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