"I found these this morning." Mrs. Hastings passed the photos to Melissa, who glanced at them quickly and passed them back. "Remember how you girls used to be such good friends? You were always babbling in the backseat of the car. You never wanted to go anywhere without each other." "That was ten years ago, Mom," Melissa said wearily. Mrs. Hastings stared at the photo of Spencer and Melissa on the hammock. "You used to love Nana's beach house. You used to be friends at Nana's beach house. So we've decided to take a trip to Stone Harbor today. Nana isn't there, but we have keys. So pack up your things." Spencer's parents were nodding feverishly, their faces hopeful. "That's just stupid," Spencer and Melissa said together. Spencer glanced at her sister, astounded they'd thought the same thing. Mrs. Hastings left the photo on the counter and carried her mug to the sink. "We're doing it, and that's final." Melissa rose from the table, holding her wrist at an awkward angle. She glanced at Spencer, and for a moment, her eyes softened. Spencer gave her a tiny smile. Perhaps they'd connected just then, finding common ground in hating their parents' naive plan. Perhaps Melissa could forgive Spencer for shoving her down the stairs and stealing her paper. If she did, Spencer would forgive Melissa for saying their parents didn't love her. Spencer looked down at the photo and thought of the magic shows she and Melissa used to perform. After their friendship had splintered, Spencer had thought that if she muttered some of her and Melissa's old magic words, they'd be best friends again. If only it were that easy. When she looked up again, Melissa's expression had shifted. She narrowed her eyes and turned away. "Bitch," she said over her shoulder as she sashayed down the hall. Spencer curled her hands into fists, all of her anger gushing back in. It would take a whole lot more than magic for them to get along. It would take a miracle. 3

EMILY'S OWN AMERICAN GOTHIC Late Sunday afternoon, Emily Fields followed an old lady with a walker onto the moving sidewalk of the Des Moines International Airport, dragging her ratty blue swim duffel behind her. The bag was stuffed with all her worldly goods--her clothes, shoes, her two favorite stuffed walruses, her journal, her iPod, and various carefully folded notes from Alison DiLaurentis that she couldn't bear to part with. When the plane was over Chicago, she realized she'd forgotten underwear. But then, that was what she got for packing frantically this morning. She'd only gotten three hours of sleep, shell-shocked from seeing Hanna's body fly up into the air when that SUV hit her. Emily arrived in the main terminal and ducked into the first bathroom she could find, squeezing around a very large woman in too-tight jeans. She stared at her bleary-eyed reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her parents had really done it. They'd really sent her here, to Addams, Iowa, to live with her aunt Helene and her uncle Allen. It was all because A had outed Emily to the entire school, and all because Emily's mother had caught her hugging Maya St. Germain, the girl she loved, at Mona Vanderwaal's party last night. Emily had known the deal--she'd promised to do the "gay-away" Tree Tops program to rid herself of her feelings for Maya or it was good-bye, Rosewood. But when she discovered that even her Tree Tops counselor, Becka, couldn't resist her true urges, all bets were off. The Des Moines airport was small, boasting only a couple of restaurants, a bookshop, and a store that sold colorful Vera Bradley bags. When Emily reached the baggage claim area, she looked around uncertainly. All she remembered about her aunt and uncle was their super-strictness. They avoided anything that might trigger sexual impulses--even certain foods. As she scanned the crowd, Emily half-expected to see the stern, long-faced farmer and his plain, bitter wife from the American Gothic painting standing near the baggage carousel. "Emily." She whirled around. Helene and Allen Weaver were leaning against a Smarte Carte machine, their hands

there because it had news of Hanna's accident. But then she saw her own face staring back at her from the paper's front page. She wore a sleek black suit and was giving the camera a confident smirk. Move Over, Trumps! the headline said. Golden Orchid Essay Contest Nominee Spencer Hastings Is Coming! Spencer's stomach heaved. She'd forgotten. The paper was on everyone's doorsteps right now. A figure emerged from the pantry. Spencer stepped back in fear. There was Melissa, glaring at her, clutching a box of Raisin Bran so tightly Spencer thought she might crush it. There was a tiny scratch on her sister's left cheek, a Band-Aid over her right eyebrow, a yellow hospital bracelet still around her left wrist, and a pink cast on her right wrist, clearly a souvenir of yesterday's fight with Spencer. Spencer lowered her eyes, feeling a whole mess of guilty feelings. Yesterday, A had sent Melissa the first few sentences of her old AP economics paper, the very one Spencer had pilfered from Melissa's computer hard drive and disguised as her own AP economics homework. The same essay Spencer's econ teacher, Mr. McAdam, had nominated for a Golden Orchid essay award, the most prestigious high school璴evel award in the country. Melissa had figured out what Spencer had done, and although Spencer had begged for forgiveness, Melissa had said horrible things to her--things way worse than Spencer thought she deserved. The fight had ended when Spencer, enraged by Melissa's words, had accidentally shoved her sister down the stairs. "So, girls." Mrs. Hastings set her coffee cup on the table and gestured for Melissa to sit. "Your father and I have made some big decisions." Spencer braced for what was coming. They were going to turn Spencer in for plagiarizing. She wouldn't get into college. She'd have to go to trade school. She'd end up working as a telemarketer at QVC, taking orders for ab rollers and fake diamonds, and Melissa would get off scot-free, just like she always did. Somehow, her sister always found a way to come out on top. "First off, we don't want you girls to see Dr. Evans anymore." Mrs. Hastings laced her fingers together. "She's done more harm than good. Understood?"

Melissa nodded silently, but Spencer scrunched up her nose in confusion. Dr. Evans, Spencer and Melissa's shrink, was one of the few people who didn't try to kiss Melissa's ass. Spencer began to protest but noticed the warning looks on both her parents' faces. "Okay," she mumbled, feeling a bit hopeless. "Second of all." Mr. Hastings tapped the Sentinel, squashing his thumb over Spencer's face. "Plagiarizing Melissa's paper was very wrong, Spencer." "I know," Spencer said quickly, terrified to look anywhere in Melissa's direction. "But after some careful thought, we've decided that we don't want to go public with it. This family's been through too much already. So, Spencer, you'll continue to compete for the Golden Orchid. We will tell no one about this." "What?" Melissa slammed her coffee cup down on the table. "That's what we've decided," Mrs. Hastings said tightly, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "And we also expect Spencer to win." "To win?" Spencer repeated, shocked. "You're rewarding her?" Melissa shrieked. "Enough." Mr. Hastings used the tone of voice he typically reserved for underlings at his law practice when they dared call him at home. "Third thing," Mrs. Hastings said. "You girls are going to bond." Her mother pulled two snapshots out of her cardigan pocket. The first was of Spencer and Melissa at four and nine years old, respectively, lying on a hammock at their grandmother's beach house in Stone Harbor, New Jersey. The second photo was of them in the same beach house's playroom, a few years later. Melissa wore a magician's hat and cape, and Spencer had on her Tommy Hilfiger stars-and-stripes ruffled bikini. On her feet were the black motorcycle boots she'd worn until they'd gotten so small that they cut off all the circulation to her toes. The sisters were performing a magic show for their parents; Melissa was the magician, and Spencer was her lovely assistant.

Marin. Hanna's body flew up in the air, and she hit the ground with a sharp crack. Instead of all her makeup and BlackBerry bursting out of her purse as from a smashed-open pi馻ta, Hanna's internal organs spewed out of her body, raining down on the concrete like hail. Spencer shot up, her blond hair damp with sweat. It was Sunday morning, and she was lying in her bed, still in the black satin dress and uncomfortable thong underwear she'd meant to wear to Mona Vanderwaal's birthday party the night before. Soft gold light slanted across her desk, and starlings chirped innocently in the giant oak next to her window. She'd been awake nearly all night, waiting for her phone to ring with news about Hanna. But no one had called. Spencer had no idea if the silence was good...or terrible. Hanna. She'd called Spencer late last night, just after Spencer had recalled her long-suppressed memory of shoving Ali in the woods the night Ali disappeared. Hanna had told Spencer she'd found out something important, and that they had to meet at the Rosewood Day swings. Spencer had pulled up to the parking lot just as Hanna's body flew into the air. She'd maneuvered her car to the side of the road, then run out on foot into the trees, shocked by what she saw. "Call an ambulance!" Aria was shrieking. Emily was sobbing with fear. Hanna remained immobile. Spencer had never witnessed anything so terrifying in her entire life. Seconds later, Spencer's Sidekick had pinged with a text from A. Still shrouded in the woods, Spencer saw Emily and Aria pull out their phones as well, and her stomach flipped as she realized they must have all received the same creepy message: She knew too much. Had A figured out whatever it was that Hanna had discovered--something that A must have been trying to hide--and hit Hanna to shut her up? That had to be it, but it was hard for Spencer to truly believe it had actually happened. It was just so diabolical. But maybe Spencer was just as diabolical. Just hours before Hanna's accident, she'd shoved her sister, Melissa, down the stairs. And she'd finally remembered what had happened the night Ali went missing, recovered those lost ten minutes she'd suppressed for so long. She'd pushed Ali to the ground--maybe

even hard enough to kill her. Spencer didn't know what had happened next, but it seemed like A did. A had sent Spencer a text only a couple days ago, hinting that Ali's murderer was right in front of her. Spencer had received the text just as she was looking in the mirror...at herself. Spencer hadn't run into the parking lot to join her friends. Instead, she'd sped home, in desperate need to think all this through. Could she have killed Ali? Did she have it in her? But after an entire sleepless night, she just couldn't compare what she had done to Melissa and Ali to what A had done to Hanna. Yes, Spencer lost her temper, yes, Spencer could be pushed to the limit, but deep down, she just didn't think she could kill. Why, then, was A so convinced Spencer was the culprit? Was it possible A was wrong...or lying? But A knew about Spencer's seventh-grade kiss with Ian Thomas, her illicit affair with Wren, Melissa's college boyfriend, and that the five of them had blinded Jenna Cavanaugh--all things that were true. A had so much ammo on them, it was hardly necessary to start making stuff up. Suddenly, as Spencer wiped the sweat off her face, something hit her, sending her heart sinking to her feet. She could think of a very good reason why A might have lied and suggested that Spencer killed Ali. Perhaps A had secrets, too. Perhaps A needed a scapegoat. "Spencer?" Her mother's voice floated up. "Can you come downstairs?" Spencer jumped and peeked at her reflection in her vanity mirror. Her eyes looked puffy and bloodshot, her lips were chapped, and her hair had leaves stuck in it from hiding in the woods last night. She couldn't handle a family meeting right now. The first floor smelled of fresh-brewed Nicaraguan Segovia coffee, Fresh Fields Danishes, and the fresh-cut calla lilies their housekeeper, Candace, bought every morning. Spencer's father stood at the granite-topped island, decked out in his black spandex bike pants and U.S. Postal Service bike jersey. Perhaps that was a good sign--they couldn't be too angry if her dad had gone for his regular 5 A.M. bike ride. On the kitchen table was a copy of the Sunday Philadelphia Sentinel. At first Spencer thought it was

Aria was lost in her thoughts when suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. She flinched and turned, her heart racing. Standing behind her, wearing a ratty Hollis College sweatshirt and a pair of jeans with a hole through the left front pocket, was Aria's father, Byron. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling awkward. She hadn't really spoken to her father in a few weeks. "Jesus, Aria. Are you all right?" Byron blurted out. "I saw you on the news." "I'm okay," Aria said stiffly. "It was Hanna who was hurt, not me." As her father pulled her in for a hug, Aria wasn't sure whether to squeeze him tight or let her arms go limp. She'd missed him since he'd moved out of their house a month ago. But Aria was also furious that it had taken a life-threatening accident and a TV appearance to motivate Byron to leave Meredith's side and reach out to his own daughter. "I called your mother this morning, asking how you were, but she said you weren't living there anymore." Byron's voice quivered with concern. He ran his hand over the top of his head, mussing up his hair even more. "Where are you living?" Aria stared blearily at the brightly printed Heimlich maneuver poster tucked behind the Coke machine. Someone had drawn a pair of boobs on the choking victim's chest, and it looked like the person giving the Heimlich was feeling her up. Aria had been staying at her boyfriend Sean Ackard's house, but Sean had made it clear she wasn't welcome there anymore when he'd ordered a raid on Ezra's apartment and dumped Aria's crap on Ezra's doorstep. Who had tipped Sean off about Aria's affair with Ezra? Ding ding ding! A. She hadn't given a new living situation much thought. "The Olde Hollis Inn?" Aria suggested. "The Olde Hollis Inn has rats. Why don't you stay with me?" Aria vigorously shook her head. "You're living with--" "Meredith," Byron stated firmly. "I want you to get to know her."

"But..." Aria protested. Her father, however, was giving her his classic Buddhist monk look. Aria knew the look well--she'd seen it after he'd refused to let Aria go to an arty summer camp in the Berkshires instead of Hollis Happy Hooray day camp for the fourth summer in a row, which meant ten long weeks of making paper-bag puppets and competing in the egg-and-spoon race. Byron had donned the look again when Aria asked if she could finish school at the American Academy in Reykjav韐 instead of coming back to Rosewood with the rest of the family. The look was often followed by a saying Byron had learned from a monk he'd met during his graduate work in Japan: The obstacle is the path. Meaning what wouldn't kill Aria would just make her stronger. But when she imagined moving in with Meredith, a more appropriate quote came to mind: There are some remedies worse than the disease. 2 ABRACADABRA, NOW WE LOVE EACH OTHER AGAIN Ali sank onto one hip and glared at Spencer Hastings, who stood across from her on the back path that led from the Hastingses' barn to the woods. "You try to steal everything from me," she hissed. "But you can't have this." Spencer shivered in the cold evening air. "Can't have what?" "You know," Ali said. "You read it in my diary." She pushed her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. "You think you're so special, but you're so lame, acting like you didn't know Ian was with me. Of course you knew, Spence. That's why you liked him in the first place, isn't it? Because I'm with him? Because your sister's with him?" Spencer's eyes boggled. The night air turned sharp, almost acrid-smelling. Ali stuck out her bottom lip. "Oh, Spence. Did you really believe he liked you?" Suddenly, Spencer felt a burst of anger, and her arms shot out in front of her, pushing Ali in the chest. Ali teetered backward, stumbling against the slippery rocks. Only, it wasn't Ali anymore--it was Hanna

those clues in place, and once Aria had realized Ian and Ali were together, Spencer was the logical suspect. "After a while, I went outside to look for them," she said. "They weren't anywhere...and I just have this horrible feeling that Spencer..." Wilden sat back. "Spencer and Alison weighed about the same, right?" Aria nodded. "Sure. I guess." "Could you drag someone your size over to a hole and push her in?" "I璉 don't know," Aria stammered. "Maybe? If I was mad enough?" Wilden shook his head. Aria's eyes filled with tears. She recalled how eerily silent it had been that night. Ali had been just a few hundred yards away from them, and they hadn't heard a sound. "Spencer also would've had to calm down enough so she didn't seem suspicious when she returned to you guys," Wilden added. "It takes a pretty damn good actor to pull that off--not a seventh-grade girl. I think whoever did this was obviously nearby, but the whole thing took more time." He raised his eyebrows. "Is this what you Rosewood Day girls do these days? Blame your old friends for murder?" Aria's mouth dropped open, surprised at Wilden's scolding tone. "It's just--" "Spencer Hastings is a competitive, high-strung girl, but she doesn't strike me as a killer," Wilden interrupted. Then, he smiled at Aria sadly. "I get it. This must be tough for you--you just want to figure out what happened to your friend. I didn't know that Alison was secretly with Melissa Hastings's boyfriend, though. That's interesting." Wilden gave Aria a terse nod, stood up, and turned back to the hallway. Aria remained by the vending machines, her eyes on the mint-green linoleum floor. She felt overheated and disoriented, as if she'd spent too much time in a sauna. Maybe she should be ashamed of herself, blaming an old best friend. And the holes Wilden had poked in her theory made a lot of sense. Maybe she'd been foolish to trust A's clues at all. A chill went up Aria's spine. Perhaps A had sent Aria those clues to deliberately throw her off track--and take the heat off the true murderer. And maybe, just maybe, the true murderer was...A.

Bern! You're back! You're back!

"Bern! You're back! You're back!" she cried, in joy that rang of her loneliness.

"Yes, I'm back," he said, as she rushed to meet him.

She had reached out for him when suddenly, as she saw him closely, something checked her, and as quickly all her joy fled, and with it her color, leaving her pale and trembling.

"Oh! What's happened?"

"A good deal has happened, Bess. I don't need to tell you what. And I'm played out. Worn out in mind more than body."

"Dear--you look strange to me!" faltered Bess.

"Never mind that. I'm all right. There's nothing for you to be scared about. Things are going to turn out just as we have planned. As soon as I'm rested we'll make a break to get out of the country. Only now, right now, I must know the truth about you."

"Truth about me?" echoed Bess, shrinkingly. She seemed to be casting back into her mind for a forgotten key. Venters himself, as he saw her, received a pang.

"Yes--the truth. Bess, don't misunderstand. I haven't changed that way. I love you still. I'll love you more afterward. Life will be just as sweet--sweeter to us. We'll be--be married as soon as ever we can. We'll be happy--but there's a devil in me. A perverse, jealous devil! Then I've queer fancies. I forgot for a long time. Now all those fiendish little whispers of doubt and faith and fear and hope come torturing me again. I've got to kill them with the truth."

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," she replied, frankly.

"Then by Heaven! we'll have it over and done with!...Bess--did Oldring love you?"

"Certainly he did."

What words for a dying man to whisper!

What words for a dying man to whisper! Why had not Venters waited? For what? That was no plea for life. It was regret that there was not a moment of life left in which to speak. Bess was--Herein lay renewed torture for Venters. What had Bess been to Oldring? The old question, like a specter, stalked from its grave to haunt him. He had overlooked, he had forgiven, he had loved and he had forgotten; and now, out of the mystery of a dying man's whisper rose again that perverse, unsatisfied, jealous uncertainty. Bess had loved that splendid, black-crowned giant--by her own confession she had loved him; and in Venters's soul again flamed up the jealous hell. Then into the clamoring hell burst the shot that had killed Oldring, and it rang in a wild fiendish gladness, a hateful, vengeful joy. That passed to the memory of the love and light in Oldring's eyes and the mystery in his whisper. So the changing, swaying emotions fluctuated in Venters's heart.

This was the climax of his year of suffering and the crucial struggle of his life. And when the gray dawn came he rose, a gloomy, almost heartbroken man, but victor over evil passions. He could not change the past; and, even if he had not loved Bess with all his soul, he had grown into a man who would not change the future he had planned for her. Only, and once for all, he must know the truth, know the worst, stifle all these insistent doubts and subtle hopes and jealous fancies, and kill the past by knowing truly what Bess had been to Oldring. For that matter he knew--he had always known, but he must hear it spoken. Then, when they had safely gotten out of that wild country to take up a new and an absorbing life, she would forget, she would be happy, and through that, in the years to come, he could not but find life worth living.

All day he rode slowly and cautiously up the Pass, taking time to peer around corners, to pick out hard ground and grassy patches, and to make sure there was no one in pursuit. In the night sometime he came to the smooth, scrawled rocks dividing the valley, and here set the burro at liberty. He walked beyond, climbed the slope and the dim, starlit gorge. Then, weary to the point of exhaustion, he crept into a shallow cave and fell asleep.

In the morning, when he descended the trail, he found the sun was pouring a golden stream of light through the arch of the great stone bridge. Surprise Valley, like a valley of dreams, lay mystically soft and beautiful, awakening to the golden flood which was rolling away its slumberous bands of mist, brightening its walled faces.

While yet far off he discerned Bess moving under the silver spruces, and soon the barking of the dogs told him that they had seen him. He heard the mocking-birds singing in the trees, and then the twittering of the quail. Ring and Whitie came bounding toward him, and behind them ran Bess, her hands outstretched.