Perfect (Book Three)

Twenty-Four: And In Another Garden Across Town...

Friday afternoon, Spencer leaned over her mother's flower bed, pulling out the thick, stubborn weeds. Her mother usually did the gardening herself, but Spencer was doing it in an attempt to be nice—and to absolve herself of something, although she wasn't sure what.

The multicolored balloons her mother had bought a few days ago to celebrate the Golden Orchid were still tied to the patio rail. Congratulations, Spencer! they all said. Next to the words were pictures of blue ribbons and trophies. Spencer glanced into the balloons' shiny Mylar fabric; her warped reflection stared back. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror—her face looked long instead of round, her eyes were small instead of large, and her button nose looked wide and enormous. Maybe it was this balloon girl, not Spencer, who'd cheated to become a Golden Orchid finalist. And maybe Balloon Girl had been the one who'd fought with Ali the night she disappeared, too.

The sprinkler system came on next door at the DiLaurentises' old house. Spencer stared up at Ali's old window. It was the last one at the back, directly across from Spencer's. She and Ali had felt so lucky their rooms faced each other. They had window signals when it was past phone curfew—one blink of the flashlight meant, I can't sleep, can you? Two blinks meant, Good night. Three meant, We need to sneak out and talk in person.

The memory from Dr. Evans's office floated into her head again. Spencer tried to push it down, but it bobbed right back up. You care way too much, Ali had said. And that far-off crack. Where had it come from?

"Spencer!" a voice whispered. She whirled around, heart pounding. She faced the woods that bordered the back of her house. Ian Thomas stood between two dogwoods.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, glancing toward the edge of the yard. Melissa's barn was just a few hundred yards away.

"Watching my favorite girl." Ian's eyes grazed down her body.

"There's a stalker running around," Spencer warned him sternly, trying to suppress the hot, excited feeling in her stomach she always got when Ian looked at her. "You should be careful."

Ian scoffed. "Who's to say I'm not part of the neighborhood watch? Maybe I'm protecting you from the talker?" He pushed his palm flat up against the tree.

"Are you?" Spencer asked.

Ian shook his head. "Nah. I actually cut through here from my house. I was coming to see Melissa." He paused, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. "What do you think of me and Melissa being back together?"

Spencer shrugged. "It's none of my business."

"Isn't it?" Ian held her gaze, not even blinking. Spencer looked away, her cheeks hot. Ian wasn't making a reference to their kiss. He couldn't be.

She revisited that moment again. Ian's mouth had hit hers so roughly that their teeth had smacked together. Afterward, her lips had felt achy and sore. When Spencer told Ali the exciting news, Ali had cackled. "What, do you think Ian's going to go out with you?" she taunted. "Doubtful."

She eyed Ian now, calm and casual and oblivious that he'd been the cause of all that strife. She sort of wished she hadn't kissed him. It seemed like it had started a domino effect—it had led to the fight in the barn, which had led to Ali leaving, which had led to...what?

"So Melissa told me you're in therapy, huh?" Ian asked. "Pretty crazy."

Spencer stiffened. It seemed odd, Melissa talking about therapy to Ian. The sessions were supposed to be private. "It isn't that crazy."

"Really? Melissa said she heard you screaming."

Spencer blinked. "Screaming?" Ian nodded. "W-what was I saying?"

"She didn't say you were saying anything. Just that you were screaming."

Spencer's skin prickled. The DiLaurentises' sprinkler system sounded like a billion little guillotines, chopping off grass-blade heads. "I have to go." She walked crookedly toward the house. "I think I need some water."

"One more sec." Ian stepped toward her. "Have you seen what's in your woods?"

Spencer stiffened. Ian had such a strange look on his face that Spencer wondered if maybe it was something of Ali's. One of her bones. A clue. Something to make sense of Spencer's memory.

Then Ian thrust out his open fist. Inside were six plump, pulpy blackberries. "You have the most amazing blackberry bushes back here. Want one?"

The berries had stained Ian's palm a dark, bloody purple. Spencer could see his love line and life line and all the strange etching near his fingers.

She shook her head. "I wouldn't eat anything from those woods," she said.

After all, Ali had been killed there.