Twisted. (Book Nine)

Nine: Trouble In Paradise.

The words on the postcard blurred before Spencer's eyes. The wind gusted, and tree branches scraped up against the side of the DiLaurentises' old house. It sounded like screams.

"Could this be...real?" Emily whispered. The air was so cold that her breath came out in eerie white puffs.

Spencer looked at the card again. She desperately wanted to say that it was a joke, just like the countless other fake A notes they'd received since Ali died. They'd arrived in her mailbox, addressed to Spenser Hatengs or Spancer Histings or, even more amusing, Spencer Montgomery. Most of the notes were innocuous, saying simply I'm watching you or I know your secrets. Others were notes of sympathy—although, bizarrely, they were still signed A. Some notes were more worrisome, pleas for for money with threats if their requests weren't met. Spencer had taken those sorts of A notes to the Rosewood police department, and they'd handled them. Done and done.

But this one was different. It referred to something real, something Spencer hadn't dared to think about for an entire year. If the wrong people found out about it, they'd be in more trouble than they could ever dream of. They could kiss their futures good-bye.

"How is this possible?" Hanna whispered. "How could someone know this? No one was around. No one saw what Aria did."

Aria's lips parted slightly. A look of guilt washed across her face.

"What we all did," Spencer clarified quickly. "We were all part of it."

Hanna crossed her arms over her chest. "Okay, okay. But no one was there. We made sure."

"That might not be true." Emily's eyes glowered at the iPhone's artificial light.

"Don't even say it," Spencer warned. "It can't be...her. It can't."

Hanna turned the card over and looked at the picture of the resort again. Her brow furrowed. "Maybe it's not about what we think. Lots of stuff happened in Jamaica. Maybe whoever wrote this could be talking about something else. Like how Noel stole those little bottles of rum from the bar and took them to our room."

"Yeah, like someone really cares about a whole year later," Aria said sarcastically. "That wouldn't be reason enough that we couldn't ever return to Jamaica. We know what this is about."

Everyone fell silent again. A dog barked a few houses down. An icicle chose that exact moment to break from the eaves of the DiLaurentises' garage and smash to the ground, shattering into a billion pieces. They jumped back.

"Should we tell the cops?" Emily whispered.

Spencer looked at her like she was insane. "What do you think?"

"Maybe they wouldn't ask what happened," Emily said. "Maybe we could get around talking about it. If this is someone real, someone who's after us, we have to stop them before someone gets hurt."

"The only person who'd want to hurt us is someone who knows what we did," Aria said in a small voice. "It'll come out if we go to the cops, Emily. You know it."

Emily looked shiftily back and forth. "But, I mean, we aren't even sure what happened that night."

"Stop," Spencer interrupted, shutting her eyes. If she even allowed herself to think about this, the remorse and paranoia would rush over her like a strong ocean current, pulling her under, choking her. "Someone is screwing with us, okay?" She grabbed the postcard from Hanna's grip and shoved it into the pocket of her duffel coat. "I'm not going to be jerked around again. We've been through enough already."

"So what are we supposed to do?" Aria threw up her hands.

"We ignore the note," Spencer decided. "We pretend we never got it."