Pretty Little Liars

Good Morning, We Hate You

The sun streamed in through the barn’s window, and for the first time in Spencer’s life, she was awakened by the chirping of high-on-life sparrows instead of the frightening ’90s techno mix her dad blasted from the main house’s exercise room. But could she enjoy it? Nope.

Although she hadn’t drunk a drop last night, her body felt achy, chilled, and hungover. There was zero sleep in her fuel tank. After Wren left, she’d tried to sleep, but her mind spun. The way Wren held her felt so . . . different. Spencer had never felt anything remotely like that before.

But then that IM. And Melissa’s calm, spooky expression. And . . .

As the night wore on, the barn creaked and groaned, and Spencer pulled the covers up to her nose, shaking. She chided herself for feeling paranoid and immature, but she couldn’t help it. She kept thinking of the possibilities.

Eventually, she’d gotten up and rebooted her computer. For a few hours, she searched the Internet. First she looked at technical websites, searching for answers on how to trace IMs. No luck. Then she tried to find where that first e-mail – the one titled ‘covet’ – had come from. She wanted, desperately, for the trail to end at Andrew Campbell.

She found that Andrew had a blog, but after scouring the whole thing, she found nothing. The entries were all about the books Andrew liked to read, dorky boy philosophizing, a couple of melancholy passages about an unrequited crush on some girl he never named. She thought he might slip up and give himself away, but he didn’t.

Finally, she plugged in the key words missing persons and Alison DiLaurentis.

She found the same stuff from three years ago – the reports on CNN and in the Philadelphia Inquirer, search groups, and kooky sites, like one showing what Ali might look like with different hairstyles. Spencer stared at the school picture they’d used; she hadn’t seen a photo of Ali in a long time. Would she recognize Ali if she had, for instance, a short, black bob? She certainly looked different in this picture they’d created.

The main house’s screen door squeaked as she nervously pushed through it. Inside, she smelled freshly brewed coffee, which was odd, because usually her mom was already at the stables by now and her dad was riding or at the golf course. She wondered what had happened between Melissa and Wren after last night, praying she wouldn’t have to face them.

‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

Spencer jumped. At the kitchen table were her parents and Melissa. Her mother’s face was pale and drained and her dad’s cheeks were beet red. Melissa’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Even the two dogs didn’t jump up to greet her as they normally did.

Spencer swallowed hard. So much for praying.

‘Sit down, please,’ her father said quietly.

Spencer scraped back a wooden chair and sat next to her mother. The room was so still and silent, she could hear her stomach, nervously on spin cycle.

‘I don’t even know what to say,’ her mother croaked. ‘How could you?’

Spencer’s stomach dropped. She opened her mouth, but her mother held up her hand. ‘You have no right to talk right now.’

Spencer clamped her mouth shut and lowered her eyes.

‘Honestly,’ her father said, ‘I am so mortified you’re my daughter right now. I thought we raised you better.’

Spencer picked at a rough cuticle on her thumb and tried to stop her chin from wobbling.

‘What were you thinking?’ her mother asked. ‘That was her boyfriend. They were planning to move in together. Do you realize what you’ve done?’

‘I—’ Spencer started.

‘I mean . . . ,’ her mother interrupted, then wrung her hands and looked down.

‘You’re under eighteen, which means we’re legally responsible for you,’ her father said. ‘But if it were up to me, I’d lock you out of this house right now.’

‘I wish I never had to see you again,’ Melissa spat.

Spencer felt faint. She half-expected them to set down their coffee cups and tell her they were just kidding, that everything was all right. But they couldn’t even look at her. Her dad’s words stung in her ears: I am so mortified you’re my daughter. No one had ever said anything like that to her before.

‘One thing’s for certain; Melissa will be moving into the barn,’ her mother continued. ‘I want all of your stuff out and back into your old bedroom. And once her town house is ready, I’m turning the barn into a pottery studio.’

Spencer balled up her fists under the table, willing herself not to cry. She didn’t care about the barn, not really. It was what came with the barn that mattered. It was that her dad was going to build shelves for her. Her mom was going to help her pick out new curtains. They’d said she could get a kitten and they’d all spent a few minutes thinking up funny names for it. They were excited for her. They cared.

She reached out for her mother’s arm. ‘I’m sorry—’

Her mother slid her body away. ‘Spencer, don’t.’

Spencer couldn’t manage to swallow her sob. Tears started running down her cheeks.

‘It’s not me you need to apologize to, anyway,’ her mother said in a low voice.

Spencer looked at Melissa, sniveling across the table. She wiped her nose. As much as she hated Melissa, she’d never seen her sister this miserable – not since Ian broke up with her back in high school. It was wrong to flirt with Wren, but Spencer hadn’t thought it would go as far as it did. She tried to put herself in Melissa’s place – if she’d met Wren first, and Melissa had kissed him, she’d be shattered too. Her heart softened. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

Melissa shuddered. ‘Rot in hell,’ she spat.

Spencer bit the inside of her mouth so hard she tasted blood.

‘Just get your things out of the barn.’ Her mother sighed. ‘Then get out of our sight.’

Spencer’s eyes widened. ‘But—’ she squeaked.

Her father gave her a withering look.

‘It’s just so despicable,’ her mother murmured.

‘You’re such a bitch,’ Melissa threw in.

Spencer nodded – perhaps if she agreed with them, they would stop. She wanted to shrivel up into a tiny ball and evaporate. Instead, she mumbled, ‘I’ll go do it now.’

‘Good.’ Her father took another sip of coffee and left the table.

Melissa made a small squeak and pushed back her chair. She sobbed the whole way up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door.

‘Wren left last night,’ Mr. Hastings said as he paused in the doorway. ‘We won’t be hearing from him, ever again. And if you know what’s best for you, you won’t talk about him ever again.’

‘Of course,’ Spencer mumbled, and set her head down on the cool oak table.

‘Good.’

Spencer kept her head firmly on the table, breathing yoga fire breaths and waiting for someone to come back and tell her that everything would be okay. Nobody did. Outside, she heard an ambulance siren screaming in the distance. It sounded like it was coming toward the house.

Spencer sat up. Oh God. What if Melissa had . . . hurt herself? She wouldn’t, would she? The sirens howled, coming closer. Spencer shoved back her chair.

Holy shit. What had she done?

‘Melissa!’ she yelled, running to the stairs.

‘You’re a whore!’ came a voice. ‘You’re a fucking whore!’

Spencer slumped back against the railing. Well, then. It seemed Melissa was just fine, after all.