Crushed

16 Meeting of the Minds

On Tuesday night, Spencer sat at the kitchen table with Amelia, their schoolbooks spread in front of them and the classical station on at low volume. Spencer liked doing her homework at the kitchen table. As it turned out, so did Amelia, meaning the kitchen had turned into a turf war.

An IM popped up on Spencer’s laptop. It was Chase. Hey there, Britney.

Spencer smiled. Chase’s nickname had grown on her. But she hesitated before replying. It was one thing to break the Internet rule on a super-safe connection, but A probably had been bugging her laptop for months.

She jumped up from the table and ran into her mother’s office, a carved-out nook behind the pantry. Mrs. Hastings’s computer was on a vegan recipe website. Spencer exited out of it, logged into her mother’s instant messenger screen name, RufusAndBeatrice—Mrs. Hastings liked to IM Spencer that dinner was ready and things like that. She found Chase’s screen name, friended him, and told him that it was Britney, just using her mom’s account instead of her own.

After a moment, another message from Chase appeared. Two things: One, I’ve reached out to Billy Ford to see if he had any interaction with Alison before he was arrested.

Spencer almost dropped her bottle of coconut water. Billy Ford was the guy who’d been framed for murdering Their Ali—he’d been one of the guys who’d dug the hole where Ali’s body had been found. People thought he was A, too. The cops found pictures of Spencer and the others on the laptop in his truck. But Real Ali had planted them there.

Did he tell you anything interesting? Spencer asked. If she remembered correctly, Billy told the cops that the only time he’d seen Alison—or, rather, Courtney—was when he’d worked on her gazebo when the girls were in seventh grade. He had no idea how Real Ali had gotten those files onto his laptop.

He told me that a few days before all that stuff was found in his truck, someone from Geek Squad came to his door and offered to do a free security scan. Maybe that person helped frame him. Perhaps they were working with Alison.

Spencer’s eyes lit up. Was it a guy or girl?

He said it was a guy. But he barely remembers him. Couldn’t pick him out of a lineup.

Spencer laid her head on her mom’s desk. Another dead end.

There was another ping. Two, I just received some interesting photos of Ali and her sister when they were younger. Maybe they’ll spark a connection.

Spencer glanced over her shoulder in case Amelia was watching from the kitchen. Where did you find them? she typed.

The text box lit up again. You wouldn’t believe the sorts of people who come out of the woodwork when you run a conspiracy theory blog. I get all kinds of weird stuff about all sorts of topics. These I got anonymously, but I really think they’re legit. Exciting, right?

Spencer swished a gulp of coconut water in her mouth. Whenever anything was done anonymously, her first thought was that it was A. But why would A send DiLaurentis twin pictures to a conspiracy blog?

It is exciting, she wrote back—and she meant it. Not only finding new evidence, but also talking to someone who was just as jazzed about it as Spencer was. Not just someone, either, but a smart, interesting, funny, intriguing guy. Not that Spencer had a crush on him or anything.

Okay, maybe she did.

The idea of him was just so alluring. All the investigating he’d done on Ali, his tragic story about being stalked, even his choice of words in their chats. Last night, he’d used the phrase if I had my druthers, which was so adorably old-fashioned Spencer had squealed with delight. Chase was smart and funny . . . and they both wanted to bring Ali down. It sort of felt like they were a superhero duo, connected via Internet. Surely there was a picture of him online, right? But Spencer had spent hours last night searching all sorts of avenues. The work he’d done with the police. The stalking story. There wasn’t a single image of him anywhere—of course, it would help if she knew his last name.

She had to meet him.

She looked at the screen and took a deep breath. I really want to see them, she wrote. But I don’t want you sending them over the Internet. Do you think we could meet in person? It might be a risk to reveal who she really was, but she was willing to take the chance.

The cursor blinked . . . and blinked . . . and blinked. No new message appeared. Spencer’s cheeks burned. This felt just like the time in seventh grade when Spencer and Ali were competing over who could kiss the greatest number of older guys. Spencer had walked up to Oliver Nolan, the champion rower at St. Francis Prep, and asked him to kiss her, and he’d flat-out refused. Ali had been watching—she’d laughed her head off.

There was a knock on the front door. Spencer jumped up from her mom’s desk chair, ran through the kitchen and down the hall, and peered through the sidelight window. Emily stood on the porch. Her Volvo wagon chugged at the curb; Iris’s blond head could be seen in the passenger seat.

“What’s going on?” Spencer whispered as she opened the door.

Emily looked right and left. Then she pulled Spencer down the hall and into the powder room. She shut the door and turned on the overhead fan, which rattled noisily, and ran the faucet at full volume.

“What are you doing?” Spencer frowned at Emily’s reflection in the mirror. “What about Iris?”

“She’ll be okay,” Emily assured her. “I want to make sure no one hears. I just found out that Ali did have a special boyfriend, someone on the outside. The two of them met as soon as she was let out of The Preserve after Ian was arrested. There’s a carving at Keppler Creek State Park that says I love Ali D with last year’s date.”

“Keppler Park?” Spencer leaned against the pedestal sink. “That’s almost in Delaware.”

Emily chewed on her thumb. “I know. Maybe the boyfriend is from there. Ali said he was her best friend in the world. What if this friend is her helper?”

Spencer thought about what Chase had just said about Billy Ford: The Geek Squad employee who’d planted that stuff on his laptop was a guy, too. “She didn’t say who he was?”

“No. But maybe whoever this is hated us as much as Real Ali did. Maybe he was pissed that we put Real Ali in The Preserve and let Courtney go free. It sounds like we’re looking for a guy, right?”

“So it could be Jason,” Spencer said. “Or Wilden. Or . . . hold on.” She darted out of the powder room, up the stairs, and grabbed the rolled-up list they’d made in the panic room that she’d stashed in a padlocked box under her bed. She spread it out across the sink and crossed off the girls’ names. Jason and Wilden were next on the list.

“If it was someone who was pissed that Real Ali was locked up, this guy would have had to have known Real Ali before Courtney made the switch, right?” Emily murmured as she stared at the list. “Jason makes sense, obviously, but I just can’t see him killing for her.”

“That’s how I feel about Wilden,” Spencer murmured. “He hates Ali with a passion—and anyway, Ali-as-A kind of embarrassed him with all that Amish stuff last year.” A had sent Emily on a wild-goose chase to Amish country, where Emily had exposed Wilden’s roots there.

Emily nodded. “That was something he definitely didn’t want people to know about. If he was Ali’s helper, I don’t know why he would have allowed that.”

Spencer put a question mark next to Jason’s name and drew a faint line through Wilden’s. They looked at the list again. Graham. Noel.

Spencer glanced at Emily’s pale face in the mirror. “Have you talked to Aria lately?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“She won’t answer my calls.” Emily swallowed hard. “I think she’s upset that we’re asking her so many questions about Noel.”

“I feel terrible about it,” Spencer said into her chest. “But . . .” She trailed off, her thoughts still unfocused. She’d revisited a lot of memories about Noel over the past few days, and some worrying details had surfaced. Like how on the day after they’d pushed Tabitha off the roof, the girls had gathered together in Spencer’s room to discuss what they should do. As they were panicking, Spencer heard shuffling sounds in the hall. She peered through the peephole and saw Noel standing at the door, staring at something on his phone. She whipped open the door and glared at him. “Can I help you?”

“Oh!” Noel looked surprised. “I was just seeing if Aria was here. I want to take her to breakfast.”

Aria had rushed to Noel’s side, and the conversation had ended. Spencer hadn’t thought much of it—she’d just been glad Noel hadn’t overheard anything. But what if he had overheard? What if he already knew what they were talking about because he’d been there the night before?

“What about your search?” Emily whispered. “Have you figured anything out?”

Spencer straightened up. “Well, if Ali did escape the explosion, there might be a lead on a private nurse she hired to help her recover from her burns. I’m trying to track down where the nurse lives and what she knows.”

“Wow.” Emily sounded amazed. “How’d you figure all that out?”

“Oh, you know.” Spencer nervously folded the hand towel again and again. She could just hear Emily’s response if she told her she was corresponding with a conspiracy blogger: Are you out of your mind? That’s so dangerous!

“Do you think Ali knows you’re looking for her?” Emily whispered.

Spencer picked up a scented candle and put it back down. “I hope not.”

Emily glanced at the Nike watch on her wrist. “I’d better get back to Iris before she decides to drive off without me. At least we’re making progress, though.”

“We just have to keep pushing,” Spencer said.

She walked Emily to the door, her brain swimming. When she turned the lock again, the telltale ping of an IM rang through the hall. She ran back to her mom’s office. The screen was flashing. Chase had written back.

Okay, Britney. Let’s meet. Mütter Museum in an hour?

“Yes!” Spencer whooped, exiting out of IM. She strolled out of the kitchen, a huge smile on her face. Amelia smirked at her. “What are you so happy about?”

“Nothing,” Spencer snapped, sashaying down the hall. But there was a little spring in her step and a zillion butterflies knocking against her stomach. Okay, maybe she was happy to be meeting Chase.

Just a little.

Forty-five minutes later, Spencer paid the parking meter on Twenty-First Street and headed for the brownstone down the block. MÜTTER MUSEUM OF MEDICAL ODDITIES, read an old-fashioned sign on a post. Spencer had been here once two years ago on a school trip and almost puked several times. Not only did the place smell overwhelmingly like formaldehyde, but one of the attractions was a large set of drawers of various objects people had swallowed. There was also a huge human digestive tract stored in a large jar. Not exactly her thing.

She plopped a blond Britney Spears wig on her head—it only seemed fitting, after all—and pulled a pair of Ray-Bans over her eyes. Even though the museum docents looked at her like she was crazy, she paid the fee with her head held high.

The museum was essentially only one large room with displays around the perimeter. A couple stared at the hanging skeletons. An old woman examined the world’s largest colon. It seemed pretty clear that A wasn’t here, but what about Chase? Spencer eyed a stooped, lecherous-looking old man grinning at the preserved Siamese twins and got a sinking feeling.

“Um, hello?”

She jumped and whirled around. Standing next to a security guard was a tall guy with tousled brown hair, a square jaw, broad shoulders, and long, lanky limbs. He pulled off his sunglasses, revealing piercing green eyes.

“I’m Chase,” he said. “You’re . . . ?”

Spencer walked toward him dazedly. Chase had thick, expressive eyebrows. His body was strong and taut under his T-shirt and cargo pants. And when he smiled, his whole face lit up.

“H-hi,” she said shakily when she got close, feeling ridiculous in the wig and sunglasses. “I’m, um, Britney.” She motioned to her wig and smirked.

“It’s great to meet you.” Chase held out his hand for her to shake.

“It’s great to meet you, too,” Spencer said back, her hand tingling where Chase had touched it.

They stared at each other for a few beats. Spencer was glad she’d worn a printed silk minidress, which showed off her long legs. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from Chase’s biceps. He looked like the type of guy who could lift her up and spin her over his head without breaking a sweat.

Then Chase smirked. Spencer giggled nervously in response. “Sorry,” Chase admitted. “It’s just that I normally don’t meet people like this.”

“I know. Me, neither,” Spencer said.

Chase sat down on a bench near the gift shop, his eyes still on her as though she were the only interesting thing in the room—maybe the world. When his phone buzzed, Spencer smiled awkwardly and stepped away. Chase glanced down at the screen. He flinched and immediately started typing.

“Sorry,” he muttered, tilting the screen of his phone away. “This’ll just take a second.”

“No problem,” Spencer said. “Got a conspiracy theory blog emergency?”

“Something like that,” Chase murmured.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and gazed at her again, from her blond wig to her pointy Loeffler Randall boots. After a moment, he touched the silver bracelet around Spencer’s wrist. “That’s really pretty.”

“Oh, thanks.” Spencer spun it around. “My mom gave it to me. It’s from Prendergast’s.”

“On Walnut?” Chase asked. “I used to get my girlfriend stuff from there all the time.”

Spencer peeked at him. “Is this a . . . current girlfriend?”

“Nah.” Chase wrapped his hands around his knees. “It was over a long time ago. Before the, um, stalker thing.”

Spencer nodded quickly. By the look on Chase’s face, it seemed like he didn’t really want to talk about it. She didn’t blame him; she didn’t like talking about what Ali had done to her, either.

“What about you?” Chase asked. “Dating anyone?”

Spencer studied her feet. “There was someone, but . . .”

Suddenly, the Reefer story spilled out of her. As she explained it, though, she realized she didn’t really miss Reefer as much as she had even a few days ago. She’d had too much else on her mind to think about him.

“That sucks,” Chase admitted when she finished. “He’s got to be a real idiot to drop someone like you, Miss Spears.”

Spencer wound a piece of fake hair around her finger. “You know, the worst thing about being dumped was that he did it two weeks before prom. There’s no one for me to ask. I’m going to have to go stag, which is just beyond depressing.”

“What a jerk,” Chase said, shifting his weight. When Spencer looked up, there was a hopeful little smile on his face. Suddenly, an idea flickered in her mind. Could she ask Chase to the prom? He would look amazing in a tux. But no, that was crazy. They barely knew each other.

Buzz. It was Chase’s phone again. This time he stood and walked a few paces away before checking the screen and typing back.

When he was done, he was all business again, reaching into his pocket. “Anyway. I have the photos you wanted to see.”

He handed her three glossy five-by-sevens. They were various images from parts of what she assumed was Real Ali’s life. The first one was a picture of blond twin girls of about five. Both wore purple overalls, had pink ribbons in their hair, and were smiling. Spencer could see a hint of Ali in both their faces. It was impossible to tell who was who.

“I think this is from when they lived in Connecticut,” Chase explained. “It doesn’t really tell us much about the case, just that the twins didn’t always hate each other.” He sniffed. “They sounded psycho, didn’t they? Then again, those parents must have been whack-jobs, too. Who doesn’t notice when their daughters switch places?”

“Seriously,” Spencer mumbled, wondering what Chase would say if he knew those very twins were her half sisters.

She flipped to the next photo and gasped at the familiar image. Two blond girls stood in the DiLaurentises’ Rosewood backyard. Ali—or was it Courtney?—faced the camera, and the second blonde, who they’d all thought was Naomi Zeigler once upon a time, turned away. An innocent-looking Jenna Cavanaugh was next to them, a trapped expression on her face. Spencer had seen this photograph before: Real Ali-as-A had sent it to Emily along with a note that said, One of these things doesn’t belong. Figure it out quickly . . . or else. They’d never quite figured out why Ali had sent it to Emily. To frame Jenna, perhaps—she’d died shortly after and probably knew way too much for her own good.

Spencer looked up. “Are you going to post these on your blog?”

Chase shook his head. “I’m not posting anything until I have more proof.”

“I wish you knew who sent you these. There wasn’t a note with them? Nothing?”

Chase shrugged. “They just showed up.”

Spencer shivered. Had Real Ali sent them? Only, why? To tease them? To show them how invincible and evasive she was?

She flipped to the last photo. In this one, Ali faced the camera. She looked older, nearly as old as the girl they’d met last year, and she wore a pair of white pajamas. She stood in The Preserve’s dayroom—Spencer recognized the construction-paper cutouts on the wall. Someone stood next to her, too, but Ali’s raised palm blocked out his face. Was it another patient? Her boyfriend? Helper A?

Chase’s phone beeped again. He typed a response, then put the phone away. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”

“Already?” she blurted.

Chase seemed surprised by her reaction. “W-would you want to hang out more?” he asked, a note of hope in his voice.

Spencer nodded quickly, then felt like a desperate idiot. “To talk about the Ali case, I mean. You have some really good ideas.”

For a split second, Chase almost seemed disappointed, but then he smiled. “Definitely,” he said. “I’d like that . . . a lot.” He stuck out his hand for Spencer to shake, but Spencer pulled him in and gave him a hug. He smelled like leather and citrus-scented deodorant. It took all of Spencer’s willpower not to run her fingers through his hair.

Chase pulled away from Spencer, studied her once more, and let his thumb trail across her cheek. Tingles shot up Spencer’s spine. “Maybe next time you’ll tell me who you are, Britney,” he teased. And then he turned around and strode out of the museum, his sneakers barely making a sound.

Spencer followed him from a distance and watched as he strolled up the side street and made a right on Market. When he was gone, she melted to the stoop of a building in a full-on swoon. That. Was. Amazing.

Crack. Something sounded across the street. Spencer shot up, suddenly alert. An empty Diet Coke bottle rolled under a car. A face appeared in the windshield of a van to her right, but when she turned to see, there was no one there.

When her phone beeped, she almost expected it. But it was her old phone ringing—she’d received an e-mail on her school account. Although it wasn’t from A, Spencer blinked hard at the words.

Spencer, I have a few more questions for you. I’m coming by tomorrow to have a chat. Your house, 4 PM. Please reply to let me know you got this message.

Sincerely,

Jasmine Fuji

Spencer’s finger hesitated over the REPLY button. But then, swallowing a lump in her throat, she pressed DELETE.