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 of 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 black 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 elbow 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 phone 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 copyright."
"Yeah," Hanna said, pausing to swallow. "I've gotten a couple of copyright 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 the 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 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, flittering 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 odor 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, surprised. She glanced at their mother, but Mrs. Hastings continued unpacking organic vegetables and who-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.
Spencer turned to face her mother, her heart pounding. "Mom?"
Spencer's mother whirled around. She touched her diamond tennis bracelet protectively, as if she thought Spencer might try to steal it.
"Do you…need help with the fund-raiser?" Spencer's voice broke.
Mrs. Hastings tightly gripped the sides of a jar of organic blackberry preserves. "I've got it covered, thank you."
There was a cold hard knot at the pit of Spencer's stomach. She took a deep breath. "I also wanted to ask you about Nana's will. Why was I left out? Is it even legal to give some grandchildren money and not others?"
Her mother placed the preserves on a pantry shelf and let out a chilling snicker. "Of course it's legal, Spencer. Nana can do whatever she wants with her money." She pulled her black cashmere cape around her shoulders and strode past Spencer to the garage.
"But…," Spencer cried. Her mother didn't turn around. She slammed the door on her way out. The sleigh bells hanging from the doorknob jangled loudly, startling the two dogs from sleep.
Spencer's body went slack. So that was it. She was really, truly disowned. Maybe her parents had told Nana about the Golden Orchid debacle a few months ago. Maybe they'd even encouraged Nana to alter her will, deliberately leaving Spencer out because she'd disgraced the family. Spencer squeezed her eyes shut, wondering what her life would be like right now if she'd just kept quiet and accepted the Golden Orchid award. Could she have gone on Good Morning America, as the other Golden Orchid winners had done, and accepted everyone's congratulations? Could she seriously have attended a college that had given her early admission based on an essay she hadn't written—and didn't even really understand? If she'd just kept quiet, would there still be this chatter that Ian was going to be acquitted due to lack of reliable evidence?
She leaned against the granite-topped island and let out a small, pathetic whimper. Melissa dropped a folded grocery bag to the table and walked over to her. "I'm so sorry, Spence," she said quietly. She hesitated a moment and then wrapped her thin arms around Spencer's shoulders. Spencer was too numb to resist. "They're being so awful to you."
Spencer plopped into a seat at the kitchen table, reached for a napkin from the holder, and dabbled at her teary eyes.
Melissa sat down to her. "I just don't understand it. I've been going over and over it, and I don't know why Nana would leave you out of her will."
"She hated me," Spencer said flatly, her nose getting that peppery, about-to-sneeze feeling it always did whenever she was about to start bawling. "I stole your paper. Then I admitted I stole it. I'm a huge disgrace."
"I don't think it has anything to do with that." Melissa leaned closer. Spencer could smell Neutrogena sunscreen—Melissa was so anal, she put on sunscreen even when she was going to be spending the entire day indoors. "Something about it was really suspect."
Spencer lowered the napkin from her eyes. "Suspect…how?"
Melissa scraped the chair closer. "Nana left money to each of her natural-born grandchildren." She tapped the kitchen table three times to emphasize the last three words, and then stared at Spencer searchingly, as if Spencer was supposed to deduce something from this. Then Melissa glanced out the window, where their mother was still unloading groceries from the car. "I think there are a lot of secrets in this family," she whispered. "Things you and I aren't allowed to know. Everything has to look all perfect on the outside, but…" She trailed off.
Spencer squinted. Even though she had no idea what Melissa was talking about, a sick, swooping feeling began to wash over her. "Will you just spit out what you're trying to say?"
Melissa sat back. "Natural-born grandchildren," she repeated. "Spence…maybe you were adopted."