Emily stopped dead on the dance floor and stared at it. It looked exactly like the bracelet Ali had made for Emily, Spencer, and the others the summer after they’d accidentally blinded Jenna Cavanaugh. Ali had ceremoniously passed around the bracelets, making the girls promise to wear them—and keep the Jenna Thing a secret—until the day they died.
Alarms blared in her head. She took a big step away from Tabitha. There was no way she could’ve gotten her hands on that bracelet. Unless . . .
Tabitha stopped, too. “What’s wrong?” She looked down and realized what Emily was staring at. A bemused smile drifted over her face, as if she knew precisely what made Emily so afraid.
Now, Grace began to cry. Emily gently lifted her out of her swing and cradled her in her arms. “It’s okay,” she said softly, her voice croaky with tears. Grace’s cries turned to muffled whimpers.
“You’re so good with her,” Chloe said. “It’s amazing.”
Those few, kind words tore painfully through Emily. She looked up, suddenly unable to hold something inside any longer. “I have to tell you something,” she whispered. “I had a baby this summer.”
Chloe’s hand froze half-extended to her mouth. “What?”
“I got pregnant from my last boyfriend, Isaac. And . . . I had a baby girl,” Emily repeated, glancing at Grace. The words felt so surreal coming out of her mouth. She hadn’t planned on telling anyone, ever. “That’s why I didn’t swim this fall—I wasn’t up to it, afterward. It’s why I’m scrambling for a scholarship now.”
Chloe ran a hand through her hair. “Wow,” she whispered. “Is the baby okay? Are you okay?”
“The baby’s fine. As for me . . .” Emily shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Chloe’s eyes darted back and forth. “What did your parents think?”
“My parents don’t know. I spent the summer in Philly, basically in hiding. My older sister knew, but she hated me for it.”
“Did you have anyone to rely on?” Chloe asked, grabbing Emily’s shoulder. “A counselor, a doctor, someone you could talk to?”
“Not really.” Emily shut her eyes, her chest tight. “I don’t really want to talk about it anymore, actually. I’m sorry to burden you with this.”
Chloe pulled Emily to her, careful not to squish Grace. “I’m so glad you told me. And I won’t say anything, I swear. You can say anything to me, okay? I promise.”
“Thanks.” Emily’s eyes filled with tears again. She buried her head in Chloe’s soft hair, which smelled like Nexxus hair spray and a variety of styling gels. Grace snuggled between them, silent and content. It felt so good to hug someone. To tell someone. Even more than a BFF necklace or a champagne toast, this felt like the most meaningful friendship ritual of all.
Bang.
Emily opened her eyes with a start. Her mouth felt sticky and swollen.
She was on an unfamiliar couch. Out the windows, she saw the big, distinctive pine trees that lined the center island of the street Ali and Spencer lived on. The room smelled strongly of vanilla soap. She sat up, disoriented.
Footsteps sounded in the kitchen. A cabinet opened and closed. The floorboards creaked, and a figure stepped into the living room and sat down next to Emily. The vanilla odor seemed to multiply. It was Ali. Her Ali. Emily was sure of it.
Wordlessly, Ali leaned over Emily, almost like she was going to tickle her like she sometimes did in the middle of the night. A split second later, a pair of lips touched hers. Emily kissed back, fireworks exploding in her stomach.
But Ali’s chin felt scratchy, not smooth. Emily opened her eyes, waking up for real.
It was a man’s face pressing up against hers, not Ali’s. He smelled like cigars, alcohol, and, most prominently, vanilla pudding. His weight was more than double that of Ali’s, pressing down on her stomach and flattening her boobs.
Emily jerked away and squealed. The figure backed off, then snapped on a light. The golden bulb showed off Mr. Roland’s salt-and-pepper hair. Of course Emily wasn’t at the DiLaurentises’—she was still at Chloe’s; they’d been babysitting.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Mr. Roland said. His smile was like a jack-o’-lantern’s, all scraggly and mischievous.
Emily cowered behind the couch. “What are you doing?”
“Just waking you up.” He lunged for her again.
Emily leapt back. “Stop!”
Mr. Roland lowered his eyebrows and looked toward the stairs. “Shhhh. My wife is up there.”
Emily stared across the room. Not only was Mrs. Roland upstairs, but Chloe was, too. She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and backed out of the house without even tying her shoes. “Emily, wait!” Mr. Roland whisper-called after her. “Your payment!” But she didn’t go back.
It was deathly still outside, the air crackling with coldness. Emily rushed to her car, fell into the driver’s seat, and hyperventilated. It’s just a dream, she chanted to herself. She looked out on the street. If a car passes in the next ten seconds, it’s just a dream. But it was after midnight; no cars passed.
Beep.
Emily’s phone lit up inside her jacket pocket. The seat belt strap went limp in her hands. What if it was Chloe? What if she’d seen? She pulled out the phone. It was something worse: a text from Anonymous. Shaking, she opened the message.
Naughty, naughty! Don’t you just love to be bad, Killer?
Xx,
—A
“Killer?” Emily whispered, her hands trembling uncontrollably. She looked out onto the dark, empty street. That was Ali’s secret name for her. A name very, very few people knew.
Chapter 19
A picture’s worth a thousand tears
On Friday morning, after wedging herself into a jam-packed SEPTA train, Hanna huffed and puffed her way up to Patrick’s fourth-floor photography studio. He’d sent her a note late last night saying that he wanted to see her ASAP. Luckily, she had the day off school for the long weekend, which meant she didn’t even need to come up with an excuse to the front office.
In the light of day, Patrick’s building didn’t seem nearly as charming as it had the other night. The stairwell smelled like rotten eggs. Someone had left a pair of muddy running shoes outside their door. Behind another apartment, a couple was screaming at each other. The door slammed in the lobby, followed by a high-pitched, tinkling laugh. Hanna whipped around, her heart pounding hard. But no one was there.
She heard Tabitha’s voice again, loud and clear: I bet you weren’t always gorgeous, were you?
Hanna clapped her hands over her ears and scampered to Patrick’s floor. Music pumped softly within his studio. She rang the bell, and Patrick flung the door open immediately, almost as if he’d been watching for her through the peephole.
“Miss Hanna!” He grinned, dark hair falling in his eyes.
“Hey.” Hanna stepped into the room, taking deep, even breaths. The eerie laugh still echoed in her ears . . . as did A’s note from her dad’s screening.
“You look beautiful today,” Patrick said, standing close to her.
Hanna’s insides flipped over. “Thanks,” she whispered.
They stood there for a moment, Hanna’s heart pounding faster and faster. She was dying to kiss him, but she didn’t want to seem like an overeager high-school student. “So, um, where are my photos?” she asked in the most casual voice she could muster.