Hanna nodded, though she also felt eerie shivers as she looked at all the names. Eileen. Stef. Jenny. Why had they been here? What had they suffered from—an eating disorder or ADD, the milder reasons for coming to the Preserve, or something much scarier? Ali’s brother, Jason, had apparently spent time in a hospital like this back in high school. His name had been all over that ledger Emily found in the office at the Radley party.

It was weird that Ali had never shared that secret with any of them. There was only one memory Hanna could recall where Ali might have hinted at Jason’s mental problems. At the beginning of seventh grade, Hanna and Ali were hanging out alone on a Sunday afternoon, trying to pick out their outfits for the next day. As Ali was slipping out of a pair of Citizens corduroys, the phone rang. Ali picked it up and was silent. Her mouth got very small, and her face paled a shade. Hanna heard screechy, spooky laughter through the receiver. “For the last time, stop it, loser!” Ali screamed, and hung up.

“Who was that?” Hanna whispered.

“Just my stupid brother,” Ali mumbled into her chest.

And then she dropped it. But now, Hanna was pretty sure Jason had been calling from the Radley—the logbooks Emily found said he checked in for a few hours on the weekends. Maybe he’d called Ali from there to scare her. Jerk.

Iris settled on one of the chairs, and Hanna plopped down on the other. Silently, they both stared at the doodles and names. Helena. Becky. Lindsay. “I wonder where they all are now,” Hanna said softly.

“Who knows,” Iris answered, finger-combing her white-blond hair. “Though I heard a rumor about this one patient who was supposed to check in for, like, two weeks, but her parents forgot about her. She still lives here . . . in the basement.”

Hanna snorted. “That’s so not true.”

“Yeah, probably not. But you never know.”

Iris reached under the cushion and pulled out a small disposable camera wrapped in green paper. “I smuggled this in from the outside, too. Want to get a picture of us together?”

Hanna hesitated—the last thing she wanted was proof that she’d been in a mental hospital. “It’s not like you’ll be able to get it developed,” she said warily.

“I want to send the camera to my dad.” Iris lowered her eyes. “Not that he opens my letters.” Her bottom lip started to tremble. “We used to be really close, but then he took this high-stress job as the dean of medicine at some stupid hospital. He has no time for me anymore. And now that I’m here . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t exist for him.”

“My dad’s the same,” Hanna gasped, amazed they had this in common, too. “I used to talk to him about everything, but then he moved away and got this new girlfriend, Isabel. Now they’re living in my house—with Isabel’s perfect daughter, Kate.” She curled her toes. “Kate can do absolutely nothing wrong. My dad’s totally obsessed with her.”

“I can’t believe your dad would like someone better than you.” Iris sounded appalled.

“Thanks,” Hanna said gratefully, staring out the little attic window at the empty tennis courts behind the facility. For a long time, she’d reasoned that her dad no longer loved her as much because she wasn’t pretty and perfect. But Iris was perfect . . . and her dad still treated her like shit. Maybe daughters weren’t the problem—maybe fathers were.

Fueled with fury, she plucked the camera from Iris’s hand and held it outstretched between the two of them. “Let’s give all the sucky dads in the world the finger.”

“Totally,” Iris said, and at the count of three, both of them squished their faces close and raised their middle fingers. Hanna pressed the button.

“Awesome,” Iris said, advancing the film and slipping the camera back into her bag.

Hanna slid down the arm so that she and Iris shared the chair. They were both skinny enough to fit. The room smelled a little like cinnamon and sun-baked wood. “How’d you find out about this place, anyway?”

“Courtney gave me the code,” Iris said, kicking off her navy studded Maloles ballet flats.

Hanna picked at her thumbnail. The only slightly annoying thing about Iris was that she talked nonstop about her old roommate, Courtney, who apparently used to be the grand dame of the Preserve. In the past day, Iris had told twelve separate stories about this Courtney bitch—not that Hanna had been counting or anything.

“So when did Courtney leave?” Hanna asked as nonchalantly as she could.

One corner of Iris’s mouth turned down. “November, I think? I can’t remember.” She reached into the metal cup and pulled out a blue Magic Marker.

“So what happened to her? Is she normal now?”

Iris uncapped the marker and began doodling on the wall. “Who knows? I haven’t talked to her since she left.”

Hanna felt a dart of triumph. “Why not?”

Iris shrugged, absently scribbling. “She lied about why she was in here. She said it was because of mild depression, but it turned out she had way bigger issues. I only found out afterward. She was as messed up as all the other patients here.”

The wind creaked against the windowpanes. Hanna faked a cough, hiding her guilty expression. It wasn’t like she’d been particularly forthcoming with Iris about why she was in here, either—she hadn’t told her a thing about Ali, A, or Mona.

Iris pulled the Magic Marker away, revealing what she’d drawn on the wall. It was an old-fashioned wishing well, complete with an A-frame roof and a crank. Hanna blinked hard, stunned. Little prickles danced up her arms. The wishing well was eerily familiar . . . and definitely not a coincidence.

“Why did you draw that?” she whispered.

Iris paused for a moment, looking caught. She nervously twisted the cap back on the marker. Hanna’s heart raced faster and faster. Finally, Iris pointed at Hanna’s purse. “Your bag was open on the bureau today. I didn’t mean to peek inside, but that shirt thing was sitting right on top. What is it, anyway? “

Hanna stared at her purse and let out a breath. Of course—she’d been carrying around Ali’s Time Capsule flag like it was the Hope diamond, never letting it out of her sight.

She touched the fabric with her fingertips. Sure enough, the drawing of the wishing well was on top, clearly visible. Next to it was a strange symbol Hanna couldn’t decipher—it looked like a letter in a circle with a slash through it, like a No Parking sign. Instead of the letter P, there was a smudged I... or a J. Maybe for Jason. No Jason Allowed. A shiver rippled through her. Every time she looked at Ali’s flag, it felt like Ali’s presence was close, watching. For a moment, she almost thought she could detect a faint whiff of Ali’s favorite vanilla soap.

Hanna felt Iris’s eyes on her, waiting for an answer. Don’t tell her, a voice in her head said. If you tell her the truth, she’ll thinkyou’re a wacko. “It’s for this game we do at school,” she heard herself say nonchalantly. “I’m keeping it for my friend, Alison.” She zipped up her bag and squished it under the seat.

Iris checked her Movado watch and groaned. “Shit. I have therapy now. So boring.” She uncrossed her legs and stood.

Hanna stood too. Both girls clomped down the stairs, through the secret door, and parted ways. Hanna’s nerves still felt jangled from the wishing well drawing. She felt like she needed to pop a Valium and lie down. If only she could call Mike: She longed to hear his voice, even his lascivious remarks. The no-phone-calls rule they had in this place blew.

She was unlocking the door to her bedroom when someone behind her coughed. Tara was jiggling up and down, running her tongue disgustingly over her braces.

“Oh.” Hanna’s heart sank. “Hi.”

Tara placed her hands on her meaty hips. “So you and Iris are roommates?” she lisped.

“Yeah,” Hanna said in a duh voice. Tara had been with Hanna when Iris introduced herself. And both their names were written on the door in shiny gold ink.

“So you know about her, right?”

Hanna turned the lock and heard the bolt release. “What’s there to know?”

Tara pushed her hands in the pockets of her terry-cloth hoodie. “Iris is certifiably insane. That’s why she’s here. So don’t do anything to piss her off. I’m telling you this as a friend.”

Hanna studied Tara for a moment. Her skin felt hot, then cold. She whipped the door open. “Tara, we’re not friends.” She slammed the door in Tara’s face.

Once inside, she shook the tension out of her hands. “Your funeral,” she heard Tara say through the door. She watched Tara through the peephole as she walked away. Suddenly, Hanna realized why she’d been repulsed by Tara from the very start. Tara had the same stubby round body, hideous braces, and dull brown hair as Hanna did before her makeover in eighth grade. It was like looking at her former self, back when she was miserable and unpopular and lost. Before she was beautiful. Before she was someone.

Hanna sat down on the bed and pressed her fingers to her temples. If Tara was anything like the old Hanna inside, it was obvious why she’d said that about Iris—and why Hanna shouldn’t believe a word of it. Tara was insanely, voraciously jealous—just like Hanna had been of Ali. Staring at her frazzled reflection in the mirror across the room, she conjured up the old catchphrase Ali used to use all the time, the one Hanna had adopted herself after Ali disappeared. I’m Hanna, and I’m fabulous. Her days of being like Tara were long gone.

Chapter 17

Just Another Kegger at the Kahns’

By the time Aria and Mike pulled up to the Kahns’ monstrosity of a house on Thursday night, there were already tons of cars parked in the driveway and on the lawn. Music thumped from inside the house, and Aria heard a splash from the hot tub out back.

“Sweet,” Mike said, leaping out the passenger door. In a blink, he had run halfway around the side of the house toward the backyard. Aria glowered. So much for an escort.

Aria got out of the car and joined a knot of thin, pretty girls from the Quaker prep school making their way to Noel’s door. Each girl was blonder than the last. They were wearing matching fur-trimmed hats that probably cost more than Aria’s entire outfit. Aria felt shabby and weird next to them in her deep green mohair sweater dress, gray suede boots, and leg warmers. The girls jostled on the porch, each trying desperately to be the first one through the door, bumping into Aria as if she wasn’t even there.

Just as Aria was about to turn and run back to her car, Noel flung open the door, dressed in a plain black T-shirt and black swim trunks. “You’re here!” he whooped to Aria and only Aria, ignoring the other girls. “Are you ready for the hot tub?”

“I don’t know,” Aria answered shyly. At the last minute, she’d thrown a bikini in her bag, but she hadn’t decided whether she’d wear it. She still didn’t even know what she was doing here. This wasn’t exactly her group.

Noel scowled. “It’s a hot tub party. You’re going in.”