Vicious (3 page)

“Hanna,
no
.” Spencer gave her a sharp look. “We have no leads.”

That's right
, Ali tittered in Emily's mind.
You'll never find me.

Emily pulled out her phone again. The Nick article was still on the screen. “Nick's so angry. Maybe he'll help us out. Give us something.”

Spencer snorted. “Unlikely.”

“Yeah, and I hate the idea of facing him in prison,” Aria said nervously. “Don't you?”

“If we go together, I think we can handle it,” Emily said, trying to sound firm.

“Maybe,” Aria murmured unhappily.

Hanna tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “What are the chances the cops will even let us visit someone in prison? We're out on bail. We can't exactly move freely and do whatever we want.”

Emily looked at Spencer. “Could your dad pull some strings?” Spencer's father, a powerful lawyer, knew everyone from the DA to the mayor to the chief of police. He could make all sorts of things happen.

Spencer crossed her arms over her chest. “I don't think it's a good idea.”

“
Please?
” Emily cried.

Spencer shook her head. “I'm sorry. I don't want to.”

Emily's mouth hung open. “So you're going to give up? That's not like you, Spence.”

Spencer's chin wobbled. “What I don't want to do anymore is play Scooby-Doo. It only leads to more problems.”

“Spence,” Emily protested, reaching for Spencer's arm. But Spencer shook her off, letting out a pained note that echoed through the lobby. She spun around and walked through the revolving doors.

A long silence followed. Emily felt that same weight pressing on her chest once more. She didn't dare look at Hanna or Aria because she knew she'd burst into tears if she did. Maybe Spencer was right. Maybe it
was
a terrible idea to go looking for Ali again.

That's right
, Ali shrieked in Emily's head, louder than ever.
This time, I've got you for good.

Spencer Hastings walked quickly to the end of the Center City block. She glanced over her shoulder, half-sure that her friends were running after her, trying to convince her to embark on another crazy, frustrating, and fruitless Ali search. But the street was empty.
Good.

She was done trying to search for Ali. After the past two weeks, after coming so close to finding Ali and then losing her so dramatically, she was giving up. She'd gotten everything she wanted only to have it all taken away—she no longer had any college future, she no longer had a book deal, and her bullying blog, which had so recently been a huge success, hadn't had any hits in days except for people writing posts about what a horrible person she was.
Fine, Ali, you win
, she'd finally conceded. As far as Spencer was concerned, it was time to face her fate: prison.

Maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world, though. She was Spencer Hastings, and if she was going to have to go to prison, then she was damn sure going to do everything she could to make it as tolerable as possible. It was the same approach she'd taken before attending Camp Rutabaga in fifth grade: She'd interviewed previous summers' campers and counselors, read message boards, even tramped over the campgrounds during the winter to get the lay of the land. She'd learned never to swim before 11
AM
, when they added new chlorine to the pool; to avoid the peas in the mess hall; and that the surest way to win Color War was by mastering the rope bridge—and she had done so by practicing on a course she'd built beforehand in her backyard. And so she'd started her prison prep by reading the bestselling memoir
Behind Bars: My Time in Prison
. When she realized Angela Beadling, the author, lived in Philly, Spencer had gone on her website, and found that she consulted for individual clients as a Prison Life and Acclimation Specialist
.
She'd immediately called and made an appointment.

Her phone bleated, startling her. She looked at the screen.
Dad
. Emily hadn't called him behind her back, had she? Spencer bit her lip and answered.

“Hey, Spence,” Mr. Hastings said soberly. “How are you holding up?”

Spencer swallowed hard, all thoughts of Emily fading away. She appreciated her father's efforts to stay in touch—it was more than her ice-queen mother was doing at the moment. “Okay,” she said, trying to sound positive. “I just came from a meeting with Rubens, actually.”

“Really?” Mr. Hastings sounded enthusiastic. “And how did that go?”

Spencer skirted a green recycling can. She didn't have the heart to tell her dad that Rubens had told them exactly the same thing as every other lawyer. Mr. Hastings had pulled all kinds of strings to get them a meeting, after all. And though they hadn't talked about it—and would probably never discuss it in a zillion years—a huge, dark secret lingered between them. Not long ago, Spencer had found out that her father was Ali and Courtney's dad, too. She knew he must have conflicted feelings about how messed up both of those girls had turned out, but Real Ali was
still
his flesh and blood. Spencer couldn't help thinking that his careful, deliberate supportiveness was a clear message that he didn't believe for a second that he was letting any paternal feelings get in the way.

“Um, great,” she said. “He seems really professional, and he's going to represent all of us.” She took a breath, considering asking him about visiting Nick—her dad would definitely help. But she decided it wasn't worth pursuing.

“Well, glad to hear it,” Mr. Hastings said. “Hey, if you're still in the city, want to grab some lunch? I can meet you at Smith and Wollensky.”

Spencer stopped and looked around. She'd forgotten that she was close to her dad's place on Rittenhouse Square. “Um, I can't,” she blurted. “I'm already on SEPTA. Sorry!”

Then she hung up as fast as she could. With just her luck, she'd run into her dad on the street right now and be forced to answer questions. And she had no idea how she would explain where she was
really
going.

She reached into her pocket, looked at the address she'd written on a crumpled Post-it, and then entered it into Google Maps on her phone. It didn't take her long to get to the building, a pretty white house with molding that looked like birthday-cake frosting. The car parked in front was a British racing green Porsche 911. An American flag hung from the eaves and there was a huge pot of flowers on the porch. Spencer walked up the steps and looked at the name on the mailbox.
ANGELA BEADLING
. This was it. Spencer was a little surprised—the book had been a bestseller, sure, but she hadn't expected Angela to live somewhere quite so cushy.

She rang the bell and waited. Behind her, there was a loud slam, and she whirled around, her heart jumping in her throat. The street appeared deserted, so she wasn't sure who could have made that slam. Someone in the house next door? The wind?

Ali?

No way. Ali wasn't here. She couldn't be.

A steely-eyed woman with blond hair, a sharply pointed nose, and thin lips appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a menswear-cut pair of trousers and an oxford shirt. Spencer stared at her. The woman stared back. It was the woman from the book jacket, all right. Except she wasn't pleasantly smiling like she was in her author photo.

“Are you Spencer?” the woman asked gruffly. She stuck out her hand before Spencer answered. “I'm Angela. It's three hundred just to come through the door.”

“O-oh.” Spencer fumbled for her purse and handed over a bunch of crumpled bills. Seemingly satisfied, Angela stepped through the doorway and waved Spencer into a huge space decorated with eighteenth-century French furniture. A tapestry depicting a sour-faced king and queen sitting on thrones in a royal court decorated the back wall. The chandelier over their heads held real candles, though none were lit at the moment. Three ceramic Buddhas stared at Spencer from the mantel. They weren't calming in the least.

Angela plopped down on the largest leather couch Spencer had ever seen and spread her legs across it so that Spencer couldn't share the space. Spencer drifted toward an upright chair in the corner
.
“So,” Spencer began, sitting down. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me. I really enjoyed your book.”

Angela smirked. “Thanks.”

Spencer leaned down and pulled her laptop from her bag, opening it on her lap. She took a moment to create a new document in Word and titled it
Prison
. “So I guess we'll just start from the beginning, right? Like in ‘Chapter One—Getting There
.
' Am I really going to be strip-searched?”

Then she heard Angela snickering and looked up. “Honey, this isn't SAT prep.”

Spencer felt her cheeks blaze but didn't close the laptop.

Angela lit a Newport Light on a long, gold cigarette holder. “I know who you are and what you did. You'll probably get medium security, is my guess. I don't think they'll do minimum for you, but maybe not maximum, either.”

Spencer's heart pounded
. Medium
, she typed. Just hearing the designations made things seem much more real. “Actually, I
didn't
do anything,” she corrected Angela. “I'm wrongfully accused.”

“Uh huh. Everyone says that.” Angela tapped the cigarette into a brown ashtray. “All right, we
will
start at the beginning. This is how it's going to go down. First, they're going to strip-search you. Then, you'll be assigned a bunk, where more than likely your bunkmates will be murderers like yourself—they like to keep similar criminals together. You won't see your friends, if you're all convicted. And don't even try to make other friends, because they're all backstabbing bitches. Now, with this consultation, I can specialize in either tricks to deal with the guards, how to handle the gangs, or how to manage a relationship while behind bars—you got a boyfriend?”

“N-no,” Spencer stammered. Angela was talking too fast. She hadn't even had a chance to type.

“Well, then, I suggest we talk about dealing with the girl gangs—just like in chapter ten.” Angela rolled her eyes and took another drag. “If you want to hear about the guards, too, that'll be an extra one-twenty-five.”

Spencer's mouth felt dry. “Maybe we could talk about the, um, useful parts of prison? Like the college programs? Work-study initiatives?”

Angela stared at Spencer for a beat, then burst out laughing. “Honey, if anything, they'll do a GED program. And of course they have a lot of law books in case you want to appeal your case, which
everyone
does, not that you really get anywhere with that.”

Spencer's heart beat faster. “What about exercise? Your book didn't mention it, but I've read that correctional facilities value physical fitness and health, so . . .”

Angela snorted. “They let you walk around the yard. Don't think you're getting a spin studio or a Pilates class.”

“But . . .”

Angela leaned forward, her cigarette blazing. “Listen, honey. I highly suggest we use the rest of this time to talk about girl gangs. A girl like you needs street skills. You go in there spouting Shakespeare, taking notes? You're going to get your ass kicked.”

Spencer blinked hard. “I thought that if you just minded your business and did what you were told, people would leave you alone.”

One corner of Angela's mouth quirked into a smile. “It depends. Sometimes, you slip through the cracks. But sometimes, trying to lay low makes you a target.”

Suddenly, all of Spencer's tough resolve crumbled. She shut her laptop, realizing why Angela had laughed at her for wanting to take notes. What was the point?

“There's
no way
to make it better?” she heard herself squeak.

Angela snorted. “You can survive, sure. But better? That's why they call it
prison.
The best approach, honey, is to figure out a way
not
to go. Prison will ruin your life, mark my words.”

A shiver ran up Spencer's spine. “Why were you in prison, anyway?” It was another thing Angela didn't mention in her book.

Angela shook another Newport out of the pack. “That doesn't matter.”

“Did you kill someone?”

“
God
, no.” Angela looked at her sideways. “If I did, do you really think I'd be out already?”

“Then what? Assault? Robbery? Drugs?”

Angela's lip curled. “Those aren't nice things to assume.”

Spencer suddenly
really
wanted to know. So she employed an old trick she had used in debate club when she wanted to intimidate an opponent. She folded her arms across her chest and stared at Angela, sphinxlike.

Angela's expression soured
.
She blew out another plume of smoke. Five seconds passed, and finally she threw up her hands. “Jesus. Stop looking at me like that. It was fraud, okay? I created fake identities for people to keep them
out
of prison. Set up new lives for them. Figured out ways for them to start over.”

Spencer blinked hard. “Wait, you're serious?”

Angela rolled her eyes. “Why would I lie?”

“Did the cops find these people you helped?”

Angela shook her head. “All except for this one stupid bitch who didn't follow the rules—she got in touch with someone from home, and the cops were monitoring the phones. They traced her fake ID back to me. I had to plead guilty to some of the other people I helped, but those people were long gone. As far as I know, the law never caught up to them.”

Spencer ran her hands over the top of her computer, her heart beginning to thrum a little faster. “So it's like the witness protection program . . . except not through the police.”

Angela nodded. “You could say that, sure. It's a new life.”

“Do you . . .
still
do it?”

Angela's eyes narrowed. “Only for very special cases.” She stared right into Spencer's eyes. “It's not for everyone, you know. You can't leave any traces behind. You can't be in touch with anyone you know from your previous life. You have to start over as if you were . . . I don't know. Dropped down here from an alien craft. Some people can't deal.”

Spencer couldn't believe it. For the past two weeks, lying on her bed, she'd
fantasized
about someone who, like a travel agent, could get you a passport and travel documents that would extract you from your current predicament and plop you into a world where you were no longer in trouble. And here was someone who actually
did
it, sitting across from her.

She considered what it would be like, leaving Rosewood and never looking back. Becoming someone else entirely, and never,
ever
telling anyone the truth. Never seeing her family again. She'd miss them. Well, maybe not her mom, who really didn't seem to care that Spencer was on trial for murder, but she'd miss her dad. And she'd miss Melissa, who she'd become closer to lately—Melissa had been very vocal about how Spencer was wrongfully accused, though she'd stayed away from explicitly talking about Ali to the press. She'd miss her friends, of course—it would be so strange not to
talk
to them ever again. But what did she have to live for here? She had no boy in the picture. No college future. And
anything
was better than prison.

She looked up and stared into Angela's eyes. “Would you do it for me?”

Angela stubbed out her second smoke. “Starting price is a hundred.”

“Dollars?”

Angela tittered. “Try a hundred
thousand
dollars
,
honey.”