Wicked (10 page)

Aria grabbed Emily’s hand.

Spencer stared at Melissa, her face completely white. “What’s going on? Why isn’t he in prison?”

Melissa shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know.”

Ian’s blond hair shone like that of a polished bronze statue, but his face looked sallow. The screen switched to a News 4 reporter. “Mr. Thomas’s mother has been diagnosed with aggressive pancreatic cancer,” she explained. “There has just been an emergency hearing, and Thomas has been granted temporary bail to visit her.”

“
What
?” Hanna screamed.

A banner at the bottom of the screen said:
JUDGE BAXTER RULES ON THOMAS BAIL REQUEST
. Emily’s heart hammered in her ears. Ian’s lawyer, a silver-haired man in a pin-striped suit, pushed to the front of the crowd and stood in front of the cameras. Flashbulbs flared in the background. “It was my client’s mother’s dying wish to spend her last days with her son,” he announced. “And I’m thrilled we won the motion for temporary bail. Ian will be under house arrest until his trial starts on Friday.”

Emily felt faint. “House arrest?” she repeated, dropping Aria’s hand. Ian’s family lived in a big Cape Cod–style house less than a mile from the Hastingses’ farmhouse. Once, back when Ali was still alive and Ian and Melissa were dating, Emily had overheard Ian telling Melissa that he could see the Hastingses’ windmill from his bedroom window.

“This can’t be happening,” Aria said in a catatonic voice.

The reporters thrust microphones in Ian’s face. “How do you feel about the decision?” they asked. “What has the county jail been like for you?” “Do you feel you’ve been wrongfully accused?”

“Yes, I’ve been wrongfully accused,” Ian said, in a strong, angry voice. “And jail has been exactly what you’d expect—hell.” He pursed his lips together, glaring right into the camera lens. “I’m going to do everything in my power never to go back there.”

A chill ran up Emily’s spine. She thought of Ian on that online interview she’d seen before Christmas.
Someone wants me here. Someone’s concealing the truth. They’re going to pay.

The reporters chased Ian as he walked to a waiting black limousine. “What do you mean, you’re not going back there?” they cried. “Did someone else do it? Do you know something we don’t?”

Ian didn’t answer. He just let his lawyer guide him toward the waiting limo. Emily looked around at the others. Hanna’s face was green. Aria was chewing on the collar of her sweater. Melissa ran out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind her. Spencer stood up and faced all of them.

“We’re going to be okay,” she said forcefully. “We can’t freak out.”

“He might come looking for us,” Emily whispered, her heart booming. “He’s so angry. And he blames
us.
”

A tiny muscle near Spencer’s mouth quivered.

The TV camera zoomed in on Ian as he climbed into the backseat of the limo. For a moment, it seemed like his deranged eyes were looking through the camera lens, like he could see Emily and her friends. Hanna let out a small “eep.”

The girls watched as Ian settled into the leather seat and reached for something in his jacket pocket. Then Ian’s lawyer slammed the door shut behind him, and the camera pulled away, switching back to the News 4 reporter. Below her the banner now read:
JUDGE BAXTER GRANTS THOMAS TEMPORARY BAIL
.

Suddenly, Emily’s phone beeped, making her jump. At the same time, a chime sounded from Hanna’s purse.

Then, there was a
bleep.
Aria’s Treo, which was sitting in her lap, lit up. Spencer’s Sidekick rang, two loud bleats like an old British telephone.

The TV flickered in the background. All they could see were the taillights of Ian’s limo, pulling into the street and slowly driving away. Emily exchanged glances with her friends, all the blood slowly draining from her head.

Emily stared at her phone’s LCD window.
ONE NEW TEXT MESSAGE
.

Her hands shook as she hit Read.

Honestly, bitches…did you really think I’d let you off that easy? You haven’t gotten nearly what you deserve. And I can’t wait to give it to you. Mwah!

—A

10

BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER…IF YOU’RE REALLY FAMILY, THAT IS

Seconds later, Spencer was on the phone with Officer Wilden. She put the call on speaker so her friends could hear. “That’s right,” she barked into the mouthpiece. “Ian just sent us a threatening text.”

“Are you sure it’s Ian?” Wilden’s voice crackled on the other end.

“Positive,” Spencer said. She looked at the others, and they nodded. Who else could have sent this, after all? Ian had to be furious at them. Their evidence had sent him to jail, and their testimony—specifically
her
testimony—at his upcoming trial would put him in prison for the rest of his life. Plus, he’d reached into his pocket just as the limo door had closed, as if searching for a cell phone…

“I’m a couple miles from your house,” Wilden replied. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

They heard his car pulling into the driveway a minute later. Wilden wore a heavy, down-filled Rosewood PD jacket that smelled slightly of mothballs. There was a gun in his holster and his ever-present walkie-talkie. When he took off his black wool hat, his hair was matted.

“I can’t believe the judge let him out.” Wilden’s voice was razor-sharp. “I seriously can’t
believe
it.” He stormed into the foyer with a lot of pent-up energy, like a lion prowling around his habitat at the Philadelphia Zoo.

Spencer raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t seen Wilden this keyed up since high school, when Principal Appleton had threatened to expel him for attempting to steal his vintage Ducati motorcycle. Even the night Mona died, when Wilden had had to tackle Ian in Spencer’s backyard to make sure he didn’t run, he’d remained stoic and unruffled.

But it was reassuring that he was as furious as they were. “Here’s the note,” Spencer said, thrusting her Sidekick under Wilden’s nose. He frowned and studied the screen. His walkie made a few squawks and bleeps, but he ignored them.

Finally, Wilden handed the device back to Spencer. “So you think this is from Ian?”

“Of
course
it’s from Ian,” Emily urged.

Wilden pushed his hands into his pockets. He sank down on the rose-printed wingback living room couch. “I know how this must look,” he started carefully. “And I promise I will investigate this. But I want you guys to entertain the possibility that this is just from a copycat.”

“A
copycat
?” Hanna screeched.

“Think about it.” Wilden leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Ever since your story has been on the news, there have been tons of people sending threatening notes, calling themselves A. And although we’ve tried to keep your cell numbers private, people have ways of getting hold of information.” He pointed to Spencer’s phone. “Whoever wrote that probably timed it with Ian’s release, making it
look
like he’d sent it, that’s all.”

“But what if it really
is
Ian?” Spencer squealed. She waved her hands toward the media room, where the TV was still playing. “What if he wants to scare us into keeping quiet at his trial?”

Wilden gave her a slightly condescending, closed-mouth smile. “I can see why you’d jump to that conclusion. But think about this from Ian’s perspective. Even if he
is
mad, he’s out of jail now. He wants to stay out. He wouldn’t try something as blatantly stupid as this.”

Spencer ran her hand over the back of her neck. She felt like she had the time she’d gotten to try out one of the NASA astronaut training machines on a family trip to the Kennedy Space Center in Florida—nauseated and unsure which end was up. “But he killed Ali,” she blurted out.

“Can’t you just re-arrest him until his trial?” Aria suggested.

“Guys, the law doesn’t work like that,” Wilden said. “I can’t just go around arresting anyone I please. It’s not really for me to decide.” He gazed around at all of them, noting their dissatisfaction. “I’ll check Ian out personally, okay? And we’ll try and track down where this text came from. Whoever is sending these will be stopped—I promise. Meanwhile, try not to worry. Someone’s just messing with your heads. More than likely, it’s just some dumb kid who has nothing better to do. Now, can we all take a deep breath and try not to think too hard about this?”

None of them said a word. Wilden tilted his head. “
Please
?”

A shrill ring sounded from his belt, making them all flinch. Wilden glanced down, unclipping his cell phone. “I gotta take this, okay? I’ll see you girls later.” He gave them all a small, apologetic wave, and let himself out.

The door closed quietly, filling the foyer with a burst of crisp, freezing-cold air. The room was silent except for the faraway murmurings of the television. Spencer turned her Sidekick over in her hands. “I
guess
Wilden could be right,” she said quietly, not really believing her own words. “Maybe it’s just a copycat.”

“Yeah,” Hanna said, pausing to swallow. “I’ve gotten a couple copycat notes.”

Spencer gritted her teeth. She had, too—but they’d been nothing like this.

“Same drill, I guess?” Aria suggested. “If we get more notes, we tell each other?”

They all shrugged in agreement. But Spencer knew how well that plan had gone before—A had sent her plenty of devastatingly personal notes she hadn’t dared tell the others about, and her friends hadn’t shared theirs either. Only, those notes had been from Mona, who, thanks to Ali’s diary, knew their darkest secrets, and had been able to skulk around, digging up dirt on them left and right. Ian had been in jail for more than two months. What could he really know about them, besides that they were afraid? Nothing. And Wilden had promised to look into it.

Not that any of this made her feel much better.

There was nothing to do except to usher her old friends out the front door. Spencer watched as they trudged down her front walk toward their cars in the carefully shoveled circular driveway. The world was absolutely still, stunned by winter. A patch of long, weapon-sharp icicles hung off the garage, glittering under the floodlights.

Something flickered near the thick line of black trees that separated part of Spencer’s yard from Ali’s. Then she heard a cough, and Spencer spun around and screamed. Melissa was standing behind her in the foyer, her hands clasped at her waist, a ghostly expression on her face. “God,” Spencer said, pressing her hand to her chest.

“Sorry,” Melissa croaked. She moved quietly into the living room and brushed her hands along the top of the antique harp. “I heard what you told Wilden. You guys got another note?”

Spencer raised a suspicious eyebrow. Had Melissa been hovering in the doorway, spying? “If you were listening, why didn’t you tell Wilden that Ian called you from prison and begged us not to testify?” Spencer demanded. “Then Wilden might have believed that Ian wrote the note. He might have been able to re-arrest him.”

Melissa plucked a harp string. There was a helpless expression on her face. “Did you see Ian on TV? He looked so…thin. It’s like they didn’t even let him eat when he was in jail.”

Rage and disbelief rushed through Spencer’s body. Did Melissa actually feel sorry for him? “Just admit it,” she sputtered. “You think I’m lying about seeing Ian with Ali that night, just like I lied about the Golden Orchid. And you’d rather Ian
hurt
us than believe he could’ve killed her—
and
that he deserves to go back to jail.”

Melissa shrugged and plucked another string. A sour note filled the room. “Of course I don’t want anyone to hurt you. But…like I said. What if this is all a mistake? What if Ian didn’t do it?”

“He
did
,” Spencer yelled, her chest burning. Interesting, she thought, that Melissa didn’t admit whether she thought Spencer was lying or telling the truth.

Melissa waved her hand dismissively, as if she didn’t feel like getting into it again. “In any case, I do think Wilden’s right about those notes. It’s not Ian. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to threaten you. Ian might be upset, but he’s not an idiot.”

Spencer turned away from her sister, frustrated, and peered out over the cold, empty front yard just as her mother’s car pulled into the driveway. Moments later, the door from the garage to the kitchen slammed, and Mrs. Hastings’s high heels clacked across the kitchen floor. Melissa sighed and padded down the hall. Spencer heard them murmuring, then the crackle of grocery bags.

Spencer’s heart began to pound. She had the urge to run upstairs, hide in her room, and try not to think about Ian or anything else, but this was her first opportunity to confront her mother about Nana’s will.

Rolling back her shoulders, Spencer took a deep breath and walked down the long hallway into the kitchen. Her mother was leaning over the counter, pulling a fresh-baked rosemary bread loaf out of a Fresh Fields grocery bag. Melissa scuttled in from the garage, a case of Moët champagne in her arms.

“What’s all that champagne for?” Spencer asked, wrinkling her nose.

“The fund-raiser, of course.” Melissa shot her a
duh
look.

Spencer frowned. “What fund-raiser?”

Melissa lowered her chin, surprised. She glanced at their mother, but Mrs. Hastings continued unpacking organic vegetables and whole-wheat pasta, her lips pressed tightly together. “We’re having a Rosewood Day fund-raiser here this weekend,” Melissa explained.

A little squeak escaped from Spencer’s throat. A fund-raiser? Event planning was something she and her mom always did together. Spencer organized the invitations, helped plan the menu, took RSVP calls, and even arranged the classical music playlist. It was one of the few things Spencer did better than Melissa—few people were OCD enough to create dossiers on each invitee, complete with information as to who didn’t eat veal and who didn’t mind sitting next to the vile Pembrokes at dinner.