Ruthless

Chapter 4 HANNA MARIN, CAMPAIGN STRATEGIST

On Thursday evening, as the sun was sinking into the trees and dyeing the sky orange, Hanna Marin pressed her iPhone to her ear and waited for the voice mail message to beep. “Mike, it’s me again. Are you ever going to pick up? How many times can I say I’m sorry?”

She pressed END. She’d left him sixteen voice mail messages, eleven texts, tons of Twitter posts, and a bunch of emails in the past two weeks, but her ex-boyfriend, Mike Montgomery, hadn’t returned a single one. She knew how rash it had been to break up with him when he’d warned her about skeevy Patrick Lake, the photographer who told Hanna that she could be a model in New York. But how was she supposed to know Patrick would take compromising photos of Hanna and threaten to post them online if she didn’t pay him off?

Hanna missed Mike. She missed watching American Idol with him and making fun of the singers. She’d heard he’d taken a small role in the school’s production of Macbeth. When they were dating, they consulted one another before joining activities—Hanna would definitely have put the kibosh on the play.

And she especially missed Mike in light of what was happening with A and Tabitha. Hanna wouldn’t have told Mike what she and the others had done, but to have someone around who cared about her would be so comforting right now. Instead, she felt alone and scared. She so wanted to believe that what they’d done to Tabitha was in self-defense. They’d thought Tabitha was Real Ali, who was hell-bent on murdering them. But no matter how many ways Hanna rationalized it, everything boiled down to one devastating fact: They had killed an innocent girl. They were all guilty. They knew it. And A knew it, too.

Hanna stepped out of her Toyota Prius and looked around. The circular driveway of her father’s new house, a six-bedroom redbrick McMansion in Chesterbridge, two towns away from Rosewood, was edged with a few fledgling saplings, tethered by feeble-looking ropes. White Grecian columns supported the porch, a large fountain in the front yard burbled peacefully, and rows of perfectly manicured shrubs that looked like upside-down ice cream cones lined either side of the front entrance. Such a grand abode seemed excessive for three people—her father, his new wife, Isabel, and Isabel’s daughter, Kate—but it did seem like a fitting house for a man who was running for United States senator. Mr. Marin’s campaign had kicked off a few weeks ago, and he had a great shot at winning. Unless, of course, A spilled Hanna’s secret about Tabitha.

Hanna rang the doorbell, and Isabel whipped the door open almost immediately. She was dressed in a Tiffany-blue cashmere sweater, a black pencil skirt, and sensible low heels. The perfect dowdy wife of a senator-to-be.

“Hello, Hanna.” The pinched look on Isabel’s face said that she didn’t quite approve of Hanna’s boho Anthropologie dress and gray suede boots. “Everyone’s in Tom’s office.”

Hanna swished down the hall, which was adorned with silver-framed photos of Isabel and her father’s wedding last summer. She scowled at the picture of herself dressed in the ugliest bridesmaid gown Isabel could have selected: a mint-green, floor-sweeping number that made Hanna’s hips look huge and her skin look sickly. She turned the frame around so that it faced the wall.

Her father and his campaign staff were sitting around the walnut desk in his office. Her stepsister, Kate, was perched on a Victorian sofa, fiddling with her iPhone. Mr. Marin’s eyes lit up when he saw Hanna. “There she is!”

Hanna smiled. A few weeks ago, when his campaign consultants told him that she’d tested well with the voting public, she’d suddenly become her dad’s favorite daughter.

Isabel slipped into the room after Hanna and shut the French doors. “This is why I called you here.” Mr. Marin pushed a series of flyers and website screen grabs across the table. The pages said things like The Truth About Tom Marin and Don’t Believe the Lies and Not a Man You Can Trust.

“These are all paid for by Tucker Wilkinson’s committee,” Mr. Marin explained.

Hanna clucked her tongue. Tucker Wilkinson was her father’s biggest rival for the party nomination. He’d served as state senator for years and had oodles of campaign funds and tons of friends in high places.

She scootched forward to look at his photo. Tucker Wilkinson was a tall, handsome, dark-haired man who looked vaguely like Hugh Jackman. He had that slightly unnerving, ultra-white politician smile, the kind that tried so hard to say Trust me.

Sam, a senior staff member who had droopy eyes and a penchant for wearing bow ties, shook his head. “I heard Wilkinson bribed a Harvard admissions officer to let in his oldest son, even though he had a two-point-oh GPA.”

Vincent, who managed Mr. Marin’s website, stuffed a piece of Trident gum in his mouth before saying, “He does everything he can to dig up the skeletons in everyone’s closets during campaigns, too.”

“Luckily, he hasn’t found anything on us.” Mr. Marin looked around at his staff. “And he won’t—unless there’s something I need to know. What Jeremiah did was a shock. I don’t want to be blindsided again.”

Hanna flinched at the mention of Jeremiah, her father’s aide who’d recently been dismissed for stealing $10,000 from the campaign’s petty cash fund. The thing was, Jeremiah hadn’t stolen the money . . . Hanna had. But she’d had to. It was the only way to keep Patrick quiet about the photos he’d taken.

Kate’s phone chimed. She read the screen and giggled.

“Kate?” Mr. Marin sounded impatient. “Maybe you could put that away?”

“Sorry.” Kate turned the iPhone facedown and glanced pointedly at Hanna. “Sean just texted me the funniest thing.”

Hanna bristled inside, but she tried not to let it show. Kate had recently started dating Sean Ackard, Hanna’s ex. Hanna didn’t miss Sean in the slightest, but it did hurt that he’d chosen to date the girl she hated most.

Mr. Marin stacked the printouts in a neat pile. “So. Is there anything anyone would like to come clean with?”

Hanna’s insides churned. Would Wilkinson’s people find out about Tabitha? She glanced out the window. A car rolled slowly down the road. She squinted toward the silhouetted trees that served as a barrier between her dad’s property and the neighbor’s. For a split second, it looked like a shadow darted between the trees.

Her cell phone beeped.

Hanna pulled it out of the bag and hit the SILENT button, but then, glancing around to make sure her dad wasn’t looking, she peeked at the screen. When she saw the garbled letters and numbers of the return center, a cold, rigid feeling seeped into her bones. She pressed READ.

What would Daddy say if he knew his new favorite daughter was a thief? —A

Hanna tried her hardest to keep a composed look on her face. Who could be doing this to her? How did A know where Hanna was right this second? She glanced at Kate—she had been fiddling on her own phone seconds ago. Kate gave her an annoyed glare back.

She shut her eyes and rifled through the other possibilities of who New A might be. At first, Real Ali had made so much sense. She must have somehow survived the fire and the fall from the crow’s nest and come back to haunt them. But now that Hanna knew the girl they’d killed was Tabitha, she realized how crazy it was to think Ali had made it out of the Poconos house. But who else had they hurt? Who had seen what had happened in Jamaica, and the mess Hanna had made with Patrick, and God knows what else?

“Hanna?”

Hanna looked up dazedly. Everyone was standing and leaving the room. Her father stood over her, a concerned look on his face. “Are you okay? You look kind of . . . pale.”

Hanna glanced out the French doors. Kate and Isabel wandered off toward the kitchen. The other staff members had vanished. “Actually, do you have a second?” Hanna asked.

“Sure. What’s up?”

Hanna cleared her throat. She could never tell her dad about Tabitha, but there was one thing she could come clean about before A confessed for her. “Well, you know how you said we should come to you about skeletons in our closets?”

A crease formed on Mr. Marin’s brow. “Yes . . .”

“Well, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Hanna turned away from her father and let the whole story spill out. About Patrick. How sure she’d been that he really believed in her. How he’d leered at her when he’d showed her the incriminating photos. “I was so afraid he was really going to post them online,” she said, her eyes trained on a bunch of rolled-up campaign posters in the corner. “I was afraid he was going to ruin you. So I took the money from the safe. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to destroy your campaign.”

After she finished, there was a punishingly long silence. Mr. Marin’s cell phone beeped, but he didn’t move to check it. Hanna didn’t dare look at him. She felt filled with shame and hatred. This was even worse than the time Their Ali had caught Hanna vomiting at her dad’s house in Annapolis after a massive binge.

All at once, the pain was just too much. She let out a pathetic puppy-whimper of a sob. Her shoulders shook silently. After a moment, she heard him sigh.

“Hey.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Hanna. Don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Hanna blubbered. “I ruined everything. And now you hate me again.”

“Again?” Mr. Marin drew back, frowning. “I never hated you.”

Hanna sniffed loudly and raised her eyes to him. Yeah, right.

Her father stroked his chin. “I mean, I’m surprised. And a little shocked. But it was very brave to admit something you aren’t proud of. Only, why would you go to some stranger’s apartment to have photos taken in the first place? And why didn’t you come to me when this was happening?”

Hanna hung her head. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

Her dad looked imploringly at her. “But I could have done something. I could have stopped this. You should know you can come to me with your problems.”

Hanna inadvertently laughed. “Actually, Dad, I can’t,” she blurted. “I haven’t been able to for years.” Her father flinched, and Hanna’s whole body sagged. “Sorry. That came out wrong. What I meant to say was . . .”

He held up his hand to cut her off, looking defensive. “I think you did mean it. But I’ve tried with you, Hanna. Don’t forget you didn’t want to speak to me for years, either. How do you think I felt?”

Hanna widened her eyes. For a long time, when her dad lived in Annapolis, she hadn’t taken his calls, pretending she was busy. Really, she didn’t want to hear about Kate and how wonderful she was compared to chubby, ugly, fat Hanna. It was something they’d never really talked about. Hanna hadn’t realized her dad had even noticed.

“I’m sorry,” Hanna mumbled.

“Well, I’m sorry, too,” her father said gruffly.

This made tears spill down Hanna’s cheeks even faster. After a moment, her father pulled her close, running his fingers up and down Hanna’s arm. Finally, she wiped her eyes and looked up at her dad. “Do you want me to call Jeremiah? I could beg him to come back. Come clean about what I did.” She could only imagine the satisfied smirk on Jeremiah’s face when she told him that.

Mr. Marin shook his head. “Actually, Jeremiah is working for Tucker Wilkinson now.”

Hanna gaped. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was. I guess we really couldn’t trust him.” Mr. Marin grabbed a TOM MARIN FOR SENATOR printed notepad from his desk. “I want you to give me any information you’ve got on this Patrick guy. Emails, phone numbers, anything you can think of. What he did to you is sick, Hanna. We need to find him and make him pay.”

Hanna scrolled through her phone and gave him Patrick’s details. “What about the money I stole? Do you want me to pay you back somehow?”

Mr. Marin twirled the pen between his fingers. “Just work extra hard on the campaign for me. I was going to mention this to you after the meeting anyway—we need to figure out ways to capture the youth vote. Kate’s already on board. What about you?”

“Don’t you have a paid staff to do that?”

“Of course I do. But I want you girls to be involved, too.”

Hanna pressed her tongue into her cheek. The last thing she wanted was to be on a committee with perfect Kate, but there was no way she could say no to her dad—not now. “Okay.”

“I can’t figure out how to reach young people,” Mr. Marin said. “I assumed that you two would have some insight.”

Hanna thought for a moment. “Do you have a Twitter account?”

“Yes, but I don’t entirely understand Twitter.” Mr. Marin looked sheepish. “Do you have to invite people to be your friends, like on Facebook?”

“People just follow you. I can take over your Twitter account if you want. And what if we use it to arrange a flash mob?”

Mr. Marin frowned. “Didn’t a flash mob cause riots in Philly a few summers ago?”

“It would be a controlled flash mob,” Hanna said with a small smile. “We could reach out to everyone on a local campus like Hollis or Hyde and have them gather for an impromptu rally. Maybe we could hire a band. The cooler we make it sound, the more kids will want to come even if they don’t know what it is. You could appear and make a speech, and we could have people in the crowd registering them to vote, too.”

Mr. Marin cocked his head. His eyes glimmered in the same way they did when he was about to say yes to a trip to Hershey Park, which Hanna used to beg for every weekend. “Let’s try it,” he said finally. “I think we should go with Hyde College—it’s small and close to Philly. Can you make the arrangements?”

“Sure,” Hanna said.

Mr. Marin leaned forward and touched Hanna’s hand. “See? You’re a natural at this. And what you said, earlier. About . . . well, about how things have changed between us.” His voice was soft and tentative, almost nervous. “I don’t want it to be that way.”

“I don’t, either.” Hanna sniffed. “I don’t know what to do about it, though.”

Mr. Marin thought for a moment. “Why don’t you stay here some nights?”

Hanna looked up. “Huh?”

“The new house is so big. There’s a bedroom for you that’s always open.” He fiddled with the silver pen in his hand. “I miss you, Han. I miss having you around.”

Hanna smiled shyly, feeling like she was going to cry again. She didn’t want to live with Kate again, but things did seem different with her dad now. Maybe living with him would be better this time. Maybe they could start over.

“Okay,” she said shyly. “I guess I could stay here a few nights next week.”

“Great!” Mr. Marin looked thrilled. “Whenever you want.” Then, his expression turned serious again. “So that’s it, then? There isn’t anything else you want to tell me?”

Tabitha’s face swooped through her mind like a dive-bombing hawk, but Hanna shut her eyes and willed it out again. “Of course not.”

He smiled at her and cuffed her softly on the arm. “Good girl.”

Hanna rose, gave her father a kiss, and left. That had gone better than she planned. Probably better than A had planned, too.

But after she let herself out the front door, she noticed something wedged under her front tire. It was a crumpled-up flyer for Pretty Little Killer, the TV biopic that had aired the night the news had broken about Tabitha.

Ali’s eyes were hauntingly blue, and her cruel smile seemed alive, like she could jump out from the page at any moment. A faint giggle sounded in Hanna’s ears, and she spun around, checking the quiet neighborhood street. It was empty, but she still felt like someone was watching. Knowing her every secret. And ready to tell.