Vicious (13 page)

Later on Thursday, after Spencer had suffered through yet another long, horrific court day, Rubens motioned for her and Hanna to speak to him in the hall. Spencer kept her head down, avoiding the reporters who were clamoring just past the courtroom doors. A bunch of their witnesses were there, too. Like Andrew Campbell, who Spencer hadn't seen in months, but who'd given a sweet testimonial on the stand that she was a good person. Kirsten Cullen was there, too, as were a few of Spencer's teachers, and there was even a representative from the Golden Orchid essay committee. Spencer had plagiarized her sister's paper, but it had taken a great deal of fortitude and character to come forward to say that she'd lied. It was not, the representative said, the behavior of a murderer.

Spencer could sense them all there, and she wanted to take the time to thank each one of them. But Rubens was motioning her and Hanna forward. She shot them cursory smiles, then hurried after him.

Rubens led them into a conference room with a long wooden table and a huge oil painting of a snub-nosed man in an old-timey George Washington wig. He sat down and folded his hands, then let out a long sigh.

“I'm going to level with you.” Rubens looked back and forth between the two of them. Spencer and Hanna were sitting as far apart as they possibly could, not looking at each other. “I've heard rumors that the DA is bringing in a surprise witness. It's unusual, since they've already presented all their witnesses, but it can be done if someone doesn't agree to testify until late in the game. It's someone whom they claim will put the nail in the coffin.”

Hanna wrinkled her nose. “Who would that be?”

“Yeah, aside from Ali's ghost coming in and saying we killed her,” Spencer added drily, fiddling with a button on her blazer.

Rubens tapped his pen on the table. “I'm not really sure who it might be, but it seems like the DA has something up his sleeve—something not good. I'm wondering if it makes the most sense for you girls to enter a plea bargain.”

Spencer flinched. “
What?
”

The lawyer didn't look like he was joking. “We make a deal. It'll mean a very high fine. And it'll still mean prison time. But it might mean
less
prison time.”

Spencer stared at him. “But we didn't
do
it.”

“We shouldn't have to go to prison at all,” Hanna added.

Rubens rubbed his temples. “I understand that. But what you girls are looking for—absolute exoneration—it might not happen. I just want to manage your expectations.”

Spencer sat back. “You're supposed to prove to the jury that this crime can't be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. All the cops have are a tooth and some blood and us at the scene when we weren't supposed to be there. Emily freaking out, all this stuff about our pasts—it doesn't make us killers. Why are we giving up?”

Rubens shrugged. “It's true that the lack of Alison's body should be important, and I'm going to emphasize that in my closing statements. I'm not giving up, okay? I'm just throwing this out there as an option.” Then he stood. “Think about it, okay? We're in recess for another few hours. We could end this today.”

And go to prison immediately?
Spencer thought, her stomach pulling.
No, thanks.

Rubens exited into the hall, leaving Spencer and Hanna alone. Spencer glanced at her old friend, feeling awkward. “This
sucks
,” Hanna finally mumbled.

Spencer nodded. She stared at the lacrosse bracelet on Hanna's wrist, wanting to say something. Anything. If only she could reach over and give Hanna a big hug and all would be forgiven.

Then she noticed something tucked into Hanna's bag. It looked like an invitation. Spencer squinted harder, noticing Hanna's own name, along with Mike's.
Hanna Marin and Michelangelo Montgomery invite you to their wedding at the Chanticleer mansion this Saturday at eight o'clock in the evening.

It stung, especially because she hadn't been invited.

Hanna noticed Spencer looking at the invites. Her face paled. “Oh, Spence. Actually—here.” She plunged her hand into the bag and handed her an invite.

Spencer stared at it. Her head shot up. “You don't have to invite me just because I happened to see this.”

Hanna's eyes were wide. “No, I
want
to invite you!” She laughed nervously. “Spence, I want to be friends again. That argument was stupid. We need to get past it, don't you think?”

Spencer rolled her jaw. She wanted to believe Hanna, but something about what she'd just said didn't sit right. She couldn't get their argument out of her mind.
Don't be such a martyr.
No one had ever been that mean to her, not even Melissa.

Then she realized what it was. Hanna hadn't said she was sorry for blaming Spencer for Emily's death. What she really, really wanted was an apology. Not a wedding invitation.

Hanna stared at her with big doe eyes. Spencer straightened her spine and handed the invite back. “I'm busy that night,” she said in a clipped voice, then swung around and marched out the door.

“Spencer!” Hanna said, chasing her. Spencer kept going, outpacing Hanna.

Spencer pushed through the back entrance, her emotions scrambled both from Hanna's invitation and Rubens's suggestion for a plea bargain.
Should
they do that? It would put an end to the trial and the persecution. But making a deal meant they were guilty of something—and they
weren't.
Spencer didn't want to go to prison for less time; she didn't want to go at
all.

She shut her eyes and thought again of Angela naming that outlandish price to help Spencer to disappear. She'd racked her brain but had come up with no other way to find the money. The prospect was as good as dead.

“Spencer.”

She whirled around. Melissa was hustling behind her down the ramp from the courthouse. Spencer's jaw dropped. “You were in there?”

Melissa nodded. “I had to see how things were going.” She cast her eyes downward, looking about as defeated as Spencer felt. “I didn't realize it was so bad, honey. Need a hug?”

Tears filled Spencer's eyes. She melted into her sister, squeezing her tightly. Then Melissa patted her arm. “C'mon. I'll drive you home. I canceled your car service.”

Spencer climbed into her sister's Mercedes and sat back against the warm leather seats. As they wound through Rosewood, Melissa tried to take Spencer's mind off things by chattering about the baby items she was planning to register for. “It's crazy, all the things you need for such a little person,” she said. “So many blankets and bibs, bottles and toys, and we don't know whether to co-sleep or use a bassinet . . .”

Her ring flashed as she gesticulated with her hands. It was incongruous to see Melissa wearing their mother's old ring; Spencer wondered what her dad thought about it. Her mother's nasty words floated back to her, too.
You girls are set to inherit a treasure trove of things from your father. Well
, you
won't get anything. You'll be in jail—it'll be no use to you there.

Suddenly, an idea struck her. She let out a gasp.

Melissa looked up. “You okay?”

Spencer tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and tried to smile. “Sure.”

But the rest of the way home, she jiggled her leg repeatedly. When she was little, she used to sneak into her mom's closet and look at the jewels inside her red-and-black enamel jewelry box. Sometimes, she'd even try them on. Was it still there? When had her mother last taken stock?

Could Spencer actually consider
taking
some of that jewelry . . . to pay Angela?

As soon as her sister pulled into the driveway, Spencer gave her another grateful hug, ran into the house, and slammed the door. She waited until Melissa pulled out again, then shot upstairs. As usual, her mom's bedroom suite smelled like her mother's signature Chanel No. 5, and it was five-star-hotel-room spotless, the pillows fluffed, the bedspread smoothed, all clothes put away. Their cleaning lady even ironed Spencer's mom's sheets every morning before placing them on the bed.

She stepped toward her mother's walk-in closet. Mrs. Hastings's wardrobe hung on one side, Mr. Pennythistle's suits on the other, their shoes on racks upon racks at the back. And then, on a middle shelf, there it was: the same black-and-red box she remembered.

Hands shaking, Spencer tried the lid. It didn't budge. She held it up to the light, then caught sight of a little keypad by the hinge. Of course: It had a code.

She sat back, trying to remember what the old code had been. Melissa's birthday, right? She typed in 1123 for November 23, but a red LED light appeared. Spencer frowned. Why would her mother have changed it?

She tried 0408 for Amelia's birthday, and then Mr. Pennythistle's, but the red light appeared again and again. Then, feeling pretty hopeless, she typed in the code for her own birthday. The LED flashed green, and the hinge unlatched. Spencer pressed her lips together, guilt swelling over her. But maybe her mother's usage of her birthday was fairly arbitrary, just another semi-significant number combination after lots of other semi-significant number combinations had already been used. It didn't
mean
anything, did it?

Several diamond bracelets were arranged carefully on a velvet tray. Two red Cartier boxes were nestled into a trough, along with a box from Tiffany and a Philadelphia jeweler Mr. Hastings frequented. Spencer opened the first Cartier to find the massive emerald ring her father had given her mom a few Christmases ago. The next box held a pair of diamond earrings he'd presented to her for an anniversary. There were more velvet boxes in a second tray bearing bracelets, diamond hoops and studs, a pear-shaped diamond ring that looked to be at least three carats, and a pink diamond brooch Spencer recalled her father giving to her mom for her birthday.

Spencer heard a sound and looked up. Was her mom here? Hands fluttering, she scooped up some of the velvet boxes and stuffed them into her pocket. She selected the pink diamond—her mom probably wouldn't notice it was gone—a few bracelets, and a pair of big diamond studs that looked identical to the ones already in Mrs. Hastings's ears, then rearranged everything in the box to look as though it had been untouched.

She shut the lid, darted out of the closet, and was almost to her room when someone cleared her throat behind her. Spencer wheeled around. Amelia stood in the middle of the hall, staring.

“O-oh!” Spencer sputtered. “I didn't know you were home.”

Amelia looked Spencer up and down, her lips pressed tightly together. She glanced at Mrs. Hastings's open bedroom door and said nothing.

Spencer's heart jumped. “I, um, wanted to borrow my mom's curling iron,” she blathered. “It's much nicer than mine.” It was the first thing she could think of.

But then her stepsister's gaze fell to Spencer's hands. Not only were they curling iron free, but she was wearing the pear-shaped diamond ring she'd snuck out of the jewelry box. Spencer's heart jumped.
Just get out of here
, a voice in her head screamed.
Go before you dig an even deeper hole.

She pushed past Amelia into her own bedroom, slamming the door loudly. After a moment, she heard Amelia close her own door and the classical SiriusXM station snap on. The guilt started to snake around her like a noose. Amelia was going to say something. Should Spencer just put everything back?

But the only thing she could picture in her mind was the four block walls of a prison cell. And the lawyer's words:
It makes the most sense for you girls to enter a plea bargain.
They felt like the only two valid thoughts in her brain, crowding out everything else.

She fled out of her room and slipped into Mr. Pennythistle's office. He had a separate landline from the home phone, which she knew was being monitored. She hated using this phone in case the cops were monitoring it, too, though she doubted they were quite that thorough. And anyway, she'd only be on with Angela for a few moments—not long enough to trace.

Angela answered on the first ring with, “Who's this?”

For a moment, Spencer couldn't find her voice. “I-it's Spencer Hastings,” she finally got out. “I just wanted to let you know I have the money you're looking for so that I can . . . you know. So that you can help me with what I need.”

“I'm listening,” Angela said gruffly. “When can you get this money to me?”

“Well, it's in jewelry, not cash,” Spencer explained. “I can't get to you because I have a tracking bracelet on, but I'm good for it, I swear. I want to go as soon as possible,” she added. “Whenever you can make it happen.”

There was a pause. Spencer checked the clock, remembering from an old episode of
24
that she had only another twenty seconds or so until the call could be tracked. “All right,” the woman on the other end finally said. “Send me a photo of the jewels so I know they're up to snuff. And then I want you outside your house on Saturday night at 10
PM
.
Sharp.
We'll make the transaction
and
get you gone all in the same day. You're a minute late, or the jewels are shit, and all bets are off. Got it?”

“Of course.” Spencer's hands were shaking. “But you'll be able to remove my ankle bracelet when you pick me up?”

Angela snorted. “I have ways of getting that thing off and duping the system for a little bit. But you'll be on borrowed time. We'll have to get you out of range, and
fast
.”

“Thank you,” Spencer said, feeling a prickle by her eyes. “I'll see you then.”

There was a sharp
click
, and Angela was gone. Spencer stared at her reflection in the vanity across the room. Her pockets bulged with jewels. She closed her eyes.
Saturday night.
That was two days from now. She could make it until then.