Emily paced up and down a faded yellow line demarcating a parking space. “You know how big I got. I didn’t look like the girl on that People cover. But I suppose someone could have figured it out.” She arched her back and stared at the spindly tree branches above their heads.
“This isn’t just any random someone,” Aria pointed out. “It’s a person who’s out to get us. Someone we wronged. Someone who wants revenge.”
“But who?” Hanna cried.
Emily stopped pacing. “You all know who I think A is.”
Spencer groaned. “Don’t say Ali, Em.”
“Why not?” Emily’s voice cracked. “She and Tabitha were at the Preserve together. Ali could’ve found out we killed Tabitha. Maybe she wants revenge for that, on top of everything else we did to her.”
Spencer sighed. She couldn’t believe Emily was still on this Ali-is-alive mission. “So Ali and Tabitha were at the Preserve at the same time. That doesn’t prove anything. And for the last time, Ali’s bones weren’t found in the rubble, but we all saw her in the house just before it blew up.”
A shadow passed over Emily’s face. “It’s just, who other than Ali would know to follow us around everywhere, track our every move?” she said, staring at her feet. “And you guys aren’t going to believe who’s here—Gayle. What if A is planning to tell her what I did with the baby? And what if Gayle tells everyone about me?”
“Wait a minute.” Hanna furrowed her brow. “Gayle, the woman who wanted the baby, is inside?”
Emily nodded. “It was the woman your dad introduced me to. Ms. Riggs.”
“So that’s why she called you Heather.” Hanna shut her eyes. “Gayle is promising my dad a lot of money for his campaign.”
“Well, isn’t that a lovely coincidence,” Spencer said sarcastically.
Aria cleared her throat. “Maybe it’s not a coincidence at all.”
Everyone looked at her. Aria turned to Emily. “Let me get this straight, Em. You just saw the woman you promised a baby to, the woman you screwed over in the end. Right?”
“I had to screw her over,” Emily interrupted, a tormented look on her face. “I had to do what was right for the baby!”
“I know, I know.” Aria waved her hands impatiently. “Just go with me, okay? You were worried sick about Gayle tracking you down, though. And you said Gayle was crazy. Isn’t that why you didn’t want to give the baby to her?”
Emily wrinkled her nose. “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Aria exclaimed. “You saw Gayle inside. And then, seconds later, you got a note from A about the baby. Gayle is A! Maybe she figured out what you did—what we all did! And now she wants to get revenge on all of us for helping you take her baby away!”
Emily squinted. “That makes no sense. How could Gayle know about Spencer’s drug problem? How could she know about what happened in Jamaica?”
“Maybe she has a connection to Penn and Jamaica,” Aria said. “She’s really rich. Maybe she hired a PI. You never know.”
“But what does she want from us?” Hanna asked.
Everyone thought for a moment. “Maybe she wants to know where the baby is,” Aria suggested.
“Or maybe Gayle just wants to hurt you like you hurt her,” Spencer said with a shiver. “Remember those messages she left on your voicemail, Em? She sounded crazy.” She shut her eyes and recalled the woman’s grating voice coming through the tiny cell phone speaker. I’m going to find you, the last voicemail had said. I’m going to hunt you and that baby down, and then you’ll be sorry.
Inside, Tom Marin’s voice boomed through the microphone. Hanna cast a glance at the door. “What did you mean when you said Gayle being my dad’s biggest donor might not be a coincidence, Aria?”
“Think about it.” Aria fiddled with one of her feather earrings. “If Gayle is A, maybe she got involved with your dad’s campaign to get closer to you. Maybe it’s part of her master plan.”
Hanna squeezed her eyes shut. “My dad said that her funds are crucial to the campaign, though. If she withheld them for any reason, he might not have the money to air his commercials throughout the state.”
“Maybe that’s part of A’s master plan, too,” Spencer said somberly.
“Guys, do you hear yourselves?” Emily looked annoyed. “There’s no way Gayle is A. Yeah, it’s awful that I ran into her. And yeah, I don’t know what I’m going to do now that she’s seen me. But we have to think about A getting to Gayle, not A being Gayle.”
“I think we need more facts,” Spencer said. “Maybe there’s a way we could prove if Gayle is or isn’t A. If she’s your dad’s biggest donor, Hanna, maybe you could snoop around a little?”
“Me?” Hanna pressed her hand to her chest. “Why do I have to do it?”
They were suddenly interrupted by a loud creak. The back door opened, and Kate stuck her head out. “There you are,” she said, sounding more relieved than annoyed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Dad wants us on the stage with him.”
“Got it.” Hanna moved toward the door. She glanced over her shoulder at the others, indicating that they should follow. Aria and Spencer fell in line, but Emily stayed where she was. I’m not going back inside, her stubborn expression said. Not with Gayle there.
Spencer gave Emily an apologetic wave before ducking back into the banquet hall. The room was even more crowded than before—every seat was filled. Mr. Marin stood on the stage, answering questions and flashing his politician’s smile. Spencer caught Hanna’s arm before she joined her father. “Which one is Gayle, anyway?”
Hanna pointed to a woman in a red skirt suit in the front row. “Her.”
Spencer gazed at the woman, assessing her blond hair, thin face, and the enormous diamonds on her fingers. All of a sudden, something clicked. The cake tasting. Gayle had been a few tables over, wearing a Chanel suit. Spencer had felt the woman’s gaze on her back, but had shaken off Gayle’s weird, smug expression, telling herself she was just being paranoid.
But maybe she wasn’t. Maybe Gayle had been watching her. Because maybe, just maybe, Gayle was A.
10
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
Wednesday afternoon, Aria and Noel stood at a counter in the basement of the Rosewood Culinary College, where they were taking Introduction to Cooking. Shiny pots and pans surrounded them. Ground-up spices waited in small, clear prep bowls, and a half-chopped leek lay limply on their cutting board. The room smelled of boiling chicken broth, gas from the burners, and the pungent cinnamon Trident that Marge, the lady behind them, chewed nonstop.
All eyes were on Madame Richeau, their instructor. Even though she’d only been a cook on a Carnival cruise ship for all of six months in the eighties, she acted as though she were a celebrity chef on the Food Network, wearing a tall toque and speaking with a dubious French accent.
“The key to good risotto is constant stirring,” Madame Richeau said, inserting a wooden spoon into a pot and rotating it slowly around. She pronounced the like zee. “Never stop stirring until the rice is creamy. It’s a hard technique to master! Now, stir, stir, stir!”
Noel nudged Aria. “You aren’t stirring fast enough.”
Aria snapped to attention and looked down at her pot, which was full of Arborio rice and bubbling broth. “Oops,” she said distractedly, giving the concoction a few good mixes.