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roommate at the Preserve, Iris, had taken it in a secret attic room whose walls were decorated with doodles from patients past. The drawing right behind Hanna’s head, eerily close to her face, was a huge, unmistakable portrait of Ali. The girl in the drawing looked ominous and…alive. I know something you don’t, the Ali on the wall seemed to say. And I’m keeping a secret.
    Just then, someone tapped Hanna’s shoulder. She screamed and whipped around. Emily Fields took a couple of defensive steps back, holding her hands in front of her face. “Sorry!”
    Hanna ran her fingers through her hair, taking heaping breaths. “ God, ” she groaned. “Don’t do that.”
    “I had to find you,” Emily said, out of breath. “I was just called into the office. Ali’s mom was on the phone.”
    “Mrs. DiLaurentis?” Hanna wrinkled her nose. “Why would she bother you at school?”
    Emily rubbed her bare hands together. “They’re holding a press conference at their house right now,” she said. “Mrs. DiLaurentis wants all of us to be there. She said she had something she needed to tell us.”
    An icy shiver wriggled up Hanna’s spine. “What does that mean?”
    “I don’t know.” Emily’s eyes were wide and her freckles stood out on her pale skin. “But we’d better get over there. It’s starting now.”

4
    THE BLOND BOMBSHELL
    As the winter sun dipped low on the horizon, Emily sat in the passenger seat of Hanna’s Prius, watching Lancaster Avenue fly by. They were speeding to Yarmouth, where the DiLaurentises now lived. Spencer and Aria were meeting them there.
    “Make a right here,” Emily instructed, reading from the directions Mrs. DiLaurentis had given her. They entered a subdivision called Darrow Farms. It looked like it had once been a real farm, with rolling green hills and lots of fields for crops and livestock, but a developer had subdivided it into identical plots of enormous homes. Each house had a stone facade, black shutters, and fledgling Japanese maples in the front yard.
    It wasn’t difficult to find the DiLaurentises’ house—it had an enormous crowd at the curb, a large podium in the front yard, and swarms of cameramen, reporters, and producers. A phalanx of cops stood guard near the DiLaurentises’ porch, most with intimidating black pistols on their belts. Many of the people in the throng were journalists, but there were definitely some curiosity-seekers, too—Emily spied Lanie Iler and Gemma Curran, two girls on her swim team, leaning against a sequoia. Spencer’s sister, Melissa, loitered next to a Mercedes SUV.
    “Whoa,” Emily whispered. Word had spread. Whatever was happening must be huge.
    Emily slammed the car door and started with Hanna toward the crowd. She’d forgotten to bring mittens, and her fingers already felt fat and jointless from the cold. She’d been scatterbrained about everything since Jenna’s death, barely sleeping at night, hardly eating anything at meals.
    “Em?”
    Emily whirled around, signaling to Hanna that she’d catch up with her in a minute. Maya St. Germain stood behind Emily, wedged next to a boy in a Phillies snow hat. Under a black wool coat, Maya wore a striped boat-neck shirt, black jeans, and black leather ankle boots. Her curly hair was pinned back with a tortoiseshell clip, and her lips were coated in cherry-scented ChapStick. Emily spied a yellow wad of banana gum in her mouth, reminding her of the day she and Maya first kissed.
    “Hey,” Emily said cautiously. She and Maya weren’t exactly on good terms—not since Maya had caught Emily kissing another girl.
    Maya’s lip quivered, and then she burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she blubbered, covering her face. “This is so hard. I can’t believe Jenna’s…”
    Emily felt a twinge of guilt. She’d seen Maya and Jenna together a lot lately—roaming the halls of Rosewood Day, walking through the atrium at the King James Mall, even at the diving competition of one of