Ms. Riggs smiled. "Goodness, why?"

Hanna's eyebrows shot up. Did this woman seriously not know?

"People did a profile on Hanna," Mr. Marin said. "Her best friend was Alison DiLaurentis. The girl murdered by her twin sister."

Hanna squirmed in her seat, not wanting to correct her dad on the details. Technically, her best friend had been Courtney DiLaurentis, the girl who'd impersonated Alison while Alison had been forced to take Courtney's place at the mental hospital. But it was way too complicated to get into.

"I did hear something about that." Ms. Riggs gazed at Hanna sympathetically. "You poor thing. Are you all right?"

Hanna shrugged. She was sort of all right . . . and sort of not. Could you ever really get over something like that? And then there was a new A on the scene. A knew about Tabitha, about Hanna's naughty pictures with Patrick, the photographer who'd promised he'd make her a model but just wanted to get in her pants, and about her tryst with Liam. Any of those things could ruin her life-and her dad's campaign. Thank G.o.d A didn't know about the accident she'd been in last summer.

Ms. Riggs checked her watch. "Tom, we're late for the strategy talk."

"You go on ahead. I'll be there in a second," Mr. Marin said. Ms. Riggs waved good-bye to the girls, and then headed in the direction of The Year of the Rabbit, an upscale Chinese restaurant. Mr. Marin lingered behind, eyeing Hanna and Kate when Ms. Riggs was a safe distance away. "Be nice to Ms. Riggs, okay?" he murmured.

Hanna made a face. "I was nice!"

"I'm always nice, Tom," Kate added, looking offended.

"I know, I know, girls, just keep it up." Mr. Marin's eyes were wide. "She's a huge philanthropist and very influential. We need her funds to air our commercials throughout the state. It could mean the difference between winning and losing."

Her father scampered after Ms. Riggs, and Kate headed to the bathroom. Hanna gazed at the pa.s.sersby again, annoyed that her father had lectured her like she was a naughty six-year-old. Since when did Hanna need a lesson on being nice to donors?

A figure emerged from Armani Exchange, and Hanna perked up. Hanna took in the boy's wavy hair, square jaw, and slim-cut, beat-up leather jacket. Something inside her stirred. It was her ex, Mike Montgomery. She'd avoided him ever since the Macbeth cast party a few weeks ago, where he'd asked for her to take him back and she'd rejected him. But he looked positively delicious tonight.

Hanna called his name, and Mike looked up and smiled. As he walked toward her, Hanna adjusted her polka-dotted silk blouse so that a teensy bit of her bra strap was showing and quickly checked her reflection in the back of her iPod. Her auburn hair was shiny and full, and her eyeliner was smudged to perfection.

"Hey." Mike leaned his elbows on the table. "Campaigning, huh?"

"Yup." Hanna crossed her legs coquettishly, a nervous buzz in her stomach. "And you're . . . shopping?" She wanted to smack herself for sounding so lame.

Mike held up the A/X bag. "I got that black sweater you and I looked at a while back."

"The slimming one?" Hanna wound a piece of hair around her finger. "That looked really good on you."

Two dimples appeared on either side of Mike's face when he smiled. "Thanks," he said bashfully.

"Mike?"

Mike jumped, as if caught. A pet.i.te girl with long, brown hair, an oval face, and large, doll-like eyes stood behind him. "There you are!" she chirped.

"Oh, hey!" Mike's voice rose in pitch. "Uh, Hanna, do you know Colleen? My . . . girlfriend?"

Hanna felt as though Mike had kicked her in the b.o.o.bs. Of course she knew Colleen Bebris-they'd only been going to the same school for ages. But she was his . . . girlfriend? Colleen was one of those a.s.s-kissy types who tried to be everyone's best friend. Back in the day, Colleen had made it her personal goal to be BFFs with Hanna and Mona, even though she was two years younger and ridiculously dorky. They made Colleen take notes for them in Latin I while they skipped school to go shopping, schlep their clothes to the dry cleaner's, and camp out in front of the Apple store all weekend so they wouldn't have to wait in line for the latest iPod. Eventually, Colleen had gotten the hint and started hanging out with the Shakespeare Festival kids instead. But she always had a big smile for Hanna and Mona in the halls, saying "Kiss kiss!" whenever she pa.s.sed. Mona used to nudge Hanna and mutter, "No no!"

"Nice to see you," Hanna said tightly. Suddenly feeling awkward, she shoved a flyer in Colleen's face. "Vote for Tom Marin."

"Oh, Hanna, I'm not old enough to vote." Colleen sounded crushed, as if Hanna wasn't just trying to make conversation. "But your dad's awesome. That Wilkinson guy seems like a jerk, don't you think? And his son is such a player."

Hanna's eyes widened. How did Colleen know Liam was a player?

Colleen touched Mike's arm. "We should get going. Our dinner reservations are at seven-fifteen." She beamed at Hanna. "We have Rive Gauche reservations tonight. It's a Sat.u.r.day tradition. I absolutely love the moules frites."

"I read that moules frites are loaded with the worst kind of fat. But you don't really look like you care about that kind of thing," Hanna said sweetly to Colleen. Then she glared pointedly at Mike. He'd always wanted to go to Rive Gauche when they were dating, but Hanna had refused because Lucas Beattie, her ex, worked there. Rive Gauche was the Rosewood Day hangout, though, and Hanna hated the idea of the school's elite seeing Mike Montgomery and Colleen together. Dating Mike would automatically make Colleen in, and she so didn't deserve it.

"See ya later, then," Mike said, not catching Hanna's snarkiness-or her frustration. As he walked away, his hand entwined in Colleen's, Hanna felt a strange sense of loss and longing. She hadn't realized how cute Mike's b.u.t.t was. Or how attentive he was to his girlfriends. All of a sudden, she missed everything about him. She missed the shopping trips where he had patiently sat outside the dressing room and critiqued Hanna's outfits, the l.u.s.tful comments he made about the Kardashian girls when they watched their shows on E!, and how he let Hanna put makeup on him once-he'd looked surprisingly good in eyeliner. Hanna even missed the stupid Hooters keychain that hung from his backpack zipper. Her time with Liam might have been electric and intoxicating, but with Mike, she'd been silly and immature and utterly herself.

All of a sudden, it hit her like a shocking note from A: She wanted Mike back. She could even imagine the type of note A might write for the occasion: The gra.s.s is always greener, isn't it, Hannakins? Looks like you're as out as last season's wide-leg jeans!

4.

A DRIVE DOWN MEMORY LANE.

The following evening, Emily Fields's mother gripped the steering wheel of the family Volvo and turned out of Lyndhurst College, where Emily had just competed in her final long-course swim meet of the year. The windows in the car were steamed up, and the mingling aromas of chlorine, UltraSwim shampoo, and Mrs. Fields's vanilla latte wafted through the air.

"Your b.u.t.terfly is looking so good," Mrs. Fields gushed, patting Emily's hand. "The UNC team is going to be thrilled to have you."

"Mm-hmm." Emily ran her fingers over the furry insides of her swimming jacket. She knew she should be excited about her swim scholarship to the University of North Carolina next year, but she was just relieved that this swim season was over. She was exhausted.

She pulled out her cell phone and checked the screen for the eleventh time that day. No new messages. She turned her phone off and then on again, but the inbox was still blank. She clicked over to her Daily Horoscopes app and read Taurus, her sign. You will shine at work today, it said. Prepare for surprises ahead.

Surprises . . . as in bad surprises or good surprises? A whole week had pa.s.sed without a single note from New A. There had been no threats, no taunts about what Emily and the others had done in Jamaica, no "tsk tsk" for believing that Kelsey Pierce, a girl Emily had fallen for, was the person after them. But A's absence was even spookier than a barrage of texts about her darkest secrets. Emily couldn't help but picture A lying in wait and plotting a new a.s.sault, something dangerous and devastating. She dreaded what it might be.

Emily's mother paused at a stop sign in a small housing development. Modest homes were framed by old oaks, and there was a basketball hoop at the end of a cul-de-sac. "This isn't the usual route we use to go home," she murmured. She checked the GPS. "I wonder why this thing is sending me on these back roads." She shrugged and kept driving. "Anyway, have you been in touch with any of the girls on the UNC team? It might be nice to start getting to know them."

Emily ran her hands over her damp reddish-blondish hair. "Uh, yeah. I should do that."

"A few of them live in 'clean' dorms-you know, the kind where smoking, alcohol use, and s.e.xual activity are frowned upon? You should request one of those rooms. You wouldn't want to lose your swim scholarship from too much partying."

Emily stifled a groan. Of course her uber-conservative mom would want her to live like a nun at college. Earlier in the week, when her mom had found out that Kelsey, the girl she'd been hanging around with, had a drug problem, she'd grilled Emily, figuring Emily was using drugs, too. Emily was surprised her mom hadn't asked her to pee in a cup for an at-home drug test.

While Mrs. Fields blathered on about the clean dorms, Emily picked up her cell phone again and scrolled through the previous texts she'd received from A, ending with the last one: Dig all you want, b.i.t.c.hes. But you'll NEVER find me.

She sucked in her stomach. In some ways, she almost wished A would just expose all of them and get it over with-the guilt and lying were too horrible to bear. She also wished that A would reveal herself as the person Emily knew she was-Real Ali. Her friends might not believe it, but Emily knew deep down in her bones that Ali had survived the fire at the Poconos house. After all, Emily had left a way for Ali to escape, opening the door for her before the house exploded.

The pieces were starting to fit together. Ali and Tabitha were at the Preserve at the same time, and maybe that was why Tabitha had acted so much like Ali in Jamaica. Perhaps the two of them had been working together somehow-maybe Ali had gotten in touch with Tabitha after she'd escaped the fire in the Poconos. Maybe Ali even sent Tabitha to Jamaica to screw with the girls' minds and drive them crazy.

The whole thing broke Emily's heart. She knew, logically, that their tormenter wasn't Her Ali, the girl she'd adored for years, spent lots of time with, and kissed in the DiLaurentis's tree house at the end of seventh grade. But she couldn't help but dwell on that moment last year when Real Ali had returned, impersonated Their Ali, and kissed Emily with such pa.s.sion. She'd seemed so . . . genuine, not like a cold-hearted psycho.

"You know, you should probably sign up for a spot in the clean dorms now," Mrs. Fields was saying as they drove up a hill past a large school playground. Several teenagers were sitting on the swings, smoking cigarettes. "I'd love to have this settled before your father and I go out of town on Wednesday." Mr. and Mrs. Fields were taking a trip to Texas for Emily's grandma and grandpa's sixty-fifth wedding anniversary, leaving Emily alone in the house for the first time ever. "Want me to call the student living office tomorrow and ask?"

Emily groaned. "Mom, I don't know if I want to-"

She trailed off, suddenly noticing where they were. SHIP LANE, said a green street sign. Up ahead was a very familiar little white ranch house with green shutters and a big front porch. It was on that very porch that she and her friends had left a certain baby carrier months earlier.

"Stop," she blurted.

Mrs. Fields. .h.i.t the brakes. "What's wrong?"

Emily's heart was pounding so fast she was sure her mother could hear each valve flapping open and closed. This house had appeared in Emily's dreams almost every night, but she'd vowed never to drive by it again. It seemed extra-creepy that the GPS had guided them here, almost like the computer knew this house held painful memories. Or maybe, she thought with a shiver, it was someone else who knew, someone else who'd somehow programmed the GPS.

A.

Either way, now that she was here, she couldn't tear her gaze away. The dog bowl that said GOLDEN RETRIEVERS WELCOME was missing from the front porch, but the rocking chair was still there. The bushes in the front yard looked a little overgrown, like they hadn't been pruned in a while. The windows were dark, and there were a bunch of wrapped newspapers on the lawn, a sure sign that the family was on vacation.

All kinds of memories flooded back to Emily, unbidden. She saw herself staggering off the plane from Jamaica, nauseated and dizzy and exhausted. She'd figured it was just because of something she'd eaten at the resort, but as time went on, the symptoms got worse. She could barely stay awake through cla.s.s. She couldn't keep food down. Certain things, like coffee, cheese, and flowers, smelled horrible.

Then, a week later, she'd been flipping through channels and caught the end of a True Life episode on MTV about kids who'd been pregnant in high school. A girl had felt sick for months but thought it was mono; by the time she'd taken a pregnancy test, she was already four months along. Watching it, a light had gone on in Emily's brain. The next day, she'd driven to a drugstore a few towns away from Rosewood and bought an EPT test. Terrified her mom would find the evidence, she took the test in a dank, dark bathroom in the local park next door.

It was positive.

She'd spent the next few days in a horrified daze, feeling confused and lost. The father had to be Isaac, her one and only boyfriend of that year. But they'd only had s.e.x once. She wasn't even sure she liked guys. And what the h.e.l.l were her parents going to say about this? They would never, ever forgive her.

When her head cleared, she'd begun to make plans: She would escape to Philly that summer and stay with her sister Carolyn, who was doing a summer program at Temple University. She'd wear baggy blazers and blouses to hide the weight gain until school was over. She'd see a doctor in the city and pay cash so her appointments wouldn't show up on her parents' insurance bill. She'd contact an adoption agency and make arrangements. And she had done all those things, which was how she'd met the Bakers, who lived in this very house.

After Emily called Rebecca, the adoption coordinator, and told her she'd made her choice, she took SEPTA to New Jersey to visit Derrick, her friend from Poseidon's, the fish restaurant in Philly where she worked as a waitress. Derrick was the only friend she'd confided in all summer, his soft eyes and easy manner calming her down. He'd been her sounding board, her rock, and she'd told him almost everything about herself, from her ordeals with A to her crush on Maya St. Germain. Sometimes, Emily lamented that she was the one always dumping on him-she didn't know much about him at all-but Derrick just shrugged and said his life was boring in comparison to hers.

Derrick was working as a gardener at a big house in Cherry Hill on the weekends and told Emily to meet him there. It was the kind of mansion with iron gates, a guest house in the back, and a long, winding driveway made of pretty blue paver stones instead of blacktop. Derrick said the owners wouldn't mind if they talked in the gazebo, and that was where Emily told him her news. He'd listened patiently and hugged her tightly when she was done, which had brought tears to her eyes. Derrick was a G.o.dsend-he'd swooped in just when she needed him, listening to all of her problems.

As they were talking, the back door to the mansion, which looked out onto a lavish patio with a long, rectangular swimming pool, swung open, and a tall woman with short blond hair and a long, sloping nose stepped out. She noticed Emily immediately and looked her up and down, from her frizzy hair to her huge b.o.o.bs to her enormous stomach. A small, tormented squeak escaped from her mouth. She crossed the patio and approached Emily, staring at her with such a sad expression it made Emily's heart break.

"How far along are you?" she asked softly.

Emily flinched. Since she was a teenager, most people averted their eyes from her pregnancy like it was a huge tumor. It was strange to hear someone sound so genuinely interested. "Um, about seven-and-a-half months."

The woman had tears in her eyes. "That's so precious. Are you feeling well?"

"I guess." Emily glanced cautiously at Derrick, but he just bit his lower lip.

The woman thrust out her hand. "I'm Gayle. This is my home."

"I'm, uh, Heather," Emily answered. It was the fake name she'd given everyone that summer, except for Derrick. Heather was even on her name tag at the restaurant. The skinny, pre-pregnant Emily was all over the Internet, connected to the Alison DiLaurentis story, and Emily could just picture an item about her illicit pregnancy on a local gossip blog, followed by a horrified call from her parents.

"You're so lucky," Gayle murmured, staring lovingly at Emily's belly. She almost looked like she wanted to reach out and touch it. Then, Gayle's smile suddenly wobbled into a frown, and tears rolled down her cheeks. "Oh, G.o.d," she blurted, then turned around and ran crookedly into the house, slamming the door hard.

Emily and Derrick were silent for a while, listening to the sounds of a Weedwacker next door. "Did I do something to upset her?" Emily asked worriedly. The woman seemed so fragile.

Derrick rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Don't worry about it."

And so Emily hadn't worried about it. Little did she know she would be promising her baby to Gayle only a few short weeks later . . . and then going back on her word.

The furious messages Gayle left the day Emily placed the baby on the Bakers' doorstep flashed through her mind. I'll hunt you down. I'll find you. Luckily, Gayle never had.

"Emily, honey, are you okay?" Mrs. Fields asked, shattering Emily's thoughts.

Emily clamped down hard on the inside of her cheek. "Uh, I know the girl who lives here," she floundered, feeling her cheeks turn hot. "I thought I saw her at the window, but I guess not. We can go now."

Mrs. Fields peered at the yard. "Goodness, their lawn looks terrible," she murmured. "They'll never sell this house with all those weeds."

Emily squinted. "What do you mean, sell the house?"

"It's for sale. See?"

She pointed at a sign in the front yard. FOR SALE, it said, with a picture of the realtor and a phone number. Starbursts at the top right-hand corner said QUICK TURNAROUND! and OWNERS RELOCATED! and BUY THIS NOW! There was also an announcement that an open house would be held the following Sat.u.r.day from noon till four o'clock.

A sick feeling rushed through Emily's body. Just knowing that this house was here, that her baby was nearby, had made her feel comforted and relieved-she could close her eyes and picture where her baby was at all times. But the Bakers weren't on vacation-they'd moved.

Her baby was gone.

5.

THE THINGS YOU DISCOVER IN THE PRODUCE SECTION . . .

The following day, the bell rang in Art History cla.s.s, and all twenty-two students stood en ma.s.se. "Read chapter eight for tomorrow!" Mrs. Kittinger called after them.

Aria shoved her books into her backpack and followed the herd out the door. As soon as she was in the hallway, she glanced at her cell phone, which had been blinking for the last hour. New Google alert for Tabitha Clark, said the screen.

Her stomach twisted. She'd been tracking Tabitha-related news, reading accounts of bereft friends, grieving relatives, and angry parents protesting drunken spring break trips. Today, there was a story in a newspaper. The headline read FATHER OF DECEASED SPRING BREAK TEEN TO SUE JAMAICAN RESORT THAT SERVED HIS DAUGHTER ALCOHOL.

She clicked on the link. There was a picture of Tabitha's father, Kenneth Clark, a tall, bespectacled man who was a captain of industry. He wanted to crack down on teenage drinking and punish bars that served underage drinkers. "I'd be curious to know what her blood-alcohol level was when she died," he said. There was also a quote from Graham Pratt, who'd been Tabitha's boyfriend when she died. "I think it's very possible The Cliffs resort served her, even though she was visibly drunk."

Whoa. What if Tabitha's family and friends somehow found out Tabitha hadn't died from an alcohol overdose? Aria's throat felt dry, and her heart started to pound. It was hard enough getting through the day without thinking about the innocent girl falling to her death-she hardly slept some nights, and she wasn't eating much. But if Tabitha's father found out, if the police linked it to them, if Aria's friends' lives were ruined because of something she technically did . . . well, she wouldn't know how to go on.

"Aria?"

Aria whirled around and saw Emily behind her. She was wearing a Rosewood swim-team parka, skinny black jeans, and had a curious look on her round, pleasant, freckled face.

"Um, hi." Aria slipped the phone into her pocket. There was no use showing this to Emily and getting her worried over what was probably nothing. "What's up?"

"I was wondering if you were going to Hanna's dad's town hall meeting on Tuesday." Emily moved out of the way as some guys on the crew team shouldered past. "She asked if I'd be there."

"Yep." Aria had already told Hanna she'd attend her dad's political events. "Want to sit together?"