Crushed

A tall man in a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows walked by next. That wasn’t encouraging.

But she had to go through with this. Rolling her shoulders, she stepped out of the car and started toward the double doors. Earlier today, she’d called the hospital asking if she could visit Iris Taylor. The nurse had said that Iris could have visitors in the afternoon, so Emily knew that Iris was still a patient. But when Emily pressed to see how long Iris had been at The Preserve—she wanted to rule her out as Ali’s helper—the nurse wouldn’t give her any information.

A gust of wind slithered down Emily’s back and lifted her coattails. Before she went inside, she picked up her new phone and, after a pause, logged onto Twitter. Yeah, it was breaking the no-Internet rule, but she had to check. There was her prom invitation and note, but no one had responded or retweeted. What made Emily think Jordan had even seen it?

She shut her eyes and tried to imagine what Jordan was doing right now. Sitting at an Italian café in big sunglasses? Lounging on a deserted beach in the tropics? She longed to be stirring her coffee next to her or splashing her with sea foam. The desire was so strong, it physically hurt.

Sighing heavily, she trudged inside the marble lobby. A woman in a white lab coat greeted her with a big smile. “I’m here to see Iris Taylor,” Emily said. “I’m Heather Murphy.” It was her default name; she’d used it when she was a waitress at the seafood restaurant on Penn’s Landing the summer she was pregnant. Gayle Riggs, the woman she’d almost given her baby to, only knew her as Heather . . . until A got involved, that was.

The woman smiled. “I’ll let her know.”

With a gesture of her arm, she directed Emily toward the patient area. Emily walked slowly, bracing herself, and shuddered at the heavy click of the bolt on the door that separated the lobby from the ward. The hallway was quiet, had stained beige carpet, and smelled of hot dogs. A chilling laugh pealed from one of the rooms. A wild-haired girl passed, going the other direction. When she caught Emily watching, she stared back at her blankly. “Boo!” she shouted. Emily jumped, and the girl laughed.

Emily pulled open the double doors to the dayroom. The same faux-cheerful construction-paper balloons and stars were on the walls from when the girls had visited Kelsey. Worn jigsaw puzzles were stacked on a shelf, and there were a few books on an industrial-looking metal bookcase. A sign on top of the TV read NO CABLE.

When Emily pulled the door shut, a few girls, all dressed in white pajamas, turned excitedly, perhaps hoping that Emily was here for them. An overweight girl who had a visible bald spot attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. A frail-looking ashen girl lowered her head and muttered. Emily looked around for Kelsey, but she didn’t see her anywhere. She’d been too nervous to ask the nurse if Kelsey was still here.

Then Emily spied a girl with ice-blond hair in the corner. She matched the description Hanna had given her of Iris. Clearing her throat, Emily called out Iris’s name. The girl, who couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds, whipped around and gave Emily a long, knowing look.

“Your name isn’t Heather Murphy,” she said in a dry, craggy, tough voice. Her white pajama bottoms inched down her hips when she stood. “You were one of her friends, weren’t you?” She moved closer. Her breath smelled like sour candy. “That bitch who stole Alison’s life.”

Emily flinched. She could feel everyone in the dayroom staring at her, but she didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeming uncomfortable. “That’s right, I’m Emily,” she said. “I was Courtney’s friend.” It was still weird to call Their Ali Courtney. “And I heard you were Ali’s friend—and roommate. I have a couple of questions about her. Is there somewhere we could talk in private?”

Iris crossed her arms over her chest. For a moment, Emily was sure she would refuse, but then she shrugged. “I don’t know what I can tell you about her, but sure. Let’s talk.”

Then she turned on her heel and headed for the door. Emily followed her, trying to ignore the prying eyes on her back. She wondered if they were even allowed to leave the dayroom, but there were no nurses around, no one to stop them.

Iris padded down a hall and opened a door near the fire exit. Inside were two unmade twin beds. One side had posters of teen bands on the wall—Justin Bieber and a few Disney Channel stars—and an assortment of pink stuffed animals on the bed. The other side was bare and impersonal, like a hotel room. Iris flopped down on the generic side and glanced disdainfully at the Bieber posters. “My new roommate is such a loser.” Then her bright green eyes turned back to Emily. “So? Why do you want to know about Ali?”

Emily perched on a scratchy corduroy chair. “I think she’s still alive.”

Iris snorted. “Bullshit. She was trapped inside an exploding house.”

“Maybe not.”

Iris crossed her legs. Her bony knees poked through the fabric of the pajamas. “Do the cops know this?”

Emily shook her head. “We wanted to try to find her ourselves.”

“Why?”

Emily stared fixedly at the digital clock across the room. How could she make this sound innocuous? Iris didn’t seem like an idiot; if she’d heard about Real Ali dying inside that house, then she’d probably also heard that Real Ali had tormented them as A. Why else would they want to find her except to stop her forever? This was Iris’s friend Emily was talking about. She wouldn’t want to sell her out.

“Forget it, I don’t really care,” Iris said, as if sensing the reason for Emily’s hesitation. And then a light came on in her eyes. She inched closer to Emily’s side. Her sudden proximity made Emily flinch. Though Iris was small, she radiated with angry energy.

“So what do you want to know?” Iris asked. “I could tell you all sorts of things about her.”

“Really?” Emily sat up straighter.

“Uh-huh. But there’s only one way I’m going to do that. You’re getting me out of here.”

Emily laughed nervously. “Out of here?”

Iris nodded. “I’ve already told the nurses that I have an ailing grandmother in the hospital. That’s the only way they let you out for a few days, you know—to see sick relatives or go to funerals. Really happy, huh?” She rolled her eyes. “I was just waiting for the right opportunity—and guess what? You’re it. Now, go back to the front desk and explain to them that you’re my cousin and you’ve come to sign me out so we can see Nana together.”

“Nana?”

“We have to make it convincing!” Iris sounded exasperated.

“And then what?” It was slowly dawning on Emily that Iris was serious. “Do you want to go home?”

“Actually, I was thinking I could stay with you.”

“Me?”

Iris crossed her arms over her chest. “No questions, okay? I’ve been cooped up in this hellhole for four years with no break. You can’t even imagine what that feels like. I have really good stuff on Ali, but you’re not going to hear a word of it if you don’t help me. Are you in or out?”

Emily bit her thumbnail. “Wait. You’ve been here for four years straight?”

Iris pointed at a folder hanging from a plastic slot on the door. “Check my records if you want.”

Her gaze remained on Emily. After a pause, Emily marched over to the door, ripped out the file, and leafed through it. Sure enough, there were patient records for Iris dating back four years ago. Nowhere were there signs that she’d ever been released, not even for a weekend. Iris was telling the truth.

Emily dropped the file back into the slot. If Iris had been here for four years without a break, that meant she couldn’t be Ali’s helper, killing all those people last winter and murdering Tabitha in Jamaica last spring. Feeling better, she cleared her throat. “You don’t have a vendetta against anyone on the outside, do you? You’re not going to go on some sort of rampage if I check you out?”

Iris scoffed. “They don’t allow people like that out ever. Why do you think Alison never went home?”

Emily had never thought of that. “Okay,” she said quietly. So Iris would stay with Emily for a few days. If it meant finding out more about Ali—about A—it would be worth it.

But her legs were still shaking as she walked back down the hall toward the lobby. The same woman who’d checked her in smiled from behind the desk. “Um, I forgot to mention,” Emily began, her voice trembling, “I’m Iris’s cousin. I’m taking her to see our grandma.”

She figured the receptionist wouldn’t buy it, but after a few quick checks with some nurses and Iris’s case manager, Iris was cleared to leave. When she appeared in the lobby, she’d changed into a pair of jeans that were slightly too short, as if she’d bought them a few years back. Coupled with a pink parka and a lumpy leather purse, she looked sort of . . . dorky, like a girl who sat alone in the cafeteria.

They exited the hospital together. The grass squished beneath their feet as they walked toward the parking lot. It was so quiet outside Emily could hear her own ragged, nervous breathing. She looked around, certain A was watching, but there wasn’t a single car on the road or pedestrian on the little trails that circled the property. The only sound was the bubbling fountain close by, the one dedicated to the memory of Tabitha Clark.

“Let’s do this, bee-yotch!” Iris whooped as Emily unlocked the Volvo. She climbed into the passenger seat, slammed the door shut, and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. “Okay. First stop, the Metropolitan Bar in Philly.”

“Excuse me?” Emily stared at her. “Why are we going there?”

Iris held up the paper. It looked like a list, written in craggy, frenzied script. Have cocktails at the Metropolitan Bar. Pretend-hump the dinosaurs at the Franklin Institute. Run up the Art Museum steps like Rocky. Find Tripp. “These are the things I’ve wanted to do for four years. And you’re going to take me to do them.”

“All of them?” Emily bleated, scanning the list. It was at least fifty items long.

Iris raised an eyebrow. “If you want intel on Ali, every single one.”

“Okay,” Emily said quietly. There was nothing like the promise of Ali secrets to shut her down. And she had a feeling Iris knew that, too.

She started the engine, gritting her teeth. This is all for a good cause, this is all for a good cause. Still, her throat was dry. She glanced at her new cell phone, certain A had sent a text about how she wasn’t going to get away with this.

But there was nothing.

8

A Monster in the Closet

Aria’s last class of the day was newspaper editing, which was held in the journalism barn. Even though the school paper had gone digital ages ago, the building still smelled like ink and newsprint. Old headlines of important Rosewood Day events decorated the walls, everything from the 1982 Rosewood Day Boys’ Soccer Team winning the state championship to a hundred trees being planted on the school’s perimeter to honor the victims of 9/11.