The following morning, the real Alison DiLaurentis watched the sun come up through the maple blinds in her old bedroom. Bands of light illuminated the vanity she'd begged her mom to buy for her in fifth grade, the blue crystal knobs on her closet and bureau drawers, the faint patina of dust on the flat-screen monitor and TV. This room even smelled the same, like vanilla hand soap. It felt like home.
Finally.
The aroma of coffee brewing in the kitchen wafted into her nostrils. When she looked over the railing, her family was already awake. Mr. and Mrs. DiLaurentis sat at the kitchen table, staring blearily at each other. Jason paced the hall worried.
Just one family member was missing, though Ali certainly wouldn't miss her.
She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her eyes had always been bluer than her sister's, the cheekbones in her heart-shaped face more pronounced. She was the more beautiful twin, the rightful queen bee of Rosewood Day. Now it was time to reclaim her throne from that bitch. Just thinking of her, just picturing her face, still filled Ali with rage. How dare she go outside in sixth grade and pretend she was someone she wasn't How dare she show up at the Preserve during those visits and pick at her perfect manicure to text with her friends while their parents tried to make conversation. That bitch deserved everything she got. And now Ali never have to worry about her again.
She walked downstairs, her head held high. But when she entered the kitchen, her family looked up and paled as if they'd seen a ghost. Mrs. DiLaurentis stepped forward and touched her arm. "I think you should go back upstairs, Courtney."
Ali stopped short. "I already told you. I'm not Courtney. I'm Ali."
Her parents exchanged a worried glance. A thin ribbon of fear began to niggle its way into Ali's brain. She knew that look. It is happening again.
And now their other daughter was missing.
Last night, when she'd come home, Ali hadn't expected her father to be awake—or for her mother to be home—but she still thought she'd pulled it off okay. They'd both caught her as she was sneaking up the stairs and yelled out her name—her real name.
"Hey, Mom, hey, Dad," she'd said breezily, staying in the shadow so they couldn't see her disheveled hair or the bruise on her cheek. "The sleepover was a bust. We kind of got into a fight. I'm off to bed."
She made it to her old bedroom and shut the door. Once inside, she'd scrubbed at her hands and brushed her hair. Her brain had whirled, trying to come up with what she and her friends had been fighting about. It had looked like her sister was trying to hypnotize them or something, right? But Spencer wasn't into it. And then her sister and Spencer got into that stupid fight about Ian Thomas outside the barn—Ali heard everything.
Then a knock had sounded on her door.
She'd jumped up and offered her parents, who were standing nervously in the hall, which, of course, was missing its A initial ring. Then they looked at her wrist. It was naked; no Jenna Thing string bracelet. Crap.
"Courtney?" Mrs. DiLaurentis asked tentatively. "Honey, were you outside?"
"I'm not Courtney," Ali said, frowning. "I'm Ali. See? This is why I didn't want you to bring her home. It's so confusing."
She tried to shut the door, but Mr. DiLaurentis stuck his hand on the jamb before she could. "This isn't your room, Courtney," he said with authority.
And you aren't my dad, Ali wanted to snap. "Yes, it is," she said instead, and then glowered at him. "And please don't call me Courtney. It's insulting."
Mrs. DiLaurentis looked confused. "Were you trying to hang out with your sister and her friends? Did you go into Spencer's barn?"
Ali shrugged. "Yeah, I was in Spencer's barn—I'm Ali. But the sleepover sucked. We had a fight, and we all went him. I already told you."
Mrs. DiLaurentis blinked hard. "So no one's in the barn anymore?"
"Yeah. They went home."
Looking like she didn't quite believe her, Mrs. DiLaurentis walked swiftly to the window in the bathroom, which offered a view of the backyards. Ali already knew the barn's windows were dark. Seconds later, her mom wheeled back into Ali's room. "Where's your sister?"
"Courtney?" Ali stared at her innocently. "I have no idea. She's not in her room?"
Mrs. DiLaurentis poked her head into the guest room, then shook her head.
Ali widens her eyes. "She got out? You weren't watching her? It's the only thing I asked you to do!" She made her voice rise and fall, the same way her sister had when she'd freaked out to her mother when she'd found out that Ali had met her friends.
Frazzled, Mrs. DiLaurentis ran her hands through her hair. "We'll get it sorted out." She touched her hair. "We'll get it sorted out." She touched her daughter's arm. "Good night...Ali." The name sounded awkward coming out of her mouth, like she'd never used it in her life.
"Goodnight," Ali had said, grabbing pajamas from the top drawer. Her sister liked Pink boxers from Victoria's Secret—so lame. But she dutifully pulled on, feeling a rush of triumph. Her parents might have been a little confused at first, but they had bought it in the end. She was sleeping in her old room. Yes.
But this morning, with her parents staring at her and calling her Courtney, doubt crept into her mind. Maybe her panic had seemed too staged. Maybe she'd grabbed a pair of pajamas that her sister would have never chosen. Maybe they were hung up on that missing A ring. And she had heard them downstairs until all hours of the night, pacing, murmuring into the phone, opening the front door and shutting it again. She'd heard them moving around at midnight, and then two, and then four, and then five thirty. They might not have slept at all.
"Go upstairs, okay?" Mrs. DiLaurentis's patience was wearing thin. "Spencer and the other girls are coming over soon. I'd like to ask them questions without explaining anything."
Ali made her breathing quicken like she was afraid. "So Courtney did take off? See? This is why I didn't want her back! She's totally mental, Mom. That's why you locked her up. Who knows what she's going to do now? What if she tried to hurt me?"
Mrs. DiLaurentis gave her husband a plaintive glance. Mrs. DiLaurentis just looked at her helplessly. She turned back to Ali. "Just go upstairs until we figure all this out."
Sighing dramatically, Ali thumped up the stairs, trying to hold it together. Once in her old bedroom, though, she sank to her knees, her mind thrumming. Why wasn't this working? Why didn't they believe her? She needed an airtight alibi. If those girls were coming over, they were probably going to ask where she'd gone last night, and when. There were probably twenty minutes that were unaccounted for—her parents would ask where she was. Talking on the phone, she could say. Walking around, blowing off steam.
But they were supposed to just believe her. They weren't supposed to shoo her away or question those girls without her around.
The doorbell rang. The door squeaked open, and the sounds of Mrs. DiLaurentis's and the girls' voices rang through the foyer. There were footsteps, and then the scrape of the chairs being pulled back for everyone to sit. Ali crept out of her room and slipped to the bottom of the stairs. All four girls sat around the table, staring at their hands. All of them were quiet, as though they were hiding something. Emily picked at her cuticles. Spencer drummed her fingers on the table. Aria inspected a pineapple-shaped napkin holder, and Hanna chew voraciously on a piece of gum.
"Alison hasn't come home," Mrs. DiLaurentis said.
The girls all looked up, shocked. Ali clapped a hand over her mouth by the stairs. How was this happening?
"Now, I don't know if you girls had a fight or what, but did she give you any hints as to where she might have gone?" Mrs. DiLaurentis continued.
Hanna twisted a piece of hair around her ear. "I think she's with her field hockey friends."
Mrs. DiLaurentis shook her head. "She's not. I've already called them." She cleared her throat. "Has Ali ever talked about someone teasing her?"
The girls glanced at one another, then looked away. "No one would do that," Emily said. "Everyone loves Ali."
"Did she ever seem sad?" Mrs. DiLaurentis pressed.
Spencer wrinkled her nose. "Like depressed? No." But then a troubled look came across her face. She stared blankly out the window.
"You wouldn't know where her diary is, would you?" Mrs. DiLaurentis asked. "I've looked everywhere for it, but I can't find it."
"I know what her diary looks like," Hanna offered. "Do you want us to go upstairs and search?"
Alison scampered halfway up the stairs, picturing the diary in her mind's eyes. She knew where it was—somewhere very, very safe. But she wasn't telling.
"No, no, that's all right," Mrs. DiLaurentis answered.
"Really." Hanna scraped back her chair. There were footsteps in the hall. "It's no trouble."
"Hanna," Ali's mom barked, her voice suddenly razor sharp. "I said no."
There was a pause. Ali wished she could see the looks on everyone's faces, but her view was obstructed. "Okay," Hanna said quietly. "Sorry."
After a while, the girls filed out. Mrs. DiLaurentis shut the door behind them and stood for a moment in the hall, just staring. Ali crouched behind the wall on the second floor, barely breathing. She had to think—and fast. She need to convince everyone she was the real Ali.
She ran to her old bedroom window and watched her sister's friends as they stood in a circle in the yard. They looked worried, maybe even guilty—especially Spencer. Emily burst into tears. Hanna gnawed nervously on a handful of Cheez-It's. It seemed like they were arguing, but Ali couldn't really tell. Should she go outside and talk to them? Maybe she could tell the truth that there were twins, that the other girl was a crazy Ali impersonator, that she'd gotten out last night but her parents were confused and thought the girls had switched places. She needed those stupid bitches to convince the world, just as her sister had used them a year and a half before.
She started down the stairs, but suddenly there was a deafening grumble from the backyard. It was the bulldozer. It barreled toward the hole, its huge tired ripping up the grass.
"Just what we need right now," Mrs. DiLaurentis groaned. "That thing is so loud I can hardly hear myself think."
"Do you want me to tell them to stop?" Mr. DiLaurentis asked.
The words rippled through Ali. A horrible thought gonged in her brain. Her parents could not go out there. What if they saw her sister at the bottom of the hole? She'd pulled a lot of dirt on her, But it had been dart out—maybe she hadn't been thorough enough.
She sprinted to the window in the bathroom and looked out. Men stood around the hole, positioning a chute that connected from the cement truck to a spot just inside. No one looked down the hole. There were no shouts o terror or backward steps of surprise. Ali thought again of the handfuls of dirt she'd thrown on the body, then about the person who'd helped her. She was glad her accomplice had shown up, just as she'd asked. For a few weeks there, she wasn't sure if it was going to happen.
The mixer started to turn. Gray cement poured down a chute into the hole, slowly filling it. The men stood around, smoking cigarettes. One of them told a joke, and a few of them laughed. Ali kept expecting them to turn toward the hole and suddenly scream out in terror, but no one did. The mixer whirled and whirled. The sludgy cement rolled down the chute. Ali assessed her feelings, but she didn't know what she felt. Relief, sort of. But also worry.
There was a knock on the bathroom door, which was ajar. Mrs. DiLaurentis stood in the hallway, fiddling with the hem of her T-shirt. "You have to tell us what you know, honey," she begged, her eyes full of tears.
Ali shrugged. "Why would you think I'd know something?"
Mrs. DiLaurentis blinked at her. Ali looked down, trying to remain calm, and reached for her sister's cell phone, which she'd found on the grass last night. But then she heard the mixer click off. It was all over. The hole was filled. Her sister was buried. Gone. Done.
Her fingers started to shake uncontrollably.
She shoved her hand under her thighs. Then she caught a glimpse of her freaked-out expression in the mirror. When she looked up, Mrs. DiLaurentis's mouth hung open. All the blood had drained from her face. In an instant, Ali knew that she knew.
Mrs. DiLaurentis set her mouth in a line. "Pack. Now."
Ali blinked. "Why?"
Mrs. DiLaurentis turned toward the stairs. "Kenneth?" she screeched. "Kenneth, I need you."
Mr. DiLaurentis bounded up the stairs fast. Mrs. DiLaurentis whipped around and pointed shakily at Ali. "Honey, she...Alison...she..." And she burst into tears.
Mr. DiLaurentis lunged for Ali as though he'd been planning the move for hours. Before Ali knew what was happening, they'd shut her inside the guest room and locked the door from the outside. "What the hell?" Ali screeched. "What's going on? Why are you two acting like freaks?"
She could hear their voices in the hall, low murmurs. She did something. I don't know what, but something horrible has happened. We have to get her out of here.
Ali's spine stiffened. Out of here? They didn't mean...the Preserve, did they? But they couldn't. No freaking way. Ali's heart began to pound just from the thought of it. She'd spent eighteen torturous months in that place. Hours inside that dark room. Days locked inside her head, so drugged-up from those indifferent nurses. And the doctors, oh the doctors, they were even worse. Cruel. Careless. They forgot her name, they forgot her situation. When she said, tearfully, I'm Ali, I'm Ali, they stared at her like she was nothing more than a number, a case study.
Moments later, when her parents came back into the room, Mrs. DiLaurentis yanked the suitcase from the floor and began stuffing T-shirts and underwear inside. "Mom," Ali said shakily. "I don't know what you're doing, but—"
"Don't talk," Mrs. DiLaurentis interrupted. Her husband was on the phone. After a moment, a voice answered so loudly that Ali would hear her through the receiver. "Good morning, the Preserve at Addison-Stevens, how may I help you?"
Frightened tears came to Ali's eyes. She tried to grab the phone from her father's hand, but he twisted away. "You can't send me back there!" she screamed. "I didn't do anything!"
Mrs. DiLaurentis pushed her palms against Ali's shoulders with surprising force, shoving Ali back to the bed. "Stop lying," she warned, her eyes full of tears. "Just stop all the lying!"
Ali screamed and tried to roll off the mattress, but then Mr. DiLaurentis appeared and grabbed her around the waist. Her feet kicked as they hauled her down the stairs. She screamed so loud, she was sure the workers in the back would come running, but no one did.
"You don't understand!" she moaned to her parents. "I'm Ali!"
But they didn't listen. She caught snippets of things as they dragged her to the car: the calligraphy lettering on her sister's seventh-grade diploma on the kitchen island, her sister's field hockey stick propped up in the corner of the laundry room, the whirling mixer in the backyard. The sky was so perfectly blue, the yards so pristinely manicured.
"I'm Ali!" she howled again the garage, a desperate plea to the Cavanaughs, the Vanderwaals, even the Hastingses. But still no one came to her rescue. Her father shoved her into the backseat, and her head hit the opposite window hard. She tried to scramble out the door again, but her parents had already climbed inside the car and child-locked the doors. Then the engine growled. Then they were going in reverse. Ali's vision was clouded by tears now. Her throat felt sore from screaming. She peered out the window at the impassive houses all along the cul-de-sac. No one cared about her. She hated everyone on this stupid street.
And with that, they were gone. "You don't understand, I'm Ali," she repeated a few more times, but as they pulled out of the driveway, she realized it was futile. They didn't believe her. Her plan had backfired. She'd never, ever be Alison DiLaurentis again.
And worse, they'd somehow figured out what she'd done. Perhaps they thought they were being kind. They could have called the police, could have had her locked up in jail.
But it didn't seem kind to her. She would have preferred jail. At least she would have gotten a trail. At least she would have gotten her name back.
Mr. DiLaurentis's face was splotchy as he pivoted to the right and stared down the street. Shell-shocked, Ali cranked her neck to the side and watched as the cement truck topped off the hole, leveling it with the rest of the yard. She'd buried forever. Her sister's words spiraled through her head: I just want a sister again. That's all I've ever wanted. It had stopped her, at least for a moment. They passed the Hastingses' house. Spencer stood on the porch, looking worriedly into the yard—maybe she'd heard Ali's calls. "Get down," Mr. DiLaurentis barked, roughly shoving Ali's head into the footwell just as Spencer noticed the car.
After they passed, Ali sat up again and stared at Spencer's back. She was Ali's sister, too. Except all Ali felt for her was hate. When you got down to it, this was all Spencer's fault—and Aria's, Emily's, and Hanna's. They were the ones who intercepted her sister in the yard that day a year and a half ago. They were the ones who'd facilitated Courtney's ascent into Ali-dom. A new batch of hate flooded her body. It was no longer her sister was angry at. It was them.
Mr. DiLaurentis put on his blinker at the corner. Mrs. DiLaurentis let out a tormented sniff as they turned onto the main road, leaving their quiet happy little street behind. Ali peered out the back window, wondering if she'd ever see it again. She would, she decided. She would find a way to come back here, to clear her name. And once she did, she would get her revenge—for real this time. She'd make those bitches pay. She'd make them wish they were never Alison DiLaurentis's friends in the first place. She didn't know how, and she didn't know when, but at least she had one person she could count on to help her carry it out. Together, they were going to make it happen.
Even if it killed her.