Heartless (11 page)

With each passing moment, Emily thought of more reasons why—and how—Ali might still be out there. There was the time when Emily and her friends met with Mrs. DiLaurentis the day after Ali vanished, and Mrs. DiLaurentis asked if Ali had run away. Emily had dismissed the notion, but the truth was she and Ali
did
used to talk about leaving Rosewood forever. They made all kinds of wistful plans—they’d go to the airport and pick the first flight that was leaving. They’d take Amtrak to California and find roommates in L.A. Emily couldn’t imagine why Ali would want to leave Rosewood; she always secretly hoped that it was because Ali wanted Emily all to herself.

Then the summer between sixth and seventh grade, Ali had dropped off the face of the earth for two weeks. Every time Emily called Ali’s cell phone it went to voice mail. Whenever she rang Ali’s house, the answering machine picked up. And yet, the DiLaurentises were definitely home—Emily biked by their house and saw Mr. DiLaurentis washing his car in the driveway and Ali’s mom pulling weeds in the front yard. She became convinced Ali was angry at her, though she had no idea why. And she couldn’t talk to her other best friends about it. Spencer and Hanna were vacationing with their families, and Aria was at an art camp in philly.

Then, two weeks later, Ali called out of the blue. “Where
were
you?” Emily demanded. “I ran away!” Ali chirped. When Emily didn’t answer, she laughed. “I’m kidding. I went to the poconos with my aunt Giada. There’s no cell service up there.”

Emily glanced at the handwritten sign again. As much as she didn’t trust A’s cryptic instructions about going to Lancaster—after all, A had misled them into believing that Wilden and Jason were Ali’s killers, when Ali was in fact still alive—one tiny sentence fragment kept swirling in her head:
What wouldyou do to find her?
She’d do anything, of course.

Taking a deep breath, Emily climbed the steps to the front porch of the farmhouse. A bunch of shirts hung from the laundry line, though it was so cold out that they looked half-frozen. Smoke poured from the chimney, and a big windmill in the back of the property churned. The yeasty smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the frigid air.

Emily looked over her shoulder, squinting at the far-off rows of dead cornstalks. Was A watching right now? She raised her hand and knocked three times, her nerves jangling.
Please let Ali be there,
she chanted to herself.

There was a creak and then a bang. A figure disappeared out the back door, slipping through the cornfield. It looked like a guy about Emily’s age, wearing a puffy down jacket, jeans, and bright red-and-blue sneakers. He ran at top speed without looking back.

Emily’s heart banged in her chest. Moments later, the front door opened. A teenage girl stood on the other side. She wore a dress like Emily’s, and her brown hair was pulled into a bun. Her lips were very red, as if they’d been recently kissed. She searched Emily’s face wordlessly, her eyes narrowed with disdain. Emily’s stomach swooped with disappointment.

“Uh, my name is Emily Stoltzfus,” she blurted, reciting the name from A’s note. “I’m from Ohio. Are you Lucy?”

The girl looked startled. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Are you here for Mary’s wedding this weekend?”

Emily blinked. A hadn’t told her about a wedding. Was it possible Ali’s new Amish name was Mary? Maybe she was being forced to be a child bride, and A had sent Emily here to save her. But Emily’s return bus ticket was for Friday afternoon, the very same time the church group returned from Boston. She couldn’t possibly stay for what was probably a Saturday wedding without raising her parents’ suspicions. “Um, I came to help with the preparations,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound incredibly foolish.

Lucy glanced at something behind Emily. “There’s Mary now. Do you want to go say hi?”

Emily followed her gaze. But Mary was much smaller and dumpier than the girl Emily had seen in the woods just days ago. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, showing off her chubby cheeks. “Um, that’s okay,” Emily said glumly, her heart yo-yoing. She turned back to Lucy, inspecting her face. Lucy’s lips were pressed tightly together, like she was biting back a secret.

Lucy opened the door wider, letting Emily in. They walked into the parlor. It was a big square room, lit only by a gas-powered lantern in the corner. Handcrafted wooden chairs and tables crowded the walls. A bookshelf in the corner housed a jar full of celery and a large, well-worn copy of the Bible. Lucy walked into the center of the room and gazed at Emily carefully. “Where are you from in Ohio?”

“Um, near Columbus,” Emily said, blurting out the first Ohio town she could think of.

“Oh.” Lucy scratched her head. This must have been an acceptable answer. “Did Pastor Adam send you to me?”

Emily swallowed hard. “Yes?” she guessed. She felt like she was an actress in a play, but no one had bothered to give her the script.

Lucy
tsked
and glanced over her shoulder toward the back door. “He always thinks things like this will make me feel better,” she muttered acidly.

“I’m sorry?” Emily was surprised at how annoyed Lucy seemed. She’d thought the Amish were eternally temperate and calm.

Lucy waved her thin, pale hand. “No,
I’m
sorry.” She turned and started down a long hall. “You’ll take my sister’s bed,” she said matter-of-factly, leading Emily into a small bedroom. Inside were two twin beds covered by lively colored homemade quilts. “It’s the one on the left.”

“What’s your sister’s name?” Emily asked, glancing at the bare white walls.

“Leah.” Lucy punched a pillow.

“Where is she now?”

Lucy smacked the pillow harder. Her throat bobbed, and then she turned away toward the corner of the bedroom, as if she’d done something shameful. “I was just going to start the milking. Come on.”

At that, she marched out of the bedroom. After a moment, Emily followed Lucy, snaking through a rabbit warren of hallways and rooms. She poked her head into each room, aching to see Ali in one of them, sitting in a rocker, her finger to her lips, or crouching behind a bureau, her knees pulled into her chest. Finally they crossed the big, bright kitchen, which smelled overpoweringly like wet wool, and Lucy led her out the back door to an enormous, drafty barn. A long line of cows stood in stalls, their tails swishing. Upon seeing the girls, a few of them let out loud moos.

Lucy handed Emily a metal bucket. “You start on the left. I’ll do the right.”

Emily shifted her feet in the scratchy hay. She’d never milked a cow before, not even when she had been shipped to her aunt and uncle’s farm in Iowa the fall before. Lucy had already turned away, tending to her own line of cows. Not knowing what else to do, Emily approached the cow closest to the door, slid the bucket under her udder, and crouched. How hard could it be? But the cow was enormous, with strong legs and a broad, trucklike butt. Did cows kick, like horses? Did cows
bite?

She cracked her knuckles, eyeing the other stalls.
If a cow moos in the next ten seconds, everything will be okay,
she thought, relying on the superstitious game she’d created for tense situations like this one. She silently counted to ten in her head. There weren’t any moos, although there was a noise that sounded suspiciously like a fart.

“
Ahem
”

Emily shot up. Lucy was glaring at her.

“Haven’t you ever milked a cow before?” Lucy demanded.

“Uh.” Emily grappled for a response. “Well, no. We have really specific jobs where I’m from. Milking isn’t my responsibility.”

Lucy looked at her as if she’d never heard of such a thing. “You’ll have to do it as long as you’re here. It’s not hard. just pull and squeeze.”

“Um, okay,” Emily stammered. She turned to the cow. Her teats dangled. She touched one; it felt rubbery and full. When she squeezed, milk squirted into the bucket. It was a strange dusty color, nothing like the milk her mother brought home from Fresh Fields grocery store.

“That’s good,” Lucy said, standing over her. She had that funny look on her face again. “Why are you speaking English, by the way?”

The sharp scent of hay tickled Emily’s eyes. Did Amish people not speak English? She’d read various Wikipedia articles about Amish people last night in an attempt to absorb as much information as possible—how had she not stumbled upon that? And why hadn’t A said anything?

“Did your community not speak Pennsylvania Dutch?” Lucy prompted incredulously.

Emily adjusted her woolen cap nervously. Her fingers smelled like sour milk. “Um . . . no. We’re pretty progressive.”

Lucy shook her head in wonderment. “Wow. You’re so lucky. We should switch places. You stay here, and I’ll go there.”

Emily laughed nervously, relaxing a teensy bit. Maybe Lucy wasn’t so bad. And maybe even Amish country wasn’t so bad either—at least it was quiet and drama-free. But disappointment welled in her chest all the same. Ali didn’t seem to be hiding out in this community, so why had A sent her here? To make her look stupid? To distract her for a while? To send her on a wild-goose chase?

As if on cue, one of the Holsteins let out a loud, lowing moo and dropped fresh cow pies on the hay-strewn floor. Emily gritted her teeth. Perhaps a wild
cow
chase was more like it.

Chapter 11

Not Your Typical Mother-Daughter Outing

As soon as Spencer stepped into the lobby of the Fermata spa, a smile flitted over her lips. The room smelled like honey, and the soft, burbling sounds of the fountain in the corner were soothing and tranquil.

“I booked you for a deep tissue massage, a carrot body buff, and an oxygen facial,” Spencer’s mother said, taking out her wallet. “And then after that, I made us reservations for a late lunch at Feast.”

“Wow,” Spencer gushed. Feast, the bistro next door, was Mrs. Hastings and Melissa’s regular lunch spot.

Mrs. Hastings squeezed Spencer’s shoulder, the smell of her liberally applied Chanel No. 5 perfume tickling Spencer’s nose. An aesthetician showed Spencer the locker where she could stash her clothes and change into a robe and slippers. Before she knew it, she was lying on a massage table, melting into a puddle of goo.

Spencer hadn’t felt this close to her parents in a long, long time. Last night, she and her dad had watched
The Godfather
in the den, her dad quoting every line by heart, and later, she and her mother began planning the Rosewood Day Hunt Club benefit that would take place in two months. Plus, when she checked her grades online this morning, she’d seen that she had aced the last AP econ test. Good news like that called for an appreciative text to Andrew—he’d been her tutor—and he wrote back saying he knew she could do it. He also asked if she wanted to go with him to the Valentine’s Day dance in a few weeks. Spencer said yes.

Her conversation with Melissa still nagged at her, though, as did A’s note about a cover-up. Spencer couldn’t believe her mother would make Melissa blame Ian for Ali’s murder. Melissa must have misinterpreted their mother’s concern. And as for A . . . well, Spencer certainly didn’t trust anything A had to say.

“Honey?” The masseuse’s voice floated down from above. “You’ve suddenly turned to stone. Let go.”

Spencer forced her muscles to relax. Crashing ocean waves and cawing seagulls swelled from the sound machine. She shut her eyes, huffing three short yoga fire breaths. She would
not
overreact. That was probably just what A wanted.

After the massage, the carrot buff, and the oxygen facial, Spencer felt loose, soft, and glowing. Her mother was waiting for her at Feast, drinking a glass of lemon water and reading a copy of
MainLine
magazine. “That was wonderful,” Spencer said, flopping down. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Mrs. Hastings answered, unfolding her napkin and placing it neatly on her lap. “Anything to help you relax after everything you’ve gone through.”

They fell silent. Spencer stared at the hand-thrown ceramic plate in front of her. Her mother ran her pointer finger around the lip of her glass. After sixteen years of playing second fiddle, Spencer had no idea what to say to her mom. She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d been alone together.

Mrs. Hastings sighed and stared absently at the oak bar in the corner. A couple of customers were sitting on high stools, nursing lunchtime martinis and glasses of chardonnay. “I didn’t mean for it to get like this between us, you know,” she said, as if reading Spencer’s mind. “I don’t really know what happened.”

Melissa happened,
Spencer thought. But she just shrugged and tapped her toes to the beat of “Fur Elise,” one of the last pieces of music she’d learned during her piano lessons.

“I pushed you too hard in school, and that pushed you away,” her mother lamented, lowering her voice as four coiffed women carrying yoga mats and Tory Burch purses followed the hostess to a back booth. “With Melissa, it was easier. There were fewer standouts in her grade.” She paused to sip her water. “But with you . . . well, your class was different. I saw how you were satisfied with being number two. I wanted you to be a leader, not a follower.”

Spencer’s heart sped up, yesterday’s conversation with Melissa fresh in her mind.
Mom wasn’t exactly Ali’s biggest fan,
Melissa had said. “Do you mean . . . Alison?” she asked.

Mrs. Hastings took a measured sip of her sparkling water. “She’s one example, yes. Alison definitely liked to be the center of attention.”

Spencer chose her words carefully. “And . . . you thought
I
should have been?”

Mrs. Hastings pursed her lips. “Well, I thought you could have asserted yourself more. Like that time Alison got the spot on the JV field hockey team and you didn’t. You just . . .
accepted
it. You usually had a little more fight in you. And you certainly deserved that spot.”

The restaurant suddenly smelled like sweet potato fries. Three waiters paraded out of the kitchen with a slice of cake for a stately, graying woman a few tables over. They serenaded her with “Happy Birthday.” Spencer ran her hand over the back of her neck, which was a little sweaty. For years, she’d hoped someone would say out loud that Ali wasn’t all that, but now, she only felt guilty and slightly defensive. Was Melissa right?
Had
her mom disliked Ali? It felt like a personal criticism. After all, Ali had been
her
best friend, and Mrs. Hastings always liked all of Melissa’s friends.