Perfect (Book Two)

Thirty-Two: Emily Goes To Bat.

Emily sobbed with relief when she discovered her house's side door was open. She threw her soaked body into the laundry room, nearly bursting into tears at the insulated, untroubled domesticity of everything: her mother's Bless This Mess! cross-stitch above the washer and dryer; the neat row of detergent, bleach, and fabric softener on the little shelf; her father's green rubber gardening boots by the door.

The phone rang; it sounded like a scream. Emily grabbed a towel from the laundry pile, wrapped it around her shoulders, and tentatively picked up the cordless extension. "Hello?" Even the sound of her own voice seemed scary.

"Emily?" came a familiar gravelly voice on the other end.

Emily frowned. "Spencer?"

"Oh my God." Spencer sighed. "We've been looking for you. Are you all right?"

"I...I don't know," Emily said shakily. She'd run crazily through the cornfield. The rain had created rivers of mud between the rows. One of her shoes had fallen off, but she'd kept going, and now the bottom of her dress and her legs were filthy. The field butted up to the woods behind her house, and she'd torn through those, too. She'd slid twice on wet grass, scraping up her elbow and hip, and once, lightning hit a tree just twenty feet from her, violently snapping branches to the ground. She knew it was dangerous to be out there in a storm, but she couldn't stop, afraid Toby was right behind her.

"Emily. Stay where you are," Spencer instructed. "And stay away from Toby. I'll explain everything later, but for right now, just lock your door and—"

"I think Toby's A," Emily interrupted, her voice a scratchy, trembling whisper. "And I think he killed Ali."

There was a pause. "I know. So do I."

"What?" Emily cried. A crack of thunder radiated through the sky, making Emily cower. Spencer didn't answer. The line was dead.

Emily put the phone on top of the dryer. Spencer knew? It made Emily's revelation even more real—and much, much scarier.

Then, she heard a voice. "Emily! Emily?"

She froze. It sounded like it was coming from the kitchen. She sprinted in there and saw Toby looking in, his hands pressed against her sliding glass door. The rain had soaked through his suit and matted down his hair, and he was shivering. His face was in the shadow.

Emily screamed.

"Emily!" Toby said again. He tried the door handle, but Emily quickly latched it.

"Go away," she hissed. He could...he could burn down their house. Break in. Suffocate Emily while she slept. If he could kill Ali, he was capable of anything.

"I'm getting soaked," he called to her. "Let me in."

"I...I can't talk to you. Please, Toby, please. Just leave me alone."

"Why did you run away from me?" Toby looked confused. He had to yell, too, because it was raining so hard. "I'm not sure what happened up from seeing all those people. But that was all years ago. I'm sorry."

The sweetness in his voice made it even worse. He tried the handle again, and Emily shouted, "No!" Toby stopped, and Emily looked around frantically for something that could be a weapon. A heavy, ceramic chicken plate. A dull kitchen knife. Perhaps she could root around in the cabinets and find the griddle... "Please." Emily was trembling so badly, her legs were wobbly. "Just go away."

"Let me at least give you back your purse. It's in my car."

"Just put it in my mailbox."

"Emily, don't be ridiculous." Toby started pounding angrily on the door. "Just get over here and let me in!"

Emily picked up the heavy chicken plate on the kitchen table. She held it out in front of her with both hands, like a shield. "Go away!"

Toby pushed his soaked hair off his face. "The stuff I said to you in the car...it came out all wrong. I'm sorry if I said something that—"

"It's too late," Emily interrupted. She squeezed her eyes shut. All she wanted was to open her eyes again and for all this to be a dream. "I know what you did to her."

Toby stiffened. "Wait. What?"

"You heard me," Emily said. "I. Know. What. You. Did. To. Her."

Toby's mouth fell open. The rain fell harder, making his eyeballs look like hollow pits. "How could you know about that?" his voice wobbled. "No one...no one knew. It was...it was a long time ago, Emily."

Emily's mouth dropped open. What, did he think he was so sly that he could get away with it? "Well, I guess your secret's out."

Toby started to pace back and forth across her deck, running his fingers through his hair. "But, Emily, you don't understand. I was so young. And...and confused. I wish I hadn't done it..."

Emily felt a huge tug of regret. She didn't want Toby to be Ali's killer. The sweet way he'd helped her out of his car, how he'd defended her in front of Ben, how lost and vulnerable he'd looked when Emily glanced at him, standing alone on the Foxy dance floor. Maybe he really was sorry or what he'd done. Maybe he'd just been confused.

But then Emily thought about the night Ali went missing. It had been so beautiful out, the perfect kickoff to what was going to be a perfect summer. They were planning to go to the Jersey Shore the following weekend, had tickets to the No Doubt concert in July, and Ali was going to throw a huge thirteenth birthday party in August. All that was gone the instant Ali stepped out of Spencer's family's barn.

Toby might have come up to her from behind. Maybe he hit her with something. Maybe he said things to her. When he threw her into the hole, he must have...covered her up with dirt so no one would find her. Was that how it went? And after Toby hurt her, had he just gotten on his bike and ridden home? Had he returned to Maine for the rest of the summer? Had he watched everyone searching on the news with a bowl of microwave popcorn in his lap, like it was a movie on HBO?

I'm glad that bitch is dead. Emily had never heard anything so horrible in her life.

"Please," Toby cried. "I can't go through all this again. And neither can—"

He couldn't even finish his sentence. Then, suddenly, he covered his face with his hands and ran away, back into the woods in her backyard.

All was quiet. Emily looked around. The kitchen was spotless—her parents had gone away this weekend to Pittsburgh to visit Emily's grandmother, and her mother always cleaned maniacally before she went. Carolyn wa still out with Topher.

She was all alone.

Emily sprinted to the front door. It was locked, but she pulled the chain across for extra protection. She twisted the dead bolt to make sure it was secure. Then she remembered the garage door: The mechanical part of it had broken, and her dad had been lazy about fixing it. Someone strong enough could lift up the garage door himself.

And then she realized. Toby had her purse. Which meant...he had her keys.

She picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed 911. But the phone didn't even ring. She hung up and listened for a dial tone, but there was none. Emily felt her knees weaken. The storm must have knocked out the phone lines.

She remained frozen in the hallway for a few seconds, her jaw trembling. Had Toby dragged Ali by her hair? Had she still been alive when he tossed her into that hole?

She ran into the garage and looked around. In the corner was her old baseball bat. It felt strong and heavy in her hands. Satisfied, she slid out to the front porch, locked the door behind her with the spare key from the kitchen, and settled gently into the porch swing in the shadows, the bat in her lap. It was freezing outside, and she could see a giant spider building a web in the other corner of the porch. Spiders always terrified her, but she had to be brave. She wouldn't let Toby hurt her, too.