In a previous life, Wilden had been the bad boy of Rosewood Day, the private school in town everyone attended—the kid who wrote dirty messages on the bathroom walls and smoked joints in full view of the gym teacher. Melissa, on the other hand, was the do-gooder valedictorian and Homecoming queen whose idea of getting drunk was eating half an Irish Cream liqueur truffle. Spencer also knew that Wilden grew up in an Amish community in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, but ran away as a teenager. Had he shared that juicy piece of gossip with her sister yet?
“I saw Emily when I came in,” Wilden said. “Are you guys going to watch that crazy made-for-TV movie next weekend?”
“Uh . . .” Spencer pretended to straighten her blouse, not wanting to answer the question. Wilden was referring to Pretty Little Killer, a cheesy cable docu-drama retelling the story of the real Ali’s return, rampage as A, and death. In a parallel life, the four of them would probably watch the movie together, analyzing the girls who’d been chosen to play them, groaning over inaccurate dialogue, and wincing at Ali’s insanity.
But not now. After Jamaica, their friendship began to disintegrate. Nowadays, Spencer couldn’t even be in the same room with any of her old friends without feeling antsy and flushed.
“What are you guys doing here?” Spencer asked, steering the conversation away from the past. “Not that I mind, of course.” She shot Melissa a kind smile. The sisters had had their issues in the past, but they’d tried to put all of that behind them after the fire last year.
“Oh, we’re just stopping by to grab a couple of boxes I left behind in my old room,” Melissa said. “Then we’re off to Kitchens and Beyond. Did I tell you? I’m redoing my kitchen again! I want it to have a more Mediterranean theme. And Darren’s moving in with me!”
Spencer raised an eyebrow at Wilden. “What about your job in Rosewood?” Melissa lived in a luxuriously renovated townhouse on Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia, a gift from their parents for graduating from Penn. “That’s going to be a long commute from Philly every day.”
Wilden grinned. “I resigned from the police force last month. Melissa got me a job working security at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I’ll get to run up those marble stairs like Rocky every day.”
“And protect valuable paintings,” Melissa reminded him.
“Oh.” Wilden tugged at his collar. “Yeah. Right.”
“So who’s this party for, anyway?” Wilden grabbed two glasses from the granite-topped kitchen island and poured himself and Melissa some pinot noir.
Spencer shrugged and gazed into the living room. “A new family that moved into the house across the street. I guess Mom’s trying to make a good impression.”
Wilden straightened. “The Cavanaugh house? Someone bought that place?”
Melissa clucked her tongue. “They must have gotten an amazing deal. I wouldn’t live there if they gave it to me for free.”
“I guess they’re trying to wipe the slate clean,” Spencer mumbled.
“Well, cheers to that.” Melissa tipped the glass to her mouth.
Spencer stared at the streaky patterns in the travertine floor tile. It was pretty crazy that someone bought the Cavanaughs’ old place—both Cavanaugh children had died while living there. Toby committed suicide shortly after he’d returned to Rosewood from reform school. Jenna had been strangled and thrown into a ditch behind the house . . . by Ali—the real Ali.
“So, Spencer.” Wilden turned to her again. “You’ve been keeping a secret.”
Spencer’s head jerked up, her blood pressure jumping. “E-excuse me?” Wilden had a detective’s instincts. Could he tell she was hiding something? Surely he didn’t know about Jamaica. No one could know about that for as long as she lived.
“You got into Princeton!” Wilden cried. “Congratulations!”
Air slowly filled Spencer’s lungs again. “Oh. Yeah. I found out about a month ago.”
“I couldn’t help bragging to him, Spence.” Melissa beamed. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“And early decision, too.” Wilden’s eyebrows rose. “Amazing!”
“Thanks.” But Spencer’s skin felt prickly, like she’d spent too much time in the sun. It had taken a Herculean effort to claw her way back to the top of the class rankings and secure a spot at Princeton. She wasn’t exactly proud of everything she’d done, but she’d made it.
Mrs. Hastings burst back into the kitchen and clapped her hands on Spencer and Melissa’s shoulders. “Why aren’t you two circulating? I’ve been talking about my brilliant daughters for the past ten minutes! I want to show you off!”
“Mom,” Spencer whined, though secretly she felt happy that her mom was proud of both of them, not just Melissa.
Mrs. Hastings just steered Spencer toward the door. Luckily, Mrs. Norwood, a woman Spencer’s mother regularly played tennis with, blocked their way. When she spied Mrs. Hastings, her eyes popped. She grabbed Mrs. Hastings’s wrists. “Veronica! I’ve been dying to talk to you! Well played, darling!”
“I’m sorry?” Mrs. Hastings stopped and offered her a broad, fake smile.
Mrs. Norwood lowered her chin coyly and winked. “Don’t pretend nothing’s going on! I know about Nicholas Pennythistle! Quite a catch!”
Mrs. Hastings went pale. “O-oh.” Her eyes flitted to her two daughters. “Uh, I haven’t exactly told—”