Toxic

16 PARADISE LOST

For the first time in what felt like years, Emily woke up in her bed in Rosewood with a huge smile on her face.

Jordan was her first and only thought.

The possibility that she might be free and that Emily might get to spend time with her—real time, without sneaking around—overshadowed Ali. It trumped the disappointing phone call from Fuji last night that it was Spencer’s hair on the hoodie. It even trumped Spencer’s text that said she was sure she’d seen Ali on a New York City subway train. All Emily could think about was lush, beautiful, irresistible Jordan. All night long.

Humming to herself, she drifted across the bedroom and stared at her dreamy expression in the mirror. Jordan, Jordan, Jordan. She definitely had to arrange for another prison visit soon. And write her letters for sure. And maybe buy her a present. But what? Emily wondered what one could give a prison inmate. A book, perhaps? A nondangerous piece of jewelry?

She glided down the stairs to the breakfast table, where her parents were watching TV. “There are eggs,” Mr. Fields said, gesturing to the stove.

“And coffee,” Mrs. Fields added.

“Thanks,” Emily almost sang. “But I’m not hungry.” She was too hyped-up for food. And she certainly didn’t need anything artificial like coffee to make her feel more awake or alive.

She sank into the chair, smiling vaguely at the chicken-shaped napkin holder in the center of the table. Had she ever told Jordan about her mom’s chicken fetish? She’d probably think it was so funny. There was so much Emily needed to tell Jordan, minor things that only Jordan would want to know. Maybe, soon enough, Emily would have all the time in the world to do that. She let out a wistful sigh, savoring how wonderful that was going to be.

Mrs. Fields sipped her coffee. “So, do we need to get you a new dress for the Rosewood Rallies fund-raiser?” she asked Emily across the table.

Emily looked up and blinked. For a moment, she had no idea what her mom was talking about. “Oh, I’m fine,” she said after she remembered. “I’m sure I’ve got something in my closet.”

“It should be a lot of fun,” Mrs. Fields said, a small smile on her face. “Are you planning on bringing anyone?”

Emily smiled dreamily. If only she could bring Jordan. They’d have so much fun there, dancing, stockpiling delicious desserts, sneaking off to make out . . .

“Emily?” Mrs. Fields gazed at her curiously. “You all right?”

Emily smiled. She was tempted to tell her mom about Jordan, especially because she might be free in a few short months. But maybe it would be better to wait a little while longer, until her mom recovered a bit more from her heart attack.

“I’m just glad it’s Wednesday!” she chirped, staring wistfully at the ceiling.

Her parents exchanged a nervous glance. Mrs. Fields cleared her throat. “We’re worried about those bruises. Where did you get them again? The pool?”

Emily touched her neck. She’d almost forgotten about them. “It doesn’t matter,” she said faintly. “I’m fine.”

Then, Mr. Fields shifted forward in his seat. “Oh dear,” he said with a grunt, his brow furrowing at something on the TV screen.

Emily followed his gaze. The mug shot of Nick appeared. It was an update on the murder case.

“Nicholas Maxwell’s lawyers have informed us that Maxwell will try to plead insanity for all the murders,” a male reporter in an ugly sweater-vest announced. “He has been a patient at mental hospitals in the past, and his counsel is confident he wasn’t a mentally stable member of society when he committed these crimes.”

“What?” Emily squeaked, frustrated. It didn’t seem fair that Nick could plead insanity—he’d just be thrown back into The Preserve or something. She wanted him to rot in jail.

Mrs. Fields glanced anxiously at Emily. “Maybe we should turn this off.”

“It’s okay,” Emily said quickly. She wanted to see the rest.

Then came a still shot of the Maxwells’ house, a large estate in New Jersey. Emily had actually visited the house with Iris only a few weeks ago. Iris had had an unrequited crush on Nick—she’d known him as Tripp—while they were at The Preserve, and she’d wanted to go through his things to see if he’d felt the same way. While they searched the house, they found an old phone of his; Ali’s picture had been on it. It had been the only clue that Ali and Nick were secretly linked.

“This is the home where Maxwell grew up,” the reporter’s voice said, the big house still on the screen. “Since the story broke, vandals have broken windows and tried to damage the property in other ways. Protesters have done the same thing to the Maxwells’ other homes in the area. The family has had a long history of making real estate investments and flipping homes, having several properties on the market at any given time.”

The news moved to a story about an overturned tractor-trailer on I-76, but Emily couldn’t pay attention. Something about the story stuck in her brain. Suddenly, she realized what it was: She hadn’t realized the Maxwells owned a lot of properties in the area. There was a townhome, though: the one that featured the surveillance photo of Ali outside it. Spencer’s friend Chase, who’d run a website about the Ali case, had found that photo, and he and Spencer had tracked the town house down—not that they’d found any evidence of Ali inside. But it had belonged to Joseph and Harriet Maxwell—Nick’s parents, not that they knew that at the time.

But where else were their homes? Could Ali be hiding in one?

Gritting her teeth, Emily slowly rose from the table and looked aimlessly around the kitchen, as though something in the room would give her an answer.

But nothing was coming to her. She darted out of the kitchen. “Emily?” her mom called after her. “You should eat something!”

“I’ll be back,” Emily yelled over her shoulder.

A spoon clattered in a bowl. “She’s acting so strangely,” Emily heard her mother whisper.

Emily continued to climb the stairs and walked down the hall to her bedroom. She shut and locked the door, flung herself on the bed, and looked at her laptop. A while ago, Spencer had shown her the link to the county register’s office, which listed the names of every real estate transaction throughout the Philadelphia area, all on public record. She pulled it up and typed in Maxwell. A series of hits popped up, and she quickly narrowed her search. Sure enough, the town house in Rosewood was on the list—it was now for sale. There was another house in Bryn Mawr, as well as a bunch of properties that had already changed hands. And then, at the bottom of the page, her gaze fixed on a final listing. Ashland. Its status was: For Sale.

Her mind went still. The Maxwells had a house in Ashland. As in the Ashland they were in five days ago. She thought again of the slip the convenience store clerk, Marcie, had made about a blond girl buying water. Maybe the cashier did know something. Maybe Ali was a regular customer.

She clicked on the link, hoping it would list an address, but there were no further details. How could she find out where the house was?

One by one, she dialed Spencer, Aria, and Hanna, but not a single one answered. She dropped her phone in her lap, feeling anxious. She needed to talk to someone about this. Something had to be done—now. This felt like a vital clue. But she felt too scattered to think clearly or make a decision.

Jordan. Perhaps she’d have some advice. Maybe she could help Emily think of ways to work through how they could find Ali without anyone getting hurt.

The number for the Ulster Correctional Facility was still on the call list in her phone. But were prisoners even allowed phone calls? It wasn’t like summer camp, where parents or friends could call on the office phone and campers could call them back; prisoners could probably only talk to their lawyers.

Would Jordan’s lawyer help? Emily remembered his name—Charlie Klose—and she’d looked up information on him after she left the prison. He was as renowned and respected as Jordan had purported. Maybe she could call Charlie and ask that he place a call to the prison. And then he could patch her through.

Propping herself up against several pillows, she pulled up Charlie’s law firm’s website and found the office number. Emily tapped her fingers nervously against the back of the phone as the line rang.

Finally, a man’s voice answered. “Charlie Klose.”

“Mr. Klose?” Emily’s voice squeaked. “Um, my name is Emily Fields. I’m a friend of Jordan Richards’s.”

“Emily Fields.” Charlie Klose’s voice hitched over her name. “Yes. Jordan told me a lot about you. You’re the girl who went through all that nonsense in Rosewood.”

“That’s right.” Emily’s heart was thudding hard. It seemed like an opening, though—at least he knew who she was. “Well, anyway, I have a favor to ask, if you don’t mind. Is there any way you can call up Ulster and patch me through? I know it’s not really allowed, but I really need to talk to her. It’s not about her case. And it will only take a few minutes—I promise.”

There was a long pause. A lump grew in Emily’s throat. He was going to tell her no. She could sense it. How could she be so stupid? In his eyes, she was a silly teenager.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Emily,” Charlie said, his voice cracking. “But something has happened at the prison. Jordan’s . . . gone.”

“Gone?” Emily shot to her feet. “What do you mean? She escaped?” It had happened before: Jordan had broken out of her prison in New Jersey and stowed away on the same cruise ship Emily was on. That was how they’d met. But why would Jordan bust out now? She’d seemed so optimistic about the case. And had she left Emily for good?

“No, she didn’t escape.” Klose sounded choked up. “I—I don’t know the details, so I can’t tell you everything, but she was . . . killed. Last night.”

Emily blinked hard. Her fingers loosened around her phone, and it slipped from her palm. “Pardon?” she asked faintly, lifting it back to her ear.

His words were hurried. “There was an altercation with an inmate named Robin Cook. . . . I don’t know who she is or what their relationship was. But Jordan is gone. Her parents have already identified her body.”

Bile rose in Emily’s throat. “Why would someone want to kill her?”

“I don’t know. But Robin Cook was found missing from her jail cell this morning. She’s the one who escaped.”

“What?” Emily shrieked.

“I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you this, Emily,” he said quietly. Then he hung up.

Spots formed in front of Emily’s eyes. It’s a lie, she thought. It had to be. Jordan couldn’t be dead. Emily had just seen her.

She stood in the silent, empty bedroom, staring at her bureau, then her desk, then her bed. She’d had this same stuff since she was a child, but it suddenly seemed so unfamiliar. Everything seemed so unfamiliar, even her shaking hands, even the old Rosewood Day T-shirt she was wearing.

Jordan is dead. Jordan is dead.

Like a zombie, she walked toward the closet and opened it. She kicked aside the shoes strewn at the bottom and ducked through her hanging pants and dresses. She sat down on the floor, curling her knees in. And then she pulled the door shut behind her. The closet was dark. It smelled like rubber. It felt like a grave. Her thoughts tried to veer to Jordan, but she couldn’t go there. Her mind actually stopped moving forward, as if a physical wall were up. Her body wasn’t remotely ready to cry, either. It wasn’t really even ready to breathe.

Then Spencer’s text from last night swirled back to her. Ali is in New York. Emily had received that text at about nine o’clock. Ulster Prison was only an hour or so away from the city . . . and according to the lawyer, Jordan had died last night. Emily’s heart began to pound.

None of that seemed like a coincidence.