She swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure what this cop knew. A could have tipped the cops off that she was hiding something. And it was brilliant—if Spencer told him, Yes, I do know someone who hated Ali, really hated her enough to kill her, she’d have to confess her involvement in The Jenna Thing. If she said nothing and protected herself, A still might punish her friends…and Wren.

You hurt me, so I’m going to hurt you.

Sweat prickled on the back of her neck. But then there was more: What if Toby was back to hurt her? What if he and A were working together? What if he was A? But if he was—and he killed Ali—would he go to the cops and incriminate himself? “I’m pretty sure I told them everything,” she finally said.

There was a long, long pause. Wilden stared at Spencer. Spencer stared at Wilden. It made Spencer think about the night after The Jenna Thing happened. She’d dozed into a fitful, paranoid sleep, her friends quietly crying around her. But all of a sudden, she was awake again. The cable box clock said 3:43 A.M., and the room was still. She felt unhinged, and found Ali, sleeping sitting up on the couch with Emily’s head in her lap. “I can’t do this,” she said, shaking her awake. “We should turn ourselves in.”

Ali got up, led Spencer into the hall bathroom, and sat down on the edge of the tub. “Get a grip, Spence,” Ali said. “You can’t spaz if the police ask us questions.”

“The police?” Spencer shrieked, her heart picking up speed.

“Shhh,” Ali whispered. She drummed her nails against the tub’s porcelain edge. “I’m not saying the police are definitely going to talk to us, but we have to make a plan in case they do. All we need is a solid story. An alibi.”

“Why can’t we just tell them the truth?” Spencer asked. “Exactly what you saw Toby do, and that it surprised you so much, you set the firework off by accident?”

Ali shook her head. “It’s better my way. We keep Toby’s secret, he keeps ours.”

A knock on the door made them stand up. “Guys?” a voice called. It was Aria.

“Fair enough,” Wilden finally said, breaking Spencer from her memory. He handed her a business card. “Call me if you think of anything, all right?”

“Of course,” Spencer whimpered.

Wilden put his hands on his hips and looked around the room. At the Chippendale furniture; the exquisite stained-glass window; the heavy, framed art on the walls; and her father’s prized George Washington clock that had been in the family since the 1800s. Then he canvassed Spencer, from the diamond studs in her ears to the delicate Cartier watch on her wrist to her blond highlights, which cost $300 every six weeks. The smug little smile on his face seemed to say, You seem like a girl who has a lot to lose.

“You going to that benefit tonight?” he asked, making her jump. “Foxy?”

“Um, yeah,” Spencer said quietly.

“Well.” Wilden gave her a little salute. “Have fun.” His voice was totally normal, but she could’ve sworn the look on his face said, I’m not through with you yet.

24

$250 GETS YOU DINNER, DANCING…AND A WARNING

Foxy was held in Kingman Hall, an old English countryside mansion built by a man who’d invented some new-fangled milking machine in the early 1900s. In fourth grade, when they learned about the hall in the All About Pennsylvania social studies unit, Emily nicknamed it “Moo Mansion.”

As the check-in girl scrutinized their invites, Emily looked around. The place had a labyrinthine garden in its front yard. Gargoyles leered from the arches of the mansion’s stately front. Ahead of her was the tent where the actual event was being held. It was lit up with fairy lights and full of people.

“Wow.” Toby came up beside her. Beautiful girls swished by them toward the tent, wearing elaborate, custom-made dresses and carrying bejeweled bags. Emily looked down at her own dress—it was a simple, strapless pink sheath Carolyn had worn to prom last year. She’d done her hair herself, put on a lot of Carolyn’s ultra-girly Lovely perfume—which made her sneeze—and was wearing earrings for the first time in a while, poking them forcefully through the holes in her ears that had almost closed up. Even with all that, she still felt plain next to everyone else.

Yesterday, when Emily called Toby to ask him to Foxy, he’d sounded so surprised—but really excited. She was psyched, too. They would go to Foxy, share another kiss, and who knew? Maybe become a couple. In time, they would visit Jenna at her school in Philadelphia, and Emily would somehow make it all up to her. She’d foster Jenna’s next Seeing Eye dog. She’d read to her all the books that hadn’t yet come out in Braille. Maybe, in time, Emily would confess her involvement in Jenna’s accident.

Or maybe not.

Except now that she was at Foxy, something just felt…wrong. Emily’s body kept feeling hot, then cold, and her stomach kept clenching up in pain. Toby’s hands felt too scratchy, and she’d been so nervous, they’d barely said anything to each other on the way over. Foxy itself didn’t seem to be very calming, either; everyone was so stiff and poised. And Emily was sure someone was watching her. As she inspected every girl’s made-up, glossy face and every guy’s scrubbed, handsome one, she wondered, Are you A?

“Smile!” A flashbulb popped in Emily’s face, and she let out a little scream. When the spots faded from her eyes, a blond girl in a merlot-red dress with a press badge over her right boob and a digital camera slung over her shoulder was laughing at her. “I was just taking photos for the Philadelphia Inquirer,” she explained. “Wanna try that again, without the freaked expression this time?” Emily clutched Toby’s arm and tried to look happy, except her expression was more of a petrified grimace.

After the press girl whirled away, Toby turned to Emily. “Is something wrong? You seemed so relaxed in front of a camera before.”

Emily stiffened. “When have you seen me in front of a camera?”

“The Rosewood versus Tate?” Toby reminded her. “That crazy yearbook kid?”

“Oh, right.” Emily breathed out.

Toby’s eyes followed a waiter scurrying around with a drink tray. “So, is this your scene?”

“God, no!” Emily said. “I’ve never been to anything like this in my life.”

He looked around. “Everyone looks so…so plastic. I used to want to kill most of these people.”

A sharp, startled frisson passed through Emily. It was the same sort of feeling she’d felt when she woke up in the back of Toby’s car. When Toby noticed her face, he quickly smiled. “Not literally.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re much prettier than all the girls here.”

Emily flushed. Only she was finding that her insides didn’t turn upside down when he said it or when he touched her. They should. Toby looked hot. Gorgeous, actually, in his black suit and black wingtips, with his hair pushed back off his angular, square-jawed face. Every girl was checking him out. When he’d shown up on her porch, even mild-mannered Carolyn had squealed, “He’s so cute!”

But when he held her hand, as much as she wanted it to feel like something, it felt like nothing. It was like holding hands with her sister.

Emily tried to relax. She and Toby made their way into the tent, got two virgin piña coladas, and joined a bunch of kids on the dance floor. There were only a handful of girls who were trying to dance in that über-sexy, hands-above-the-head, I’m getting my moves down for MTV Spring Break way. Most everyone else was just jumping around, singing along to Madonna. Technicians were setting up a karaoke machine in the corner, and girls were writing down the songs they wanted to sing.

Emily broke away to go to the bathroom, leaving the tent and walking through a sexy, candlelit hallway paved in rose petals. Girls passed her, arm and arm, whispering and giggling. Emily discreetly checked out her chest; she’d never worn a strapless dress before and was certain it was going to fall down and expose her boobs to the world.

“Want a reading?”

Emily looked over. A dark-haired woman dressed in a silky, paisley-print dress sat at a small table under a huge portrait of Horace Kingman, the milking-machine inventor himself. She wore a ton of bracelets on her left arm and a large snake brooch at her throat. A deck of cards sat next to her along with a little sign at the edge of the table: THE MAGIC OF THE TAROT.

“That’s okay,” Emily told her. The tarot reader was so…public. Out here in the open, in the middle of the hall.

The woman extended a long fingernail toward her. “You need one, though. Something’s going to happen to you tonight. Something life-changing.”

Emily stiffened. “Me?”

“Yes, you. And the date you brought? He’s not the one you want. You must go to the one you really love.”

Emily’s mouth fell open, and her mind began to race.

The tarot reader looked as if she was about to say something else, but Naomi Zeigler pushed past Emily and sat down at the table. “I met you here last year,” Naomi gushed, leaning excitedly on her elbows. “You gave me the best reading ever.”

Emily slunk away, her mind churning. Something was going to happen to her tonight? Something…life-changing? Maybe Ben was going to tell everyone. Or Maya was going to tell everyone. A was going to show everyone those pictures. Or A had told Toby…about Jenna. It could be anything.

Emily splashed cold water on her face and exited the bathroom. As she made the turn for the tent, she bumped into someone’s back. As soon as she saw who it was, her body tensed.

“Hey,” Ben said in a mock-friendly tone, drawing the word out. He wore a charcoal suit and had a small white gardenia pinned to his lapel.

“H-Hey,” Emily stammered. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I was going to say the same thing to you.” Ben leaned down. “I like your date.” He put date in air quotes. “I saw you with him at yesterday’s Tate meet, too. How much did you have to pay him to come here with you?”

Emily pushed past him. She strode down the shadowy hall, noting that this would not be the best time to trip in her heels. Ben’s footsteps rang out behind her. “Why are you running away?” he singsonged.

“Leave me alone.” She didn’t turn around.

“Is that dude your bodyguard? First he protects you at swimming, now here. Only where is he now? Or did you only rent him to walk in with you, so everybody wouldn’t think you were a big lesbo?” Ben let out a little snicker.

“Ha ha.” Emily whirled around to face him. “You’re funny.”

“Yeah?” Ben shoved her up against the wall. Just like that. He pinned her wrists back and pressed his body to hers. “Is this funny?”

Ben’s actions were forceful and his body was heavy. Just feet away, kids swept past them toward the bathrooms. Didn’t they see? “Stop it,” Emily mustered.

His rough hand reached for the hem of her dress. He poked Emily’s kneecap, then slid his hand up her leg. “Just tell me that you like this,” he said in her ear. “Or I’ll tell everyone you’re a dyke.”