“Mr. Clark. Mr. Clark?”

Hanna swiveled around. A long-haired brunette holding a microphone chased a man across the lobby. When she caught up to him, he raised his face, and Hanna almost gasped.

It was Mr. Clark, Tabitha’s father and Gayle Riggs’s husband. There were bags under his eyes. His jowls were pronounced and sagging, and his gray hair was unkempt. It made sense why he was here: Graham and Tabitha had once dated.

Hanna sucked in her stomach, wanting to melt into the walls. Instantly, images of Aria shoving Tabitha off the roof of the hotel in Jamaica flashed in her mind. They might not have killed her, but they’d still hurt her badly.

“Mr. Clark, can you comment on your daughter’s murder case?” the brunette asked, shoving a microphone at him.

Mr. Clark shook his head. “There is no case right now. No leads.”

“The authorities are checking with other hotels nearby for footage from that night, yes?” the reporter pressed. “They’ve really found nothing?”

Mr. Clark shook his head.

“And what about Mr. Pratt’s death?” the woman asked. “Do you have a comment on that?”

Mr. Clark shrugged. “It’s open-and-shut medical malpractice. They found excess Roxanol in Graham’s system. End of story.”

“But . . .” The reporter fumbled with her microphone just as two muscled guys in suits appeared out of nowhere, grabbed her, and edged her out of the lobby. She was still screaming questions as she went. Mr. Clark wiped his brow, looking like he was going to burst into tears.

Roxanol? Hanna pulled out her phone and did a quick Google search. Apparently Roxanol was another name for morphine. It would have been easy for Ali to up his dosage and make it look like malpractice.

She felt a hand on her arm. “Hey.”

Emily was dressed in rumpled black wool pants and a black V-neck sweater, and her red-gold hair was pulled off her makeup-free face, making her look scrubbed and young. She peered around the lobby. “Where are Aria and Spencer?”

“I don’t know.” Hanna slipped her phone back in her pocket. “I haven’t heard from them.”

Organ music began to play, and two clergymen lit candles at the front. Hanna and Emily shrugged at each other, then walked into the church and slid into seats halfway down the aisle. After she took off her jacket, Emily turned to Hanna. “Have you heard from A?”

Hanna shook her head. “But I told Mike.”

Emily widened her eyes. “What? Why?”

An old woman in front of them turned around and gave them a sharp look. “Because he guessed, okay?” Hanna whispered. “And honestly, I think doing nothing is ridiculous.”

“Do you think that, or does Mike?”

“Well, we both do. We talked about it a lot.” Which wasn’t exactly true—Hanna and Mike had done very little talking the day he’d guessed about A. Hanna allowed herself a moment to savor the delicious memory.

Then she turned back to Emily. “We might as well put targets on our backs to make it even easier for Ali and Helper A to kill us. I wish we could investigate this.”

Emily crossed her arms over her chest. “Be careful what you wish for.”

“What does that mean?”

The funeral goers mumbled a group-prayer response. Emily slid closer to Hanna. “I went to The Preserve yesterday.”

Hanna’s eyes lit up. “You asked about N?”

“I tried. They wouldn’t tell me anything. I tried to see Iris, too, but she’s disappeared.”

Hanna frowned. “She escaped?”

Emily shrugged. “It didn’t sound like it. I’m worried that Ali found out Iris helped us and did something to her. Especially after I got this.”

She passed over her phone. Hanna read the text. Everyone you involve in this will get hurt. Including YOU.

“Shit,” Hanna whispered.

“We have to stop digging,” Emily said. “No more asking questions—for real.”

“But what if it’s too late? Ali knows how much we know. We had that suspect list. And I had to hand over Kyla’s note to the cops.” Hanna had done it yesterday, although she doubted they’d connect it to Ali.

“Well, we don’t say anything else. We give up.”

Hanna set her jaw. “I don’t want to live in fear for the rest of my life! We can’t let Ali control us forever!”

Emily curled her fist. “Didn’t you see this text? Ali’s going to come for us next!”

“Girls!” The old woman turned around and faced them. Her eyes were a rheumy blue, and she wore a bedazzled pin of a cat on the lapel of her black dress. “Have some respect!”

Hanna ducked her head and rolled her eyes.

The organist began to loudly play “Ave Maria,” and Emily looked at Hanna again. “I really don’t think we should be talking about this right now.” She glanced around nervously. “What if Ali is here?”

When a hand touched her shoulder, Hanna jumped. A familiar police officer stood above her. It was Gates, the officer to whom she’d given Kyla’s note. For a moment, she thought he was here as a mourner, but he was staring at her so intensely. “Hanna.” He said it like a statement, not a question.

“Y-yes?” Hanna whispered.

Gates offered his arm. “You need to come with me.”

At the exact same time, a skinny, dark-haired man in an FBI jacket appeared behind him. He was looking at Emily. “And you, Miss Fields.”

People up and down the aisles stared. Emily nudged Hanna, and she staggered to her feet. Whispers swirled as she and Emily walked toward the nave. Pretty Little Liar. Noel Kahn. Alison DiLaurentis. Suicide pact.

Once the church doors shut, Hanna stared at Gates. “What’s going on? Does this have to do with the note about Noel?”

Gates led Hanna out the door. “No, Hanna. It’s not about that.” He sounded almost sad.

They stepped out onto the sidewalk. Cars on Market Street slowed to a crawl. The reporters looked surprised, then sprinted toward the girls. “What’s going on?” they shouted. “Is this because of Graham’s death?” “Are you girls the serial killers?” “Officer, what did these girls do?”

“No comment,” Gates growled, holding tightly to Hanna’s arm.

They stopped at a black sedan parked at the curb. It had a removable siren on the front, and the blue lights were whirling. The Rosewood Police vehicle was parked farther down the curb, the engine still running.

The FBI agent opened the door for Emily and pushed her inside. Gates was about to do the same when he realized that a pickup truck had blocked him in. “Damn it,” he cursed, looking around for the driver. No one came forward.

“Ride with us.” The FBI agent walked hurriedly to the front seat of the sedan. “We’re going to the same place, anyway.”

Gates nodded, then gestured for Hanna to get into the back with Emily. She slid onto the leather seat. Gates slumped in the passenger seat and slammed the door as the car pulled onto Broad. The reporters followed them for almost a block, hurling questions. Hanna stared straight ahead, afraid she might burst into tears.

Beep.

Hanna fumbled for her bag. She lifted her phone out and looked at the screen. One new e-mail.

Take this, bitch! —A

The attached file contained a series of images. The first was a picture of a BMW crumpled against a tree. Though blurred by the rain, Hanna could easily make out her face in the driver’s seat. The second image was of that same night, only Hanna was out of the car and talking on the phone. In the third image, Hanna was moving Madison Zeigler’s body into the driver’s seat where she’d just been. Somehow, the other girls weren’t in the picture—it looked like Hanna was doing it alone. And of course the picture didn’t show the car that had swerved into her lane, pushing her off the road.

Hanna placed her hand against her mouth.

Next to her, Emily quietly gasped. She was staring at something on her phone, too. Hanna looked over, raising an eyebrow.

Emily showed Hanna the screen. On it was a picture of Emily and a pretty, dark-haired girl kissing on the deck of the cruise ship.

“Jordan?” Hanna whispered. Emily nodded miserably.

The FBI officer glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “We know you’ve been in touch with Katherine DeLong. Aiding and abetting is a crime.”

“But I didn’t do anything!” Emily cried.

Their phones beeped once more. Hanna looked down at the screens, both of them cheerfully flashing ONE NEW TEXT MESSAGE.

They both opened the message at the same time. Emily let out a small whimper. Hanna read it and winced.

Time to pay for your sins. —A

8

COMING CLEAN

Spencer had been sitting in a holding cell at the Philadelphia FBI branch office for more than an hour now. The room was small and dim, with a splintery table and absolutely nothing for her to do—they’d taken her phone and purse—except to pace back and forth. The only object in here was a plastic cup that had once been full of water. A heater rattled in the ceiling. The whole place smelled vaguely of grape Popsicles.

She made another lap around the room, her mind spinning. She didn’t get why Officer Gates had brought her to the FBI. Shouldn’t her crime be handled by local police? Or was drug possession a bigger thing? What if she was headed to federal prison? She shut her eyes, seeing her future at Princeton float down the drain. Of course this was Ali’s next move. She’d been an idiot not to anticipate it.

The door swung open, and Spencer leapt to attention. Aria appeared. Officer Gates and a man with FBI emblazoned on his jacket in blue thread pushed Hanna and Emily inside as well.

A had gotten them, too.

Gates looked at Emily and Hanna. “Empty your pockets and give me your purses. I want your keys, phones, and any other personal items.”

Hanna and Emily did as they were told. Aria just shrugged, seemingly already stripped of her belongings. Then the agents handed them cups of water and backed out of the room. The metal door closed with a clunk.

Everyone slumped down at the table. Spencer touched Emily’s hand. “Jordan? Or Gayle?” she asked in a low voice.

Emily hung her head. “The FBI knows I was in touch with . . .” She trailed off. “What if they ask me where she is?”

“Do you know where Jordan is?” Spencer whispered.

Emily was about to answer, but then Spencer caught her arm and glanced around. They might be listening, she mouthed. A mirror hung on a far wall. For all she knew, the agents were observing them on the other side.

Emily shifted her chair closer and whispered into Spencer’s ear. “I don’t know where she is.”

Aria cupped her hands around her mouth and spoke softly, too. “Well, at least you won’t be extradited. I might spend the next twenty years in an Icelandic prison for breaking and entering and helping—even though the painting was a fake.”

Hanna pushed her hair around her face and said in a low voice, “Guys, what if the press realizes why we’re here?” Her eyes glinted with tears. “It’s going to ruin my dad’s campaign.”