Crushed

3 Dear Emily, I’m On to You

That same afternoon, Emily Fields and her mother entered a boutique called Grrl Power in Manayunk, a hipster neighborhood in Philadelphia. A song by a grungy girl band blared through the stereo speakers. A girl with a pierced eyebrow and a half-shaved head watched them from the other side of the counter. Two girls with hands in each other’s pockets perused the jeans section. Mannequins wore tees that boasted things like I CAN’T EVEN THINK STRAIGHT! and I’M NOT GAY, BUT MY GIRLFRIEND IS.

Mrs. Fields sifted through items on a table, then held up a pair of canary-yellow leggings. “These are cute, don’t you think? I could wear them on my morning walks.”

Emily stared at them. Printed on the butt was I LOVE A GOOD MUFFIN IN THE MORNING. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Did her mom know what that meant?

Then she looked around. Everyone in the store seemed to be staring at her, on the verge of cracking up. She yanked the leggings from her mom’s hand.

Mrs. Fields stepped away from the table, looking cowed. Instantly, Emily wondered if she’d been too harsh. Her mom was trying so hard. This was the same woman who’d banished Emily to Iowa for coming out last year. Emily had just dropped another bomb on her mom, too: She’d had a baby last summer and given her away to a couple in Chestnut Hill. For a while, her family had cut her off entirely, but there was nothing like a real bomb on a cruise ship and a near-drowning at sea to put things in perspective. When Emily returned from the cruise alive, her parents had given her a hero’s welcome and promised to try to make things right.

So far, Mr. Fields had made Emily banana pancakes for breakfast every day this past week. Both her parents had sat at Emily’s computer and looked at her cruise photos with her, oohing and aahing at her shots of glowing orange sunsets and far-off dolphin fins. Today, Mrs. Fields had come into Emily’s bedroom at eight AM and announced they were going to have a girls’ day: manicures, lunch, and then shopping in Manayunk. Even though mani-pedis and shopping weren’t Emily’s thing, she’d readily agreed.

Emily placed the leggings back on the table and selected a red pair that read GIRLS RULE on the butt. She handed them to her mom. “I think red looks the best on you.”

The smile returned to her mom’s face. There. That felt better.

Then Mrs. Fields’s phone beeped, and she pulled it out of her pocket, looked at the screen, and smiled. “Carolyn just texted that she aced her biology final. Isn’t that great?”

Emily pulled her bottom lip into her mouth. Her sister was now at Stanford on a swim scholarship, and Emily had heard secondhand how she’d struggled with the coursework all year. Carolyn hadn’t told her herself, of course. Her sister had bitterly hidden Emily in Philly during the later stages of her pregnancy, and they weren’t exactly on speaking terms.

Emily fiddled with a studded leather bracelet on a display tray. “So when do you think I’ll hear from Carolyn?”

Mrs. Fields refolded a T-shirt she’d been looking at, carefully avoiding Emily’s gaze. “I’m sure she’ll call you soon.”

“Does she really want to apologize?”

Mrs. Fields’s eyelid twitched. “We should concentrate on you and me, don’t you think? I’m so happy that we’re out together. I hope we can do this more often.”

Emily cocked her head. “So . . . that means Carolyn is still really mad?”

Mrs. Fields’s cell phone blared, and she made a big production of rooting through her bag to find it. “I need to take this,” she said briskly, even though Emily was pretty sure it was only her dad . . . or maybe Carolyn herself.

Emily leaned against a rack of jackets and sighed. Okay, so things weren’t perfect yet. Mrs. Fields had told her that Carolyn wanted to let bygones be bygones, but Emily had seen no indication of that yet. Nor had she and her family had a conversation about Emily’s pregnancy or the baby. But these things took time, right? Banana pancakes were still a huge gesture.

As her mom slipped through the front door, Emily pulled out her own phone and checked her e-mail. There was one new message from the Rosewood Day May Day Senior Prom Committee: Don’t forget to buy a ticket for the Senior Prom! May 7, 7 PM. The Four Seasons Hotel, 1 Logan Square, Philadelphia. Dinner and dancing.

A lonely feeling swept through her. She’d already bought a ticket for prom; her friends were making her go. But the only person Emily wanted to invite—a girl named Jordan Richards she’d met on the cruise—couldn’t come.

Thankfully, there were no new alerts about Tabitha. Emily’s finger bumped the button to her photo gallery, and suddenly, a picture of Alison DiLaurentis stared back. It was the real Alison DiLaurentis, the girl who’d come back to Rosewood last year and later revealed herself as A. Emily had snapped the photo of Ali in her bedroom the day Ali had kissed her. It’s me, Em, Emily could practically hear Ali saying. I’m back. I’ve wanted to do that again for so long. I’ve missed you so much.

Emily had continued to love Ali despite everything. Even after Ali had confessed that she’d killed her own sister, Emily held out hope that she’d come to her senses and atone for what she’d done. Her love for Ali had been so intense that she’d left the door open for her in the Poconos instead of barricading it shut and letting the girls’ would-be killer burn.

She’d kept the secret for a while, but she finally told her friends last week. Now, they were starting to believe what Emily knew all along: Real Ali wasn’t dead, and she was their New A. That meant that Real Ali had witnessed all of the girls’ transgressions last summer, including Emily smuggling her baby out of the hospital and away from Gayle Riggs, a woman she’d thought was crazy—and a woman who was now dead. Ali might have been in Jamaica, too, and she might be Tabitha’s real killer. It also meant Real Ali had been on the cruise ship last week. How had they not seen her? How had no one seen her?

Emily’s thumb hovered over DELETE. After A had threatened her baby’s life, she’d finally come to hate Real Ali. And yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to get rid of the one photo she had of her. Sighing, Emily scrolled to the end of her photo gallery and looked at a picture of another girl she was pretty sure she loved. Jordan grinned into the camera. Her body was backlit by the blazing Puerto Rican sun, and blue water stretched behind her for miles. Emily touched the screen, wishing she could feel Jordan’s soft cheek one more time.

“She’s hot.” The shaved-head salesgirl glanced over Emily’s shoulder at Jordan’s photo. “That your girlfriend?”

Emily smiled bashfully. “Kind of.”

One corner of the girl’s lip curled into a smile. “What’s that mean?”

Emily slipped the phone into her pocket. It means she’s a fugitive. It means she jumped off a cruise ship in Bermuda to avoid the FBI, and I have no idea where she is now or when I’ll see her again.

She wandered toward the shoe section, which smelled heavily of leather and rubber. She would never forget those last few minutes she and Jordan were together. In Jordan’s past life, she’d been Katherine DeLong, the Preppy Thief, the girl who stole boats, cars, and planes. When Emily met her, she’d just escaped from prison and changed her name, and was ready for a new start. The FBI agents, probably alerted by Real Ali/New A, chased both of them to the ship’s railing. Jordan had given Emily one last look, then dived into the bay to escape.

When Emily returned home, she’d received a postcard from Jordan. We’ll see each other again. Emily was dying to write back, but Jordan wasn’t stupid enough to include a return address. Wherever she was—Thailand, Brazil, some teeny island off the coast of Spain—she was hopefully hiding well enough to evade the cops.

Emily ran her fingers over the smooth leather of a display pair of Doc Martens, getting an idea. She pulled out her phone again, opened the Twitter app, and logged into her account. Then she copy-pasted the prom invite into a new tweet. PROM IS IN TWO WEEKS, she typed. WISH I COULD TAKE MY TRUE LOVE.

She hit TWEET, feeling satisfied. Hopefully Jordan would see it and understand what it meant. And even though Jordan probably wouldn’t reply, at least she’d know Emily was thinking about her.

When her phone buzzed a second later, her spirits soared—Jordan already! But the e-mail was from someone named Special Agent Jasmine Fuji. NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU ABOUT TABITHA CLARK.

Emily’s vision narrowed. The growling voices in the song pumping through the store’s speakers suddenly sounded like vicious dogs. Pressing herself into a back corner, she opened the e-mail. Dear Miss Fields, it read. I’m a special agent in charge of the Tabitha Clark murder investigation. Your name was on a list of guests at The Cliffs resort in Negril, Jamaica, at the same time Miss Clark was there. Procedure dictates that I interview everyone to get a better picture of what happened that night. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. Sincerely, Special Agent Jasmine Fuji.

“Emily?”

Her mother was staring at her, her faux-croc purse tucked under her arm. “Are you okay?”

Emily licked her dry lips. There was no way she could talk to a cop. Jasmine Fuji would know instantly she was lying.

Mrs. Fields took her arm. “You’re so pale. Let’s get some air.”

The street smelled of car exhaust and stale beer from the dive bar next door. Emily took heaving breaths, trying to tell herself this wasn’t a big deal. But it was. She couldn’t lie to a federal agent.

Beep.

Dizzily, she glanced at her phone again. As if on cue, a text message from an anonymous sender had come in. Emily gasped as she read the note.

Wait until I tell Agent Fuji that you and your GF are perfect for each other—you’re both cold-blooded criminals.

—A