Vicious (19 page)

One week, two days earlier

Cape May, NJ

“Do you smell that?” Emily said excitedly, gesturing into the garage of the closed-up beach house that belonged to Betty Maxwell, Nick's grandmother.

She watched as her friends stuck their heads into the garage and sniffed. “Is that . . . vanilla?” Aria finally said.

Emily nodded, feeling like she was going to burst. “We should call the police. This is proof she's still alive!”

But her friends just shifted, looking uncomfortable. Spencer peered back into the empty house. “Em, that's not enough to get the police here.” She sighed. “Besides, she's not here
now
.”

Emily couldn't believe it. Okay, okay, Ali wasn't here now—but it was still an amazing lead, right?

They all just shrugged and looked at her like she was nuts. And maybe she
was
nuts—the Ali voice in her head was cackling so loudly Emily could barely think straight. She couldn't believe that, once again, Ali had gotten the best of them. It was yet another slap in the face.

Emily tried to tell herself this was the end. But she couldn't just let it go so easily.

Emily heard her friends say they should stay here for the day, catch some rays, have a nice dinner. She felt herself nod along only because fighting would worry them more. But as they walked away, she felt detached from her body—from the whole scene, really. Her entire mind, her whole being was back in that house. There had to be a bigger clue there, something they'd missed.

She had to find it.

As they headed to the beach, Emily mentally reviewed the places in the house they'd searched. There was nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the bedrooms, nothing in the closets. But what about that vanilla-stinky garage? They'd only poked their heads in. Sure, the place had
looked
empty . . . but maybe it wasn't.

It haunted her as they played in the waves and listened to music through Spencer's iPod speakers. It plagued her as they changed for dinner. It needled her as they ate fresh seafood and ordered margaritas and tried to act upbeat. Her friends kept trying to pull her into the conversation, but she could only reply with stiff, one-word answers.
We have to go back
, she wanted to tell them.
Something is there. I just know it.

But she knew her friends wouldn't go back to that house. They'd already taken a huge risk breaking in this afternoon. They were taking a huge risk even
being
there. No. If she wanted to satisfy her hunch, she would have to do it alone.

They tumbled into their shared hotel room that night and turned on the TV to Comedy Central. Emily bided her time, watching as each of her friends had settled into bed, Spencer turning on the AC, Hanna pulling her eye mask over her face. After a while, the room grew silent, and someone turned down the TV volume. Emily waited an extra half hour to make sure they were all asleep, then crept out of the hotel room, key in hand.

The walk to Betty Maxwell's house took fifteen minutes, her flip-flops smacking loudly on the sidewalk in the quiet night. It had to be about two in the morning, and Emily worried a cop car might stop her, wondering what she was doing out so late. But luck was on her side. She didn't see any cars at all.

The beach house was eerier after dark, the walls creaking, strange shadows skittering in the corners, an odd clanking sound coming from somewhere in the back. Armed with a flashlight, Emily headed straight to the garage. It still smelled strongly of vanilla—of
Ali
. She stepped into the dark, small space, leftover sand gritting under her flip-flops. Hands shaking, she felt around the metal shelves along the garage walls, desperate to find something other than dust bunnies. Her fingers grazed spider webs. She pressed against the cinder-block walls, hoping for a loose brick that was concealing something secret. In the corner of the garage was an industrial-looking tool chest; she opened it and felt to the very back, but there was nothing inside.

Then she saw the trash can.

It was just a normal blue trash can with Cape May's city logo on the front, but Emily heard warning bells go off in her mind. She scampered over to it, lifted the plastic lid, and shone the flashlight inside. There were no bags in there, and the bottom was dark. But then the light caught the edge of something crusted along the bottom. Emily reached as far down as she could, unpeeling the piece of paper from the plastic. She pulled it out, barely able to breathe. It was an envelope smeared with dried oil. It should have smelled like trash, but it, too, smelled like vanilla.

She ran back inside, placed it on the kitchen island, and shone her flashlight over it. There was no addressee, just Betty Maxwell's house number and the Cape May ZIP code. In the corner, though, was a return address. Someone had written,
Day, 8901 Hyacinth Drive, Cocoa Beach, FL.

Emily turned the envelope over. It had already been opened; whatever was inside had been removed. The vanilla smell was so strong it made her dizzy. Had
Ali
received this? Who was
Day
? The name seemed significant, for some reason, but Emily couldn't recall why.

She was so wrapped up in thought that she barely remembered the walk back to the hotel. This was definitely,
definitely
a clue. Should she tell the others? Or would they reprimand her for going back, then shoot her down? They wouldn't actually believe it was anything, would they?

Certainly not that the envelope was worth traveling to Cocoa Beach, Florida to follow up on. But Emily just . . .
felt
something, a premonition stronger than any she'd ever had. She
needed
to see what this was. She had to go there. It would mean abandoning her friends—and the trial. But as much as she hated to do that, she knew this was probably their last shot. She would just have to go without them.

She didn't want anyone knowing about it, though—not her friends, not her family, not the cops. She couldn't afford to be looking over her shoulder the whole time. And she didn't want Ali to see her coming. How could she manage that?

She slipped back into the hotel room and took her place next to Hanna on the bed, her mind churning. And then, all at once, it came to her. It was so easy: Ali had already done it, after all. She'd faked her murder, and everyone believed it. If Emily faked her suicide, everyone would believe it, too.

She lay awake the rest of the night, planning the logistics. She would use the hurricane—everyone would think that it had killed her, but she knew she was a good enough swimmer to get through. At 5
AM
, when she scrawled a note to Spencer, Aria, and Hanna, she knew what they'd believe. After all, she'd been legitimately distraught for weeks. She might as well capitalize on that now.

She pinned a Ziploc bag full of cash to her swim bottoms, walked down to the beach, and stepped into the waves. As she got deeper, the current was trickier to navigate than she'd originally thought, but she tried to stay calm and trust her swimming skills. She saw her friends rush to the shore, their faces masks of horror. Emily pretended to struggle, simultaneously feeling guilty for what she was putting them through but also confident in her decision that this was the only way no one would come looking for her.

What she didn't bank on was Spencer walking into the waves after her. “No!” Emily screamed, thrusting her arms over her head. She watched as the ocean pulled Spencer under again and again. “Stop struggling!” By the time the rescue teams arrived, Emily feared the worst. Several EMTs dragged Spencer's limp body onto the beach. Emily watched as the rescuers crowded around her and her friends stood in shock. But then, Spencer's body bucked, and she coughed and rolled to her side. Everyone seemed to relax a little. The rescuers loaded her onto a stretcher and carried her up the beach.

The coast guard helicopters swooped overhead, still searching. Emily ducked under, choking up salt, feeling the jellyfish stings, thrashing her legs through the waves. She let the current carry her farther out, terrified the whole time. A jetty was to her left; all she had to do was get out of the riptide and then swim underwater toward it.

But the waves crashed at her right and left. Several times she was pushed under for so long she was sure her lungs would give out. She surfaced, gasping, again and again, only to be pulled under once more. Her back hit the bottom roughly. Her elbow smashed against an outcropping of rocks. She caught sight of blood on her skin, terrified it might draw sharks. The waves rolled in again and again, showing no sign of slowing. A single image of Ali's hideous, angry, menacing face blazed in her mind, pushing her forward. She was doing this to find her. She was doing this to end the nightmare.

There was a break in the tumult, and Emily bobbed to the surface, breathing hard. The helicopters were farther down the beach, searching a different spot. She breathed and paddled hard toward the jetty, which wasn't far at all. She almost cried when she reached it, clinging to it and letting her legs bang against the posts. After a lot of breaths, she hefted herself up onto the wooden deck. Mercifully, there was no one on shore to see her, and the cuts on her legs from the jetty weren't that bad. After a while, shivering and weak, she staggered onto the cold, windswept beach and took refuge under a lifeguard stand. Her fingers touched something soft, and she unearthed a red Under Armour sweatshirt someone had left behind. She squealed with delight, pulling it on quickly and immediately feeling comforted by the warm, soft cotton. Then she patted her swim bottoms—the Ziploc was still pinned securely. Both things together felt like a wonderful boon. Maybe this really was going to work.

Once Emily regained her strength, she started up the walkway and headed into town. Thank goodness this was a beach town and walking into places in only a sweatshirt and a bathing suit was commonplace—when she walked into Wawa, no one paid any notice to her strange attire. Katy Perry's “Roar” was playing loudly over the speakers, which nicely drowned out Emily's pounding heart. She kept her head down and her eyes averted as she canvassed the aisles, selecting a giant-size iced tea, several soft pretzels, flip-flops, and a pair of gym shorts with a Cape May logo from among the small clothing section.

She pretended she had a hangover as she handed the bills to the man at the counter so she wouldn't have to make eye contact. Once outside, she pulled on the shorts quickly and stuffed the pretzels into her mouth, desperately ravenous. It was still so early in the morning, the sky a dull gray. There weren't many cars in the parking lot. Across the street, the town's famous pancake house was closed, maybe because of the storm. One helicopter circled the sky, perhaps still looking for her . . . and here she was, eating a pretzel, drinking iced tea, fine.

It was kind of crazy, and certainly drastic. What if it didn't work? What if she'd just made a horrible mistake?

She waited, listening for the Ali voice to chime in, but she was silent. Then Emily felt inside the Ziploc that was now tucked into her new shorts, pulling out a folded piece of hotel stationary.
8901 Hyacinth Drive, Cocoa Beach, FL
, she'd written. The ink hadn't smeared one bit—and that felt like a good omen, too. She held it between her hands, her heartbeat speeding up. She'd have to figure out the best way to get to Florida.

She only hoped she'd find what she was looking for once she got there.

One week and one day after Emily's dive into the ocean, she had made her way down to Florida. The oppressive humidity hit her the moment she stepped off the Greyhound bus, but it was a welcome change compared to the rank, bologna-smelling, bone-rattling contraptions she'd been a prisoner of for the past week. She shaded her eyes and looked around. Palm trees swayed majestically down the boulevard. Fluffy, midday clouds drifted overhead. A big electronic sign loomed large on the side of the building.
Today is Sunday
, scrolled red digital letters.
Welcome to Cocoa Beach.

Emily was finally here. She cocked her head, still expecting an Ali-voice comment, but Ali had been silent ever since Emily's plunge into the sea. And so Emily relied on the old superstitious trick she'd used so many times since she was a kid, gazing out at the rushing traffic on the highway.
If a semi truck passes in the next ten seconds, you'll find her. If it doesn't, you won't.

She started to count. At seven, a semi rushed past. Her fingertips tingled with possibility.

She followed the crowd of people into the depot, cagily looking back and forth for fear that someone might recognize her. But no one was even glancing in her direction. Then again, she didn't exactly
look
like the Emily Fields from the news, but instead like a skinny, bedraggled ragamuffin who hadn't showered or eaten a proper meal in days. She'd had to transfer seven different times to ensure the cheapest bus to southern Florida. She'd read the same discarded copy of
Golf Digest
for four days in a row just to keep from going insane. She'd slept with her head against a bus window or curled up on a depot bench. She'd almost gotten pickpocketed twice, countless skeevy travelers had hit on her, and an old lady had screamed at her in Portuguese—Emily suspected she'd put a hex on her. She'd suffered a lot on this trip. Risked a lot, too.

But it was worth it. She was on a mission.

The depot was frigid and smelled like cleaning products, and an announcement blared over the loudspeaker in Spanish. Emily pushed into the women's bathroom—the toilet on the bus had become entirely too gross to use by the end of the trip, and she'd been holding in pee since the Georgia/Florida line. Inside the stall, she reached into the plastic bag she'd been carrying, pulled out the burner cell she'd bought at a stopover in North Carolina, and went through the steps to activate it. She hadn't wanted to use a cell phone before this, but now that she was here, she wasn't sure what sort of situation she might run into. After the screen announced that the phone was active, she slipped it into her pocket, feeling every ounce of its weight.

Outside the bathroom was a big map of the Cocoa Beach area. It took some searching, but Emily located Hyacinth Street in a development several miles away. She pulled out the pen she'd swiped from a rest stop in South Carolina and wrote the directions on her hand. Then, something on the TV hanging over the ticket window caught her eye, and she looked up. Hanna's and Spencer's solemn, sober faces flashed on the screen, filling Emily with even more guilt. They looked so
tortured.
She'd caught snippets of the trial during the journey, and with each new story, she'd felt even worse for leaving them to deal with it all on their own, especially since Aria had taken off for Europe. She also hated that her suicide wasn't a vote of confidence to the jury that they were innocent.

Then she noticed the headline.
Pretty Little Liars Found Guilty
, read big red letters. Emily's jaw dropped. The trial was over. The jury didn't believe them. They were going to
jail
.

She had to get to that house,
now.

She found the bus line to Hyacinth Street and jogged to the stop just as a bus was pulling up. After paying the fare, she collapsed into a seat, AC blaring on the back of her neck. Art deco buildings swept past out the windows. Palm trees swayed. A woman near the front was listening to loud, lively music over headphones. Emily knew Ali had a grandma in Florida; was she hiding her now? But who had helped her
get
here? Who had paid her way the whole distance down the coast?

How had Ali passed unnoticed by everyone yet
again
?

The bus reached her stop, and Emily hurried off and onto a desolate stretch of sidewalk. Small stucco houses lined the streets. Two yards down, an older woman in curlers tended a flower bed. Across the street, an elderly man was walking a Lakeland terrier. A pack of senior citizens in matching tracksuits disappeared around the corner, their arms pumping, power-walker style. All the cars parked on the street looked like something her grandparents would drive: either big, boatlike cruisers or efficient little Toyota Corollas.

Emily's throat felt dry as she walked up the block and took a right at Hyacinth. More pretty stucco houses lined the block, all painted in cheerful pastels. Emily gazed at the sprayed-on numbers on the curb—8879 . . . 8881 . . . 8893 . . . and suddenly, there was 8901, just ahead. It was a cheerful pink house with white shutters and a white fence. A sprinkler sprayed the green grass in the yard, and tropical plants grew in a few flower beds near the windows. On the porch was the same statue of a droopy-eyed dog that the old lady who lived three doors down from Emily back in Rosewood had on
her
porch. The driveway was empty of cars.

Emily crouched behind a giant palm. Was this right? The place seemed like a retirement community. What if Ali had planted that envelope in the trash can for Emily to find? What if she was watching from somewhere, laughing her head off?

Emily thought about her friends' faces on the news again.
Prison.
It was unthinkable. They were going through hell, and she wasn't by their side. What if this was a trap and she was caught? She'd go to jail and probably get double the sentence for faking her death. Her friends would hate her. Her family would hate her.
Everyone
would hate her. They'd think she was even more nuts than before. Maybe she would end up at The Preserve.

But then the front door opened.

Emily crouched down. A figure stepped down the front path and crossed the lawn toward the driveway. It was a woman, her hips swinging and her hair bouncing, and she didn't look nearly as old as the other residents in the neighborhood. Her hair was still a fresh, buttery blond. Her body was trim and young, as if she did lots of yoga. She was wearing a sundress, blue espadrilles, and a sparkling diamond pendant at her throat.

Emily frowned. That diamond pendant looked familiar—
really
familiar. Just then, she got the strangest memory: It was seventh grade, and she and the other girls were dressing up Ali to go to the high school's Valentine's Dance—she'd been asked by a cute freshman boy named Tegan. Emily had thrown herself into helping Ali get ready, fussing over her hair and makeup,
ooh
ing and
ahh
ing over the teardrop-shaped diamond necklace Ali got to wear that night, on loan from her mother.

Day.
All of a sudden, Emily knew why that name was significant. Before the DiLaurentises moved to Rosewood, they'd been known as the
Day-
DiLaurentises
.
But when they'd moved away because of their daughter's violent outbursts, wanting to change over and start fresh, they'd dropped the first half of their name.

Could it
be
?

The woman strode toward the back of the house, that familiar diamond pendant thumping at her throat. As she opened the gate, the sun struck her face, illuminating her fine-boned features, from her slanted nose to her big blue eyes to her bow-shaped lips. Emily's mouth dropped open. A scream froze in her throat.

It was Ali's mother.

Emily was so stunned that her knees gave way. But suddenly, it made so much sense. This was why Mrs. D hadn't attended the trial. This was why she hadn't commented to the press. Maybe the press didn't know where she
was.
And Ali might have been insane, and Mrs. D might have fully understood that, but Ali was still her daughter. And as her mother, Mrs. D probably felt an obligation to protect her. It was something Emily could easily empathize with:
She
had a daughter, too, little Violet. It hadn't been that long ago that A had hinted that Violet might be in danger. Emily had gone crazy with worry, desperate to keep Violet safe.

Maybe that's what Mrs. D was doing, too. Not quite thinking things through, Emily shot across the street and onto the property. She unlatched the white metal gate at the front and crept through the side yard, her heart pounding. It was cooler in the backyard, the area shady with palm trees, and a water feature bubbled noisily near the sliding door.

Mrs. D stood with her back to Emily. A white curl of cigarette smoke snaked above her head, and a glowing red cigarette tip extended from between her fingers. She looked so vulnerable, standing there, having no clue Emily was behind her. Emily felt vulnerable, too. She still had no idea what she was going to say or do.

Taking a deep breath, she covertly pressed the
CALL
screen of the burner cell. Fingers trembling, she dialed 911
.
Someone answered immediately. “What's your emergency?” a woman's voice blared.

Mrs. D's head shot up, and she turned at the noise. When she spied Emily, her eyes narrowed, then widened.

“H-hi,” Emily heard herself say, her voice so small.

“What's your emergency?” the voice said again. Emily just hoped the dispatcher wouldn't hang up before certain things were said. Didn't they record 911 calls?

The color drained from Mrs. D's face. Up close, she looked older than Emily remembered. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin seemed drawn against her face, her body too gaunt.

“What are
you
doing here?” Mrs. D finally hissed, backing up. “Didn't you . . .
drown
?”

She sounded scared, Emily realized. Maybe trapped. “I'm looking for Alison,” Emily said in the steadiest voice she could manage, her gaze on Ali's mom. “I think you've seen her.”

Mrs. D looked at Emily crazily. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

“I think you know where she is,” Emily went on. “I understand what you're doing, Mrs. DiLaurentis. I have a daughter, too. If I thought she was in danger, I'd do anything to help her. But you need to do what's right. Your daughter has hurt a lot of people and ruined a lot of lives.”

Mrs. D dropped the cigarette to the pavers. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she spat. “My daughter is dead.
You
killed her.”

There was a slight hiccup in her voice, and she averted her eyes. Emily's heart jumped. “You know that's not true,” she said loudly. “You've been in touch with her. In fact, I think she's
here
.”

Mrs. D shook her head. “I've heard things about you. They said you'd gone crazy. I figured you were the one that killed Alison. I bet it was you alone, wasn't it?”

“I
didn't kill her
,” Emily roared. “She almost killed
me
.”

“I read the things she wrote about you in her journal. You girls are monsters.”

“Hello?” the dispatcher said. “Is someone on the line?”

Mrs. D glanced at Emily's pocket. “Who are you talking to?”

Emily touched the phone through the fabric. “I've called the police. They're on their way. So you'd better start telling me the truth.”

Mrs. D's bottom lip started to tremble. Something about her tough expression collapsed. “The
police
?” she squeaked. “W-why would you do that? They'll come after
you,
you know. Haven't you heard? Your friends were found guilty.”

“They won't come after me. You know that. Just tell me where she is. I'm not going to hurt her. I promise.”

Though it was difficult, Emily didn't break her poker face. Mrs. D's eyes darted back and forth. She looked like she was going to crack.

“Hello?” the dispatcher said again. “Ma'am, we're . . .”

But Emily didn't hear the rest. She felt someone yank her from behind, pinning her arms behind her back. She let out a scream. Mrs. D's eyes widened. And then Emily felt something cold and hard press at her temple. Her whole body went slack. It was a gun.

“Don't move, bitch,” a voice growled.

A figure stepped in front of her, swimming into view. Emily saw a heavyset girl with sallow skin and dull, brown hair. It was the eyes, though, that Emily recognized right away—crystal-blue eyes that sparkled when they smiled. And the mouth, too. That beautiful, kissable bow-shaped mouth.

Ali.