Perfect (Book Two)

Twenty-Three: Next Stop, Greater Rosewood Jail.

Late Saturday afternoon, a few hours before Foxy, Spencer sat at her computer. She'd just addressed an e-mail to Squidward and attached her essays. Just send it, she told herself. She closed her eyes, clicked the mouse, and, when she opened them, her work had been sent.

Well, it was sort of her work.

She hadn't cheated. Really. Well, maybe she had. But who could blame her? After A's message came in last night, she'd spent the whole night calling Wren, but his phone kept going to voice mail. And she'd left five messages for him, each of them becoming more frantic. She'd put on her shoes twelve separate times, ready to drive into Philadelphia to see if Wren was okay, but then talked herself out of it. The one time her Sidekick chimed, she dove for it, but it was just a classwide e-mail from Squidward, reminding everyone of the proper annotation style or the essay questions.

When someone put their hand on Spencer's shoulder, she screamed.

Melissa stepped back. "Whoa! Sorry! Just me!"

Spencer righted herself, breathing hard. "I..." She surveyed her desk. Shit. There was a slip of paper that said, Gynecologist, Tuesday, 5 P.M. Ortho Tri-Cyclen? And she had Melissa's old history essays on her computer screen. She kicked the computer hard drive's on/off switch with her foot, and the monitor went black.

"You stressed?" Melissa asked. "Lots of homework before Foxy?"

"Kinda." Spencer quickly shoved all of her desk's random papers into neat piles.

"Wanna borrow my lavender neck pillow?" Melissa asked. "It's a stress reliever."

"That's all right," Spencer answered, not even daring to look at her sister. I stole your paper and your boyfriend, she thought. You shouldn't be nice to me.

Melissa pushed her lips together. "Well, not to make you more stressed, but there's a cop downstairs. He says he wants to ask you some questions."

"What?" Spencer cried.

"It's about Alison," Melissa said. She shook her head, making the ends of her hair swing. "They shouldn't make you talk about it—the week of her memorial. It's sick."

Spencer tried not to panic. She stared at herself in the mirror, smoothing down her blond hair and dabbing concealer under her eyes. She pulled on a white button-down blouse and skinny khaki pants. There. She looked trustworthy and innocent.

But her whole body was shaking.

Sure enough, there was a cop standing in the living room but looking into her father's second office, where he kept his vintage guitar collection. When the cop turned around, Spencer realized that he wasn't the one she'd spoken to at the funeral. This guy was young. And he looked familiar. like she might've seen him somewhere else.

"Are you Spencer?" he asked.

"Yes," she said quietly.

He stuck out his hand. "I'm Darren Wilden. I've just been assigned to Alison DiLaurentis's murder case."

"Murder," Spencer repeated.

"Yes," Officer Wilden. "Well, we're investigating it as a murder."

"Okay." Spencer tried to sound even and mature. "Wow."

Wilden motioned for Spencer to sit down on her living room couch; then he sat opposite her on the chaise. She realized where she knew him from: Rosewood Day. He'd gone there when she was in sixth grade, and he'd earned a reputation as a badass. One of Melissa's nerdy friends, Liana, had a crush on him, and once made Spencer deliver a secret admirer not to him at the espresso bar where he worked. Spencer recalled thinking that Darren had biceps the size of Chunky Soup cans.

Now he was staring at her. Spencer felt her nose itch, and the grandfather clock made a few loud ticks. Finally, he said, "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

Fear shot through her chest. "Tell you?"

Wilden sat back. "About Alison."

Spencer blinked. Something about this felt wrong. "She was my best friend," she managed. Her palms felt sweaty. "I was with her the night she went missing."

"Right." Wilden looked at a notepad. "That's in our files. You talked to someone at the police station after she went missing, right?"

"Yes. Twice."

"Right." Wilden clasped his hands together. "Are you sure you told them everything? Was there someone who hated Alison? Maybe the officer asked you all these questions before, but since I'm new, maybe you could refresh my memory."

Spencer's brain stalled. truthfully, lots of girls had hated Ali. Spencer even hated Ali sometimes, especially the way she always could manipulate her, and how she'd threatened to point the finger at Spencer for The Jenna Thing if she ever told what she knew. And secretly, it was kind of a relief when Ali disappeared. Ali gone and Toby away at school meant their secret was hidden for good.

She swallowed hard. She wasn't sure what this cop knew. A could have tipped the cops off that she was hiding something. And it was brilliant—if Spencer told him, Yes, I do know someone who hated Ali, really hated her enough to kill her, she'd have to confess her involvement in The Jenna Thing. If she said nothing and protected herself, A still might punish her friends...and Wren.

You hurt me, so I'm going to hurt you.

Sweat prickled on the back of her neck. But then there was more: What if Toby was back to hurt her? What if he and A were working together? What if he was A? But if he was—and he killed Ali—would he go to the cops and incriminate himself? "I'm pretty sure I told them everything," she finally said.

There was a long, long pause. Wilden stared at Spencer. Spencer stared at Wilden. It made Spencer think about the night after The Jenna Thing happened. She'd dozed into a fitful, paranoid sleep, her friends quietly crying around her. But all of a sudden, she was awake again. The cable box clock said 3:43 A.M., and the room was still. She felt unhinged, and found Ali, sleeping sitting up on the couch with Emily's head in her lap. "I can't do this," she said, shaking her awake. "We should turn ourselves in."

Ali got up, led Spencer into the hall bathroom, and sat down on the edge of the tub. "Get a grip, Spence," Ali said. "You can't spaz if the police ask us questions."

"The police?" Spencer shrieked, her heart picking up speed.

"Shhh," Ali whispered. She drummed her nails against the tub's porcelain edge. "I'm not saying the police are definitely going to talk to us, but we have to make a plan in case they do. All we need is a solid story. An alibi."

"Why can't we just tell them the truth?" Spencer asked. "Exactly what you saw Toby do, and that it surprised you so much, you set the firework off by accident?"

Ali shook her head. "It's better my way. We keep Toby's secret, he keeps ours."

A knock on the door made them stand up. "Guys?" a voice called. It was Aria.

"Fair enough," Wilden finally said, breaking from her memory. He handed her a business card. "Call me if you think of anything, all right?"

"Of course," Spencer whimpered.

Wilden put his hands on his hips and looked around the room. At the Chippendale furniture; the exquisite stained-glass window; the heavy, framed art on the walls; and her father's prized George Washington clock that had been in the family since the 1800s. Then he canvassed Spencer, from the diamond studs in her ears to the delicate Cartier watch on her wrist to her blond highlights, which cost $300 every six weeks. The smug little smile on his face seemed to say, You seem like a girl who has a lot to lose.

"You going to that benefit tonight?" he asked, making her jump. "Foxy?"

"Um, yeah," Spencer said quietly.

"Well." Wilden gave her a little salute. "Have fun." His voice was totally normal, but she could've sworn the look on his face said, I'm not through with you yet.