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“Sorry,” he muttered, tilting the screen of his phone away. “This’ll just take a second.”
“No problem,” Spencer said. “Got a conspiracy theory blog emergency?”
“Something like that,” Chase murmured.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and gazed at her again, from her blond wig to her pointy Loeffler Randall boots. After a moment, he touched the silver bracelet around Spencer’s wrist. “That’s really pretty.”
“Oh, thanks.” Spencer spun it around. “My mom gave it to me. It’s from Prendergast’s.”
“On Walnut?” Chase asked. “I used to get my girlfriend stuff from there all the time.”
Spencer peeked at him. “Is this a . . . current girlfriend?”
“Nah.” Chase wrapped his hands around his knees. “It was over a long time ago. Before the, um, stalker thing.”
Spencer nodded quickly. By the look on Chase’s face, it seemed like he didn’t really want to talk about it. She didn’t blame him; she didn’t like talking about what Ali had done to her, either.
“What about you?” Chase asked. “Dating anyone?”
Spencer studied her feet. “There was someone, but . . .”
Suddenly, the Reefer story spilled out of her. As she explained it, though, she realized she didn’t really miss Reefer as much as she had even a few days ago. She’d had too much else on her mind to think about him.
“That sucks,” Chase admitted when she finished. “He’s got to be a real idiot to drop someone like you, Miss Spears.”
Spencer wound a piece of fake hair around her finger. “You know, the worst thing about being dumped was that he did it two weeks before prom. There’s no one for me to ask. I’m going to have to go stag, which is just beyond depressing.”
“What a jerk,” Chase said, shifting his weight. When Spencer looked up, there was a hopeful little smile on his face. Suddenly, an idea flickered in her mind. Could she ask Chase to the prom? He would look amazing in a tux. But no, that was crazy. They barely knew each other.
Buzz. It was Chase’s phone again. This time he stood and walked a few paces away before checking the screen and typing back.
When he was done, he was all business again, reaching into his pocket. “Anyway. I have the photos you wanted to see.”
He handed her three glossy five-by-sevens. They were various images from parts of what she assumed was Real Ali’s life. The first one was a picture of blond twin girls of about five. Both wore purple overalls, had pink ribbons in their hair, and were smiling. Spencer could see a hint of Ali in both their faces. It was impossible to tell who was who.
“I think this is from when they lived in Connecticut,” Chase explained. “It doesn’t really tell us much about the case, just that the twins didn’t always hate each other.” He sniffed. “They sounded psycho, didn’t they? Then again, those parents must have been whack-jobs, too. Who doesn’t notice when their daughters switch places?”
“Seriously,” Spencer mumbled, wondering what Chase would say if he knew those very twins were her half sisters.
She flipped to the next photo and gasped at the familiar image. Two blond girls stood in the DiLaurentises’ Rosewood backyard. Ali—or was it Courtney?—faced the camera, and the second blonde, who they’d all thought was Naomi Zeigler once upon a time, turned away. An innocent-looking Jenna Cavanaugh was next to them, a trapped expression on her face. Spencer had seen this photograph before: Real Ali-as-A had sent it to Emily along with a note that said, One of these things doesn’t belong. Figure it out quickly . . . or else. They’d never quite figured out why Ali had sent it to Emily. To frame Jenna, perhaps—she’d died shortly after and probably knew way too much for her own good.
Spencer looked up. “Are you going to post these on your blog?”
Chase shook his head. “I’m not posting anything until I have more proof.”
“I wish you knew who sent you these. There wasn’t a note with them? Nothing?”
Chase shrugged. “They just showed up.”
Spencer shivered. Had Real Ali sent them? Only, why? To tease them? To show them how invincible and evasive she was?
She flipped to the last photo. In this one, Ali faced the camera. She looked older, nearly as old as the girl they’d met last year, and she wore a pair of white pajamas. She stood in The Preserve’s dayroom—Spencer recognized the construction-paper cutouts on the wall. Someone stood next to her, too, but Ali’s raised palm blocked out his face. Was it another patient? Her boyfriend? Helper A?
Chase’s phone beeped again. He typed a response, then put the phone away. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”
“Already?” she blurted.
Chase seemed surprised by her reaction. “W-would you want to hang out more?” he asked, a note of hope in his voice.
Spencer nodded quickly, then felt like a desperate idiot. “To talk about the Ali case, I mean. You have some really good ideas.”
For a split second, Chase almost seemed disappointed, but then he smiled. “Definitely,” he said. “I’d like that . . . a lot.” He stuck out his hand for Spencer to shake, but Spencer pulled him in and gave him a hug. He smelled like leather and citrus-scented deodorant. It took all of Spencer’s willpower not to run her fingers through his hair.
Chase pulled away from Spencer, studied her once more, and let his thumb trail across her cheek. Tingles shot up Spencer’s spine. “Maybe next time you’ll tell me who you are, Britney,” he teased. And then he turned around and strode out of the museum, his sneakers barely making a sound.
