Ali's Pretty Little Lies (Prequel)

Eight: Family Therapy, This Isn't.

On Sunday morning, Ali, Jason, and the DiLaurentis parents pulled up to a familiar sign pointing to a secluded road lined by tall, thick trees. The Preserve At Addison-Stevens, read the calligraphy lettering. Mr. DiLaurentis put on his blinker and steered up the drive.

"Those white trees are freaky," Ali grumbled out the window at the birches in the woods, their albino branches twisting and curling over the road. "They remind me of the people in this place."

Her mother scowled at her in the rearview mirror, but Ali pretended not to notice, slathering on an extra coat of nail polish. Her mom hated the smell, but Ali wanted to punish her. This morning, after she'd woken up and showered, her mother had walked into her bedroom without knocking and sat on her bed. "You're visiting your sister at the hospital today."

"No, I'm not." Ali had willed tears to her eyes. "It's too hard on me, Mom. I have nightmares every time I go there."

For some reason, the pity act wasn't working. "If you don't come, you can't go to the end-of-seventh-grade sleepover with your friends," Mrs. DiLaurentis proclaimed.

Ali's mouth dropped. "You can't tell me what I can and can't do!"

Mrs. DiLaurentis stood. "I'm your mother, of course I can," she said sternly. "She's your sister, Alison. I know you two have a lot of bad history, but you need to get past it and try to have some sympathy. Have you thought any more about the therapist I recommended?"

Ali had flopped onto the bed and covered her head with a pillow. Her mom had mentioned a local therapist from time to time, saying it might help her deal with her issues with her twin. But what her mom didn't know was she'd been to therapists for years—and they'd never been able to solve that problem.

Now she was a prisoner in the car. The closer they got to the hospital, the tighter the knot in her stomach cinched. As her father continued up the drive, Ali's phone beeped. She thought it might be a text from Nick—they'd sent messages back and forth all morning, and she was sure he was this close to asking her out. But it was from Emily instead. I'm sorry about last night. Where are you? Can we talk now?

Ali gazed at the building in the distance. The hospital was a big white mansion with impressive columns, looking more like someone's house than a mental institution. A nurse and a patient hobbled along the path. Another patient sat on a bench, just staring. An ambulance was parked in a side driveway, waiting for a disaster.

Can't right now, she wrote, then turned her phone off. She'd begun to understand why her parents kept the second twin a secret all these years: There was definitely a stigma to having a daughter or sister in a loony bin. People might assume the DiLarentises were bad parents for putting her there. Or maybe they'd assume the rest of the family was crazy, too.

Her heart pounded fast as they pulled up to the guard's gate and gave their name to a khaki-clad man with a walkie-talkie. They circled the driveway and passed the obsessively manicured topiaries and the glassy-eyed patients on the lawn. For a moment, Ali thought she recognized one of them from the Radley, a girl who used to scream in her bed for hours on end, but she couldn't be sure.

They parked in the visitors' lot and got out. Ali lagged behind her brother and parents, staring at the names on the plaques of old patients who had passed on that were mounted beside the trees and benches. Nelly Peterson. Thomas Ryder. Grace Harley. That was another thing people said about the Preserve: The suicide rate was worryingly high. People must have thought death was a better option than being trapped in here.

The lobby had marble floors, a big fountain in the center, and modern white couches. After giving their name to a lab coat—wearing receptionist, they were buzzed into the patient ward which was markedly shabbier and older than the lobby or the outside. They entered the day room, which was big and bright with several large windows, threadbare couches pushed against the walls, and an old, blinking TV playing a movie Ali didn't recognize. The room smelled of antiseptic cleaner and macaroni and cheese. A nurse listening to headphones sat behind a window in the corner. A woman Ali was almost positive was a psychiatrist was talking to a despondent girl with white-blond hair by a bookcase full of board games.