Unbelievable (31 page)

Everyone lingered outside the courthouse. The weather was nothing like that sublime, cloudless fall day of Ali’s memorial service just weeks earlier. Today, the sky was blurred with dark clouds, making the whole world dull and shadowless. Emily felt a hand on her arm. Spencer wrapped her arms around Emily’s shoulders.

“It’s all over,” Spencer whispered.

“I know,” Emily said, hugging back.

The other girls joined in on the hug. Out of the corner of her eye, Emily saw a camera flash. She could already imagine the newspaper caption:
Alison’s Friends Distraught but at Peace.
At that moment, a black Lincoln idling near the curb caught her eye. A chauffeur sat in the passenger seat, waiting. The tinted back window was rolled down the tiniest crack, and Emily saw a pair of eyes staring straight at her. Emily’s mouth fell open. She’d only seen blue eyes like that one other time in her life.

“Guys,” she whispered, clamping down hard on Spencer’s arm.

The others broke out of their hug. “What?” Spencer asked, concerned.

Emily pointed to the sedan. The back window was now closed, and the chauffeur was shifting the car into gear. “I swear I just saw…” she stammered, but then paused. They’d think she was crazy—fantasizing that Ali was alive was just another way to cope with her death. Emily swallowed hard, standing up straighter. “Never mind,” she said.

The girls turned away, drifting back to their own families, promising to call one another later. But Emily remained where she was, her heart pounding as the sedan pulled away from the curb. She watched as it cruised down the street, turned right at the light, and disappeared. Her blood chilled.
It couldn’t have been her,
she told herself.

Could it have?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I want to thank those I’ve mentioned in the dedication—the people who encouraged Spencer to kiss her sister’s boyfriends, Aria to kiss her English teacher, Emily to kiss a girl (or two), and Hanna to kiss the dorky boy in school. The people who aided and abetted in Alison’s murder first laughed at the phrase “pussies who ride small, gay horses,” and were excited about this project from the very beginning…which was, wow, three whole years ago. I’m talking, of course, about my friends at Alloy—Lanie Davis, Josh Bank, Les Morgenstein, and Sara Shandler. Being a working writer is something of an oxymoron for most, and I am immensely appreciative for all you’ve done for me. I’m lucky to work with all of you, and I seriously doubt these books would be half as good without your wonderfully creative minds…and humor…and, of course, baked goods. Here’s to more fabulous twists and turns in the future!

I’m grateful also to all those at Harper who champion these books—Farrin Jacobs, for your careful reading, and Kristin Marang, for all your dedication, attention, and friendship. And a big thanks to Jennifer Rudolph Walsh at William Morris for your belief in this series’ future. You are truly magical.

Love to the slew of people I mention in every book: Joel, my husband, for your ability to predict the future—strangely, it always involves tickling. To my father, Shep, because you like to impersonate French travel agents, because we thought you got lost in the desert this December, and because you once threatened to leave a restaurant because they had run out of red wine. To my sister, Ali, for creating the greatest team ever (Team Alison) and for taking pictures of Squee the stuffed lamb with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. And to my mom, Mindy—I hope you never take a vaccine for silliness. Thank you so much for your support of all of my writing.

I also want to thank all of the Pretty Little Liars readers out there. I absolutely adore hearing from you guys, and I’m so glad you care as much about the characters as I do. Keep your amazing letters coming!

Finally, much love to my grandma, Gloria Shepard. I’m touched that you read the Pretty Little Liars series—and I’m so happy you think the books are funny! I’ll try to include more jokes about nose hair in the future.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT…

So after big bad Mona departed this dear world and Ian was sent away to a cold prison cell, our Pretty Little Liars were finally able to live in peace. Emily found true love at Smith College; Hanna ruled as queen bee of Rosewood Day and married a billionaire; Spencer graduated first in her class at Columbia School of Journalism and went on to be managing editor of the
New York Times
; Aria got her MFA from Rhode Island School of Design and moved to Europe with Ezra. We’re talking sunsets, fat babies, and blissful happiness. Nice, huh? Oh, and none of them ever told a lie again.

Are you effing kidding me? Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. There’s no happily ever after in Rosewood.

I mean, have you learned
nothing
? Once a pretty little liar,
always
a pretty little liar. Emily, Hanna, Spencer, and Aria just can’t
help
but be bad. That’s what I love best about them. So who am I? Well, let’s just say there’s a new A in town, and this time our girlies aren’t getting off so easily.

See ya soon. And until then, try not to be
too
good. Life’s always more fun with a few pretty little secrets.

Mwah!
—A

Credits

Hand Lettering by Peter Horridge
Photography by Ali Smith
Doll design by Tina Amantula

Excerpt from The Lying Game

PROLOGUE

I woke up in a dingy claw-foot bathtub in an unfamiliar pink-tiled bathroom. A stack of
Maxim
s sat next to the toilet, green toothpaste globbed in the sink, and white drips streaked the mirror. The window showed a dark sky and a full moon. What day of the week was it? Where was I? A frat house at the U of A? Someone’s apartment? I could barely remember that my name was Sutton Mercer, or that I lived in the foothills of Tucson, Arizona. Had someone slipped me something?

“Emma?” a guy’s voice called from another room. “You home?”

“I’m busy!” called a voice close by.

A tall, thin girl opened the bathroom door, her tangled dark hair hanging in her face. “Hey!” I leapt to my feet. “Someone’s in here already!” My body felt tingly, as if it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, it seemed like I was flickering on and off, like I was under a strobe light.
Freaky. Someone definitely slipped me something.

The girl didn’t seem to hear me. She stumbled forward, her face covered in shadows.

“Hel
lo
?” I cried, climbing out of the tub. She didn’t look over. “Are you deaf?” Nothing. She pumped a bottle of lavender-scented lotion and rubbed it on her arms.

The door flung open again, and a snub-nosed, unshaven teenage guy burst in. “Oh.” His gaze flew to the girl’s tight-fitting T-shirt, which said new york new york roller coaster on the front. “I didn’t know you were in here, Emma.”

“That’s maybe why the door was
closed
?” Emma pushed him out and slammed it shut. She turned back to the mirror. I stood right behind her. “Hey!” I cried again.

Finally, she looked up. My eyes darted to the mirror to meet her gaze. But when I looked into the glass, I screamed.

Because Emma looked exactly like me.

And I wasn’t there.

Emma turned and walked out of the bathroom, and I followed as if something was yanking me along behind her. Who was this girl? Why did we look the same? Why was I invisible? And why couldn’t I remember, well,
anything
? The wrong memories snapped into aching, nostalgic focus—the glittering sunset over the Catalinas, the smell of the lemon trees in my backyard in the morning, the feel of cashmere slippers on my toes. But other things, the most important things, had become muffled and fuzzy, as if I’d lived my whole life underwater. I saw vague shapes, but I couldn’t make out what they were. I couldn’t remember what I’d done for any summer vacations, who my first kiss had been with, or what it felt like to feel the sun on my face or dance to my favorite song. What
was
my favorite song? And even worse, every second that passed, things got fuzzier and fuzzier. Like they were disappearing.

Like
I
was disappearing.

But then I concentrated really hard and I heard a muffled scream. And suddenly it was like I was somewhere else. I felt pain shooting through my body, before a final, sleepy sensation of my muscles surrendering. As my eyes slowly closed, I saw a blurry, shadowy figure standing over me.

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

No wonder Emma didn’t see me. No wonder I wasn’t in the mirror. I wasn’t really here.

I was dead.

1

THE DEAD RINGER

Emma Paxton carried her canvas tote and a glass of iced tea out the back door of her new foster family’s home on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Cars swished and grumbled on the nearby expressway, and the air smelled heavily of exhaust and the local water treatment plant. The only decorations in the backyard were dusty free weights, a rusted bug zapper, and kitschy terra-cotta statues.

It was a far cry from my backyard in Tucson, which was desert-landscaped to perfection and had a wooden swing set I used to pretend was a castle. Like I said, it was weird and random which details I still remembered and which ones had evaporated away. For the last hour, I’d been following Emma trying to make sense of her life and willing myself to remember my own. Not like I had a choice. Everywhere she went, I went. I wasn’t entirely sure how I knew these things about Emma, either—they just appeared in my head as I watched her like a text message popping in an inbox. I knew the details of her life better than I did my own.

Emma dropped the tote on the faux wrought-iron patio table, plopped down in a plastic lawn chair, and craned her neck upward. The only nice thing about this patio was that it faced away from the casinos, offering a large swath of clear, uninterrupted sky. The moon dangled halfway up the horizon, a bloated alabaster wafer. Emma’s gaze drifted to two bright, familiar stars to the east. At nine years old, Emma had wistfully named the star on the right the Mom Star, the star on the left the Dad Star, and the smaller, brightly twinkling spot just below them the Emma Star. She’d made up all kinds of fairy tales about these stars, pretending that they were her real family and that one day they’d all be reunited on earth like they were in the sky.

Emma had been in foster care for most of her life. She’d never met her dad, but she remembered her mother,
with whom she had lived until she was five years old. Her mom’s name was Becky. She was a slender woman who loved shouting out the answers to
Wheel of Fortune
, dancing around the living room to Michael Jackson songs, and reading tabloids that ran stories like baby born from pumpkin! and bat boy lives! Becky used to send Emma on scavenger hunts around their apartment complex, the prize always being a tube of used lipstick or a mini Snickers. She bought Emma frilly tutus and lacy dresses from Goodwill for dress-up. She read Emma
Harry Potter
before bed, making up different voices for every character.

But Becky was like a scratch-off lottery ticket—Emma never quite knew what she was going to get with her. Sometimes Becky spent the whole day crying on the couch, her face contorted and her cheeks streaked with tears. Other times she would drag Emma to the nearest department store and buy her two of everything. “Why do I need two pairs of the same shoes?” Emma would ask. A faraway look would come over Becky’s face. “In case the first pair gets dirty, Emmy.”

Becky could be very forgetful, too—like the time she left Emma at a Circle K. One summer night not long after that, Emma slept over with Sasha Morgan, a friend from kindergarten. She woke up in the morning to Mrs. Morgan standing in the doorway, a sick look on her face. Apparently, Becky had left a note under the Morgans’ front door, saying she’d “gone on a little trip.” Some trip
that
was—it had lasted almost thirteen years and counting.

The sliding glass door opened, and Emma wheeled around. Travis, her new foster mom’s eighteen-year-old son, strutted out and settled on top of the patio table. “Sorry about bursting in on you in the bathroom,” he said.

“It’s okay,” Emma muttered bitterly, slowly inching away from Travis’s outstretched legs. She was pretty sure Travis
wasn’t
sorry. He practically made a sport of trying to see her naked. Today, Travis wore a blue ball cap pulled low over his eyes, a ratty, oversized plaid shirt, and baggy jean shorts with the crotch sagging almost to his knees. There was patchy stubble on his pointy-nosed, thin-lipped, pea-eyed face; he wasn’t man enough to actually grow facial hair. His bloodshot brown eyes narrowed lasciviously. Emma could feel his gaze on her, canvassing her tight-fitting new york new york camisole, bare, tanned arms, and long legs.