Toxic

10 MAXI STALKING AT THE MINI-MART

The girls took one car to Philly to drop off the hoodie, but Spencer insisted on taking her own car up to Ashland—partly because Hanna’s driving made her carsick, and partly because she only felt 100 percent comfortable when she was behind the wheel. It was almost dark by the time she pulled into the mini-mart’s parking lot, and her mood was just as ominous and muddled as the low-hanging clouds.

Their trip to the Philadelphia FBI office to drop off the hoodie hadn’t exactly been encouraging. Agent Fuji hadn’t even been there, leaving instructions with her assistant to deposit the sweatshirt with a thuggish guy named Fred who worked in Evidence. Fred had barely looked at the girls when he’d taken the hoodie from them, manhandling the thing into a ziplock bag and tossing it in a bin. “Please be careful!” Hanna had cried. Fred had stared at her, a wisp of a smirk on his face.

Now Spencer turned into a parking spot. The windows of the Turkey Hill Mini-Mart were slathered with posters for the signature ice cream and iced tea, Marlboro cigarettes, and two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew. There was also a poster that said ROSEWOOD RALLIES in red letters at the top. A FUND-RAISER TO BENEFIT DISADVANTAGED AND TROUBLED YOUTHS. It gave directions to the Rosewood Country Club and said that tickets were $100 apiece. Spencer doubted that people up this way would spend their money on that.

Her phone beeped. Two messages had come in from the bullying site. One was from DominickPhilly. You just can’t stand it when you don’t have all the attention, can you? That’s why you’re doing this site. Not because you care.

Spencer felt a sting. Obviously Dominick hadn’t read the tab of the blog called “My Story.” Spencer had written about Ali as plainly and soberly as she could, hitting on the emotional aspects of how it felt to be picked on day and night by a bully so rabid and determined she’d actually burned down multiple properties in an attempt to kill Spencer off. Or maybe Dominick had, and he still thought she was a phony?

The next note was from Greg Messner, the same boy who’d contacted her the other day. How did you get to be so brave? he’d written. I would kill for a tenth of your strength.

She smiled. It was almost like Greg had read the horrible Dominick email and found the perfect thing to make her feel better. Thank you, she wrote back. Sometimes I doubt myself. It’s nice to know someone cares.

She put her phone away, then spotted Hanna’s Prius across the lot. Her friends were sitting in it, staring at the mini-mart.

Spencer crossed the line of gas pumps and tapped on Hanna’s window. Hanna unlocked the doors, and Spencer climbed into the backseat. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Did you go in yet?”

Hanna shook her head. “We decided to stake out the place for a while. Maybe Ali will just . . . show up.”

Spencer bit her thumbnail. “With the Prius right here? Ali’s smarter than that, guys. She can probably see us coming from a mile away.”

Hanna frowned. “What do you mean?”

Spencer knew she couldn’t forget about Ali anymore, not after she’d hurt Emily. But she wasn’t sure about this plan. It seemed like a good idea to retrace Ali’s steps in theory, but what if Ali had planted that receipt in the hoodie pocket? Perhaps she’d wriggled out of that hoodie willingly to lead them here. She glanced nervously at the gas pumps behind them. What if Ali materialized with a lit cigarette and sent the whole place up in flames?

“Ali’s a mastermind,” Spencer said aloud. “She knows by now that we found that receipt. She’ll probably never come by here again.”

Aria’s eyebrows furrowed. “Well, we’re already here. We might as well do something.”

Spencer peered again at the mini-mart. A bunch of preteen boys on BMXs hung out by the doors, passing around a cigarette. Inside, the cashier leaned behind the counter, her chin in her hands. It looked like she might fall asleep at any moment.

“I guess we could ask questions,” Spencer suggested, climbing out of the car and striding across the parking lot. “Maybe someone knows something.”

She passed the BMX boys and pushed open the door, and was greeted by a very loud Faith Hill song on the stereo. The air smelled of burnt coffee and microwaved burritos, and there was a yellow A-frame sign on the floor warning that the place had recently been mopped. An older man was standing at a wall of beef jerky. Of course there was no Ali.

But she had been here—days ago. Spencer tried to imagine it. Had Ali taken her time, walking up and down the aisles, trying to figure out what she wanted to buy? Or had she darted in and out fast, afraid someone might recognize her? Had anyone? Maybe not recognized her, per se, but brushed against her, or gave her change, or held the door for her on the way out?

Emily walked to the counter, and Spencer followed. The sleepy woman she’d seen from the car was now reorganizing a display of Trident gum.

“Um, excuse me,” Emily asked politely. The woman looked up for a brief second, then returned to the gum. “I’m wondering if you’ve seen a blond girl in here. About my height. Kind of . . . rough-looking. Missing some teeth. She might have acted cagey.”

The woman, whose nametag said MARCIE and who had oily hair and a smooth, lineless face, folded her hands. “When was this?”

“Three days ago,” Emily volunteered. “Around three in the afternoon.”

Marcie shook her head fast. “Nope.”

Spencer’s heart sank. “Is there someone else who was working here at the time who might remember?” She tried to control the edge in her voice. “Someone you can call?”

Marcie’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know, anyway?”

“This girl is a really good friend of ours,” Emily piped up quickly. “But she, um, ran away. And we really want to find her.”

Marcie stared at them long and hard, her mouth twitching. Spencer wondered if she recognized them and was trying to place why. Even though all charges against them had been dropped, they were still kind of notorious . . . and their pictures had been everywhere. Maybe this was a bad idea. Marcie might call the police. Fuji would scold them for making trouble.

The cashier shrugged. “We get lots of people coming in and out of here. One blond girl buying water is the same as the next.”

“What about surveillance tapes?” Aria asked desperately. “Can you show us those?”

Marcie looked at them like they were crazy. “Honey, why do you think I would have access to those tapes? I think the management uses them to watch the staff.” She turned back to her register. “Go to the police if you’re really worried. Girls your age shouldn’t have to find a runaway on your own.”

Then she peered behind them, smiling. Mr. Beef Jerky was now in line, holding several long sticks of Slim Jims. There was nothing else to do but move aside and let him pay.

“Shit,” Hanna muttered as they trudged out of the store. “Now what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer said, feeling aimless.

Emily kicked a pebble on the sidewalk. “That hair on that hoodie had better be a DNA match. Then we could get Fuji up here. She could access those surveillance tapes.”

Hanna put her hands on her hips and faced the road. “Maybe we could drive around and look for random barns. We could get lucky.”

“In the dark?” Spencer scoffed. “I doubt it.”

“Party pooper,” Hanna mumbled, slumping back into the car.

The other girls climbed in, too, leaving Spencer alone in the parking lot. Hanna looked out the window at her. “Maybe we should all sleep at my place tonight. I don’t like the idea of us being apart. We could be easy targets for Ali.”

“Yes,” Emily said quickly. “There’s no way I can sleep alone.”

“I’m in,” Aria agreed.

“Me too,” Spencer said. It was a wonderful idea—in case Ali showed up again, four against one were much better odds.

They promised to meet at Hanna’s in an hour. Then Spencer retreated to her car, sinking heavily into the leather seat. The whole day felt wasted. The only thing they’d learned was that Ali was alive . . . and furious. And they already knew that.

Her phone buzzed loudly, jarring her from her thoughts. Spencer stared at the unfamiliar 212 number on caller ID. Swallowing hard, she answered.

“Spencer Hastings?” said a woman’s voice. Spencer said that she was. “My name is Samantha Eggers. I’m the head of the National Anti-Bullying Council in New York City. It’s a new initiative created by Congress last year.”

“Of course,” Spencer said, sitting up straighter. “I know about you.” She’d researched all the bullying outreach programs available to teens while putting together her website. “You’re doing great stuff.”

“No, you’re doing great stuff,” Samantha said, her voice mirthful. “I’m a huge fan of your website. You’re giving kids a voice.” She rushed on. “Listen, I’m calling because we’re making an anti-bullying film that will be used as a tool at schools nationwide next year. I’m looking for voices on bullying, and your name kept coming up among my staff.”

“Really?” Spencer pressed a hand to her chest. “I mean, I only started my website last week. I’m really flattered.”

“So that means you’d like to be part of our video?” Samantha asked, her voice rising. “We’ll film in New York on Tuesday evening. You’re not too far, right? Just an Amtrak ride away? We’ll cover the costs.”

Spencer pushed her hair off her forehead. “That sounds awesome.” She pictured her face in classrooms all over the country, including Rosewood Day. And this was just another way to impress everyone at Princeton.

“Perfect!” Samantha cried.

She gave Spencer the details and directions. After they hung up, Spencer pressed the phone between her hands, her mood buoyed again. Your name kept coming up. She pictured everyone talking about her. Lauding her. She couldn’t wait to tell someone about this—but who? Her friends would appreciate it, of course, and Greg flashed through her mind, too, but that was crazy. She didn’t even know him.

The door to the mini-mart swung open, and Spencer looked up. A man in work pants and a plaid shirt sauntered to his car parked at pump number three. Then her gaze fixed on the registers inside. Something the cashier had said suddenly turned over in her mind. We get lots of people coming in and out of here. One blond girl buying water is the same as the next.

They’d said they were looking for a girl. They’d said Ali was blond. But they hadn’t said what she’d been buying—they weren’t even sure themselves. Why had Marcie mentioned water specifically? Did she know something?

She shut off the ignition and climbed out of the car again. When she was halfway to the mini-mart, something behind her made a loud, sizzling snap. She turned and stared. The lights at the pumps flickered off. A shadow passed behind one of them. Faint footsteps sounded from the back of the building. And then she noticed a parked car she hadn’t seen before. It was a black Acura. It seemed so out of place up here in the land of pickup trucks and practical Subarus.

She thought of the Acura keychain she’d found in her stepfather’s trashed model home. They’d found that car, hadn’t they? Or did Nick have more than one?

Then something flashed in the front seat. It was a head of blond hair.

Spencer’s heart pounded. She crept toward the car, knowing she had to see who was inside. With every step, her chest felt tighter and tighter, and her nerves crackled and snapped. Finally, she approached the car from the side. She steeled herself, then took one more step forward to peer into the front window.

The alarm went off, sending her jumping backward. It was a deafening sound, all whoops and buzzes. Spencer staggered a safe distance away, then stared into the window for real. Only now, the blonde was gone. No one was in the car. She ran her hands down her face. It made no sense. She’d definitely seen a blond head . . . hadn’t she?

It felt like a sign. Spencer fumbled for the door handle and climbed back into her car. She’d turned out of the Turkey Hill lot even before the alarm was silenced.

And before whoever was watching her could do anything worse.