Iris wiped a tear and looked at the screen, too. She let out an annoyed sniff. “Well, I guess you found something.”

“Why would this guy have a picture of Ali?” Emily asked shakily.

Iris leaned back on her hands. “Because we all were at The Preserve together. We were friends.”

Emily stared at the picture again. Just seeing Ali’s face in somewhere so unexpected made her itchy. Someone just out of the photo had an arm slung around her shoulder—the only identifying thing was a gold watch on the person’s hairy wrist. She squinted at it. Had she seen it before?

She pointed to the disembodied hand. “Who’s that?”

Iris brought the photo close to her face. Her mouth made an O. “You know, that might be him. The boyfriend.”

Emily blinked hard. “You mean the one who came to the hospital all the time to see her? The one who she met at Keppler Creek when she got out?” Emily grabbed Iris’s wrist. “You have to tell me his name. Right now.”

Iris shook her head. “No can do.” She stood up and headed out of the room.

Emily pocketed the cell phone with Ali’s picture and followed her downstairs, out the back door, and onto the lawn. Iris was walking quickly, but Emily finally caught up with her on the sidewalk.

“Damn it, Iris!” Emily squealed. She gestured to the house. “I broke into a house with you! What’s next, murder? You’ve been stringing me along all week—just give me something real, okay? Is it too much to ask for this guy’s name?”

Iris stopped next to a tree stump. She lowered her eyes. “I can’t tell you his name . . . because I don’t know it.”

Emily felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. “What?”

Iris’s skin looked even paler in the sunlight. “I never knew it. I’m sorry. I wasn’t lying—Ali did have a guy who visited all the time. But she just called him Mr. Big . . . like Carrie in Sex and the City. I never knew his name. It was this big secret she kept from me. I was never allowed to hang out with him, either.” Her mouth tightened. “That’s why I’m not loyal to that bitch, you know. She kept things from me. It’s like I wasn’t worth knowing the truth.”

Emily wilted against a tree. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Iris kicked at a divot in the grass. “I thought it was the only way you’d keep driving me around, taking me wherever I want, letting me stay at your family’s house—the only way things could be normal for a little while. As soon as you found out I didn’t know anything, you would ship me right back to The Preserve.”

Emily blinked. She had no idea Iris was afraid of that. “So . . . wait. You like hanging out at my family’s house?”

“Uh, yeah,” Iris said, as if it was an obvious answer. “But whatever—it’s over now. You can leave me just like my mom did. Just like Tripp did. It’s cool—I’ll just go back to The Preserve now and rot there for another four years. You can go to prom. Get on with your life.”

She turned away. After a moment, her shoulders shook silently. Emily was so stunned that she couldn’t move. She knew she should be angry, but seeing Iris there, her spindly arms wrapped around herself as she sobbed, Emily couldn’t help but feel for her. She knew what it was like to be abandoned by her family, too. And to be ditched by someone she thought loved her. When Ali laughed at Emily in the tree house at the end of seventh grade, something inside Emily had died. Another piece of her had withered away when Real Ali tried to kill her in the Poconos.

She looked at Iris’s quivering form. Really, she and Emily weren’t that different. If Emily’s circumstances had been just a bit harsher, who was to say she wouldn’t have lied about information just to get someone to pay attention to her? In a strange way, it was almost flattering that Iris found Emily worthy of lying to, Emily’s life worth living. Another surprising thought struck her: If Iris had just asked Emily to hang out for a few days longer, even though she didn’t know Ali’s boyfriend’s name, Emily might have said yes.

She put a hand on Iris’s shoulder. “Iris, I’m not going to send you back to The Preserve before you’re ready. In fact, I think you should come to prom with me. As my date.”

Iris sniffed loudly and gave her an incredulous look. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.” Emily’s voice rose. “I know prom isn’t on your list, but maybe it should be. Have you ever been to one?”

Iris tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, no, but . . .”

“A lot of guys go stag. We could find someone new for you to go out with. Someone much cooler than Tripp.”

Iris pinched a piece of skin on her arm. A bird chirped in the distance, and a car swished past on the road. Emily’s heart pounded hard. Please say yes, she willed silently. Both because she wanted to see Jordan’s surprise . . . and because she really thought it would do Iris some good to come.

Finally, Iris sighed. “Well, okay.”

“Yes!” Emily whooped, moving in to give Iris a hug. Iris was stiff for a moment, but then she hugged back. When they pulled away, Iris’s cheeks were shiny and pink.

Then Emily’s burner cell rang. She picked it up and said hello.

“Miss Fields?” said a brisk voice. “This is Jasmine Fuji. We met the other day?”

Emily opened her mouth, but only a small grunt came out. She stared at the phone as if it were on fire. “H-how did you know this number?”

“Your mother gave it to me. I called your house first.”

Emily’s head started to spin. Her mom. Mrs. Fields had forced the burner cell number out of her, and Emily hadn’t thought to warn her not to give the number out to anyone. Who else had she given it out to?

“Look, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you and all of your friends, but I’m beginning to feel like you’re blowing me off.” Agent Fuji barked out a harsh laugh. “Do you have a moment to talk right now?”

Emily glanced at Iris, who had now stopped on the sidewalk and was staring at her. “Um, I’m kind of tied up.”

“It won’t take long, I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily blurted out. “But I can’t right now. Maybe another time.” And then, before she knew what she was doing, she hung up the phone.

23

The Cold, Hard Truth

“Oh, decor chairwoman!” sang a soprano voice on Friday afternoon in the journalism barn. The room was packed with kids putting the final touches on Van Gogh murals, canvas paintings, and goody bags. Taylor Swift crooned through computer speakers, and a couple of the decor committee girls had made up an impromptu dance/cheer to “Love Story.”

“Yoo-hoo!” the voice sang again. “Miss Montgomery?”

It wasn’t until Aria felt a hand on her shoulder that she realized the girl was talking to her. It was Ryan Crenshaw, a Rosewood Day alumna who was helping with the prom decorations. Per Rosewood Day tradition, a recent graduate always came back and supervised, reminding the committees about the silly prom rituals like taking photos of the prom king and queen in the graveyard near the Four Seasons and organizing a massive conga line. It was an honor to come back and help with prom, but Ryan, who had mousy brown hair and freshman-fifteen, beer-drinking arms, and who whined unendingly about how college sucked, was just one of those girls who didn’t want to let go of high school.

Ryan guided Aria, who had been hiding in the supply closet, freaked out by all the Van Goghs, toward a table and pointed at a huge SLR camera. “You need to start snapping photos for the yearbook, paparazzo! Let’s get action shots of some mural painting! And, look! There’s our queen! Let’s get one of her trying on her crown!”

Across the room, Hanna was chatting quietly with Scott Chin, one of the yearbook editors. Ryan ushered Aria over. As soon as Hanna spied her, her face paled. She grabbed Aria’s arm and pulled her into the hall. “There you are. I need to talk to you.”

“What about pictures, girls?” Ryan called out.

“In a minute!” Hanna shouted over her shoulder, rolling her eyes.

They stepped onto the path that led to a small sculpture garden that a wealthy alumnus had donated to the school back in the eighties.

Hanna walked to a sculpture of a woman whose nose had fallen off years ago, faced Aria, and took a deep breath. “You know how Spencer said that Ali’s helper might be connected to the Bill Beach—there was that prescription-drug theft there a while ago?”

“Yeah.” Unconsciously, Aria started picking at the skin on the side of her thumb.

“Well, I saw Noel at the Bill Beach yesterday.”

A bolt of cold ran through Aria. “Are you sure?”

Hanna nodded gravely. “I’m dead serious. It was definitely him.”

Aria set her jaw and stared at a metal sculpture of a gyroscope a few paces away. “Maybe he had a good reason to be there.”

“Like stealing prescription drugs for Ali?” Hanna crossed her arms. “If you think he’s innocent, figure out why he was there.”

Aria turned away. “Actually, Noel and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now. I kind of told him about Olaf.”

Hanna’s eyes widened. “Why?”

Aria waited for a noisy riding mower to pass. “Noel got a text from A that said he should look in my closet. A obviously wanted him to know about the painting. Then the moment got weird, and Noel was convinced I was hiding something, and so . . . well, I spilled the beans about Olaf.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.” Hanna shook her head ruefully. “Are you okay?”

Aria glanced at Hanna sharply. “Please. You’re probably secretly thrilled.”

“Aria!” Hanna’s eyes were wide.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if Noel and I broke up? Then you’d be able to continue your witch hunt guilt-free.”

Hanna shook her head vehemently. “We’re not anti-Noel. We’re not anti-you. Believe me, all of us hate this. No one wants this to be happening.”

Aria touched the sculpture’s hand, biting back a sob. She knew Hanna was telling the truth, but it still stung every time they came to her with a new, damning Noel tidbit. She wanted to scream at them, Aren’t we friends? Don’t you care about me? It was like when her mom had warned her about dating Gunter, a boy in Iceland—he was trouble, and Aria had known it, and she also knew her mom had only said it to protect her. But it still didn’t feel good to hear it.

Hanna leaned against the sculpture’s other arm. “Has Agent Fuji called you again?”

Aria stared at the ground. “No . . .”

“She’s contacted me and Spencer. Emily, too. Apparently she wants to talk to us again.”

Aria raised her head. “Why?”

Hanna threw up her hands. “How should I know? My guess is that A said something about one of our secrets. Maybe the painting. Maybe Tabitha. Who knows?”

Aria’s stomach twisted in knots. On the one hand, she was relieved she hadn’t received another call, too. On the other, why hadn’t Fuji contacted her? “What should we do?” she asked shakily.