Wicked

18 A JURY OF ONE

Thursday evening, Spencer sat at the dinner table all alone. Melissa had left with friends an hour ago, and her parents had made themselves scarce and then pointedly breezed out the front door, barely saying good-bye. She’d had to scavenge in the fridge for some leftover cartons of Chinese food for dinner.

She stared at the pile of mail on the kitchen table. Fenniworth College, some podunk school in central Pennsylvania, had sent her a catalogue and an accompanying letter saying they would be thrilled to show her around their campus. But the only reason Fenniworth was still willing to let Spencer apply was probably because of how much money her family had. Money she’d thought she was entitled to—until now.

Spencer pulled her Sidekick out of her pocket and checked her e-mail inbox for the third time in fifteen minutes. Nothing from the adoption site. Nothing else from that creepy new A. And, unfortunately, nothing from Wilden. At Hanna’s suggestion, she’d called him about the note she’d received in the library, adding that she was positive someone had been watching her through the windows.

But Wilden had seemed distracted. Or maybe he didn’t believe her—perhaps he thought Spencer was an unreliable witness too. He’d reassured her yet again that this was just some bored kid making trouble, and that he and the rest of the Rosewood PD were investigating the origin of the notes. Then he’d hung up on Spencer when she was in the middle of a sentence. She’d stared at the phone, peeved.

Candace, the family’s housekeeper, started scrubbing the stove, filling the room with eucalyptus-scented cleaner. The latest season of America’s Next Top Model, Candace’s favorite show, droned on the little flat-screen TV above the cabinets. The caterers had just come to drop off some of the ingredients for Saturday’s fund-raiser, and the alcohol distributor had brought in several cases of wine. A few magnum bottles sat on the kitchen island, constant reminders that Spencer was not included in these preparations. If she had been, she certainly wouldn’t have ordered merlot—she would’ve gone for something classier, like Barolo.

Spencer looked up at the TV, staring as a bunch of pretty girls walked down a makeshift runway in a morgue, modeling what looked like crosses between bikinis and straitjackets. Suddenly, the TV went dark. Spencer cocked her head. Candace let out a frustrated grunt. A news logo flashed on the screen. “We have breaking news from Rosewood,” said a voice-over. Spencer reached over to the remote and turned up the volume.

A bug-eyed reporter with a crew cut stood in front of the Rosewood courthouse. “We have an update about the much-anticipated Alison DiLaurentis murder trial,” he announced. “Despite speculation about lack of evidence, the D.A.’s office announced just minutes ago that the trial will take place as scheduled.”

Spencer pulled her cashmere cardigan closer around her, letting out a huge sigh of relief. Then the broadcast cut to a shot of the front of Ian’s house, a big, rambling compound with an American flag prominently over the front porch. “Mr. Thomas has been released on temporary bail until his trial begins,” the reporter’s voice announced off-camera. “We spoke with him last night to see how he was doing.”

Ian’s image swam onto the screen. “I’m innocent,” he protested, his eyes wide. “Someone else is guilty of this, not me.”

“Ugh,” Candace spat, shaking her head. “I can’t believe that boy was ever in this house!” She picked up a can of Febreeze and squirted it toward the TV camera, as if Ian’s mere presence on the screen had let a bad odor into the room.

The report ended, and ANTM came back on. Spencer stood up, feeling dizzy. She needed to get some air…and clear Ian from her head. She stumbled out the back door and onto the patio, a chilly gust of wind hitting her in the face. The heron-shaped thermometer that swung from a post next to the grill said the temperature was only thirty-five degrees, but Spencer didn’t bother to go back inside to get a jacket.

It was quiet and dark on the porch. The woods behind the barn—the very last place Spencer had seen Ali alive—seemed darker than usual. When she turned and looked toward her front yard, a light in the Cavanaughs’ house snapped on. A tall, dark-haired figure floated by the living room bay window. Jenna. She was pacing around, talking into her cell phone, her lips moving quickly. Spencer shuddered, uneasy. It was such a disconnect to see someone wearing sunglasses indoors…and at night.

“Spencer,” someone whispered, very close.

Spencer whirled around toward the voice, and her knees buckled. Ian was standing on the other side of the deck. He wore a black North Face down jacket zipped up to his nose and a black ski hat pulled down to his eyebrows. The only thing Spencer could see was his eyes.

Spencer started to cry out, but Ian held up his hand. “Shhhh. Just listen for a sec.”

Spencer was so terrified, she could have sworn her heart was leaping around in her chest. “H-how did you get out of your house?”

Ian’s eyes glimmered. “I have my ways.”

Spencer glanced into the back window, but Candace had left the kitchen. Spencer’s Sidekick was only feet away, nestled in its mint green Kate Spade leather case on the wet patio table. She started to reach for it.

“Don’t,” Ian pleaded, his voice softening. He unzipped his jacket slightly and took off his hat. It looked as if he’d lost weight in his face, and his tawny blond hair stood on end. “I just want to talk to you,” he said. “You and I used to be such good friends. Why did you do this to me?”

Spencer’s mouth dropped open. “Because you murdered my best friend, that’s why!”

Ian rummaged in his jacket pocket, his eyes on her the whole time. Slowly, he pulled out a pack of Parliaments and lit one with a Zippo. It was something Spencer thought she’d never see. Ian used to do local public service ads for the Great American Smokeout with several other clean-cut Rosewood kids.

A plume of bluish smoke trailed out of his mouth. “You know I didn’t kill Alison. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head.”

Spencer gripped the smooth wooden posts along the side of her deck for balance. “You did kill her,” she reiterated, her voice wobbly. “And if you think the notes you’ve sent us are going to scare us into not testifying against you, you’re wrong. We’re not afraid of you.”

Ian cocked his head, confounded. “What notes?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Spencer squeaked.

Ian sniffed, still acting confused. Spencer glanced at the hole in the DiLaurentises’ yard. It was so close. Her eyes moved to the barn, the site of their very last sleepover.

They’d all been so excited that seventh grade was over. Sure, there’d been some tension between all of them, and sure, Ali had done a lot of things that had pissed Spencer off, but Spencer had been certain that if they spent enough time together that summer, away from everyone else at Rosewood Day, they’d be as close as ever before.

But then she and Ali had had that stupid fight about closing the blinds so Ali could hypnotize them. Before Spencer knew it, the argument had spiraled out of control. She told Ali to leave…and Ali did.

For a long time, Spencer felt terrible about what happened. If she hadn’t told Ali to leave, maybe Ali wouldn’t be dead. But now she knew that nothing she could’ve done would have made a difference. Ali had been planning to ditch them all along. She was probably dying to meet Ian to see what he’d decided—to break up with Melissa, or to let Ali tell the world about their oh-so-inappropriate relationship. Ali thrived on stuff like that, seeing just how far she could manipulate people. Still, that didn’t give Ian permission to murder her.

Spencer’s eyes brimmed with tears. She thought about that old picture they’d looked at just before the news came on announcing Ian’s temporary bail, the one from the day Time Capsule was announced. Ian had had the audacity to stroll right up to Ali and tell her he was going to kill her. Who knew, maybe he’d wanted to even then. Maybe he’d had some death wish for Ali all along. And maybe he’d seen it as the perfect crime. No one will ever suspect me, he’d probably thought. I’m Ian Thomas, after all.

She glared at Ian, her body shaking. “Did you really think you’d get away with what you did? What was going through your head, even fooling around with Ali? Didn’t you know it was wrong? Didn’t you realize you were taking advantage of her?”

A crow cawed in the distance, loud and ugly. “I wasn’t taking advantage of her,” Ian said.

Spencer sniffed. “She was in seventh grade—you were in twelfth. That doesn’t seem weird to you?”

Ian blinked.

“So she pestered you with a stupid ultimatum,” Spencer went on, her nostrils flaring. “You didn’t have to take her seriously. You should’ve just told her you didn’t want to see her anymore!”

“That’s how you think it was?” Ian sounded truly astonished. “That Ali liked me more than I liked her?” He laughed. “Ali and I flirted a lot, but that was all. She never seemed interested in taking it further than that.”

“Right,” Spencer said through clenched teeth.

“But then…suddenly…she changed her mind,” Ian went on. “At first I thought she was paying attention to me just to make someone else mad.”

A few slow seconds went by. A bird landed on the feeder on the back deck, pecking at the birdseed. Spencer put her hands on her hips. “And I suppose that would be me, right? Ali decided to like you because it would make me mad?”

“Huh?” A stiff wind blew up the edges of Ian’s black scarf.

Spencer snorted. Did she really have to spell it out? “I. Liked. You. Back in seventh grade. I know Ali told you. She convinced you to kiss me.”

Ian breathed out, his brow still furrowed. “I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

“Stop lying,” Spencer snapped, her cheeks burning. “You killed Ali,” she repeated. “Stop pretending you didn’t.”

Ian opened his mouth, but no sound came out. “What if I told you there’s something you don’t know?” he finally blurted.

An airplane rumbled softly overhead. A few houses down, Mr. Hurst started up his snowblower. “What are you talking about?” Spencer whispered.

Ian took another drag of his cigarette. “It’s something big. I think the cops know about it too, but they’re ignoring it. They’re trying to frame me, but by tomorrow I’ll have my hands on evidence that will prove my innocence.” He leaned closer to Spencer, blowing the smoke in her face. “Believe me, it’s something that will turn your life upside down.”

Spencer’s entire body went numb. “So tell me what it is.”

Ian looked away. “I can’t say yet. I want to know for sure.”

Spencer laughed bitterly. “You expect me to just…take your word for it? I don’t owe you any favors. Maybe you should be talking to Melissa instead of me. I think she’ll be more sympathetic to your little sob story.”

A wary look Spencer couldn’t quite read passed over Ian’s face, as if he didn’t like that idea at all. The toxic smell of his cigarette settled over them like a shroud. “I may have been drunk that night, but I know what I saw,” Ian said. “I went out there intending to meet up with Ali…but I saw two blondes in the woods instead. One of them was Alison. The other…” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Two blondes in the woods. Spencer shook her head quickly, understanding what Ian was implying. “It wasn’t me. I followed Ali out of the barn. But then she left me—to find you.”

“It was another blonde, then.”

“If you saw someone, why didn’t you say something to the cops when Ali first went missing?”

Ian’s eyes darted left. He took another nervous drag. Spencer snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “You never said anything, because you never saw anything. There isn’t any big secret the cops are ignoring…period. You killed her, Ian, and you’re going to fry. End of story.”

Ian held her gaze for a long few seconds. Then, he moved his shoulder jerkily, flicking his cigarette butt into the yard. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he said in a dead voice. And just like that, he whirled around and stomped off the deck, skulking through Spencer’s side yard and slipping into the woods. Spencer waited until he was past the tree line before she collapsed weakly to her knees, barely noticing as the slush immediately soaked through her jeans. Hot, frightened tears slid down her face. Several long minutes passed before she noticed that her Sidekick, still sitting on the patio table, was ringing.

She leapt up and grabbed it. There was one new text in her inbox.

Question: If poor little Miss Not-So-Perfect suddenly vanished, would anyone even care? You told on me twice. Three strikes and we’ll find out if your “parents” will cry over the loss of your pathetic life. Tread softly, Spence.

—A

Spencer looked up at the trees at the back of the property. “Not sending notes, huh, Ian?” she screamed out into the emptiness, her voice raw. “Come out where I can see you!”

The wind swirled silently. Ian didn’t answer. The only evidence that he had been here at all was the angry, red-tipped ember of his cigarette butt, slowly dying in the middle of the yard.