felt naked in her tank suit, bare arms, and bare legs, especially next to Mr. Roland’s gray wool suit and black loafers. And she still couldn’t shrug off the other night. Had he meant to touch her hip, or was it an accident?
Mr. Roland sat down on one end of a bench. Emily grabbed her towel and sat on the other. “I sent your times to the UNC recruiter and coach. His name’s Marc Lowry. He asked me to stop by and watch you practice. I hope that’s okay.” He raised the video camera and smiled sheepishly.
“Uh, it’s fine.” Emily crossed her arms over her boobs.
“You have really beautiful form.” Mr. Roland stared at a paused frame on the video camera. “Lowry’s really impressed by your times, too. But he wonders why they’re last year’s times, not this year’s.”
“I had to take some time off last summer and this fall,” Emily said uneasily. “I wasn’t able to compete with my school team.”
A wrinkle formed on Mr. Roland’s brow. “And why is that?”
Emily turned away. “Just . . . personal stuff.”
“I don’t mean to be pushy, but the recruiter is going to ask,” Mr. Roland prodded gently.
Emily fiddled with a loose loop on her towel. It was from Junior Swimming Nationals, which she’d competed in last year before she went to Jamaica. Even back then, she’d felt like something was wrong with her. She’d felt shaky in the locker room, then nearly passed out in the folding chair waiting for her heat. Her times had been decent, only one or two tenths of a second slower than her personal bests, but she’d felt exhausted afterward, like someone had filled her arms and legs with sand. That night, she went home and slept for fifteen hours straight.
As time progressed, she felt worse, not better. When she told her mother she was going to take the summer off swimming to do an internship in Philadelphia, Mrs. Fields had looked at her like she’d sprouted a few extra eyeballs. But Emily played the Ali card—she needed a break from Rosewood, too many awful things had happened here—and her mom relented. She’d stayed with her sister Carolyn, who was taking part in a summer program at Penn before she went to Stanford in the fall. She’d entrusted Carolyn with a secret, too, and amazingly Carolyn had kept it. Not happily, though.
When Emily returned to school that next year and told her mom she wasn’t up to swimming on the school team, Mrs. Fields had been livid. She’d offered to take Emily to a sports psychologist, but Emily was firm: She wasn’t swimming this season. “You have to get over Alison,” Mrs. Fields insisted. “This isn’t about Alison,” Emily answered tearfully. “Then what is it about?” Mrs. Fields demanded.
But Emily couldn’t tell her. If she did, her mother would never speak to her again.
Mr. Roland folded his hands in his lap, still waiting for Emily’s answer.
Emily cleared her throat. “Can we just leave it that I took a personal leave of absence? I . . . I was stalked by someone I thought was my best friend last year. Maybe you heard about it? Alison DiLaurentis?”
Mr. Roland’s eyebrows rose. “That was . . . you?”
Emily nodded grimly.
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I knew we bought the house where one of the murdered girls lived, but . . .” Mr. Roland pressed his hand to his eyes. “I think that’s all you need to say. Lowry will understand.”
At least the Ali mess was good for something.
“I’m fully committed to swimming now,” Emily promised.
“Good.” Mr. Roland stood up. “It looks like you are. If you’re game, I can probably have him or someone on his recruiting team up here by this Saturday.”
Emily did a mental check of her schedule. “Actually, I have a meet this Saturday.”
“All the more reason for him to come.” Mr. Roland tapped something into his BlackBerry. “He’ll see you in action. It’s perfect.”
