But no cars had arrived when the train roared into the station. Aria glanced over her shoulder once more, then clambered up the metal stairs. The train pulled away noisily, the car rocking on the rails.
“Ahem.”
She let out a little yelp. The conductor had appeared from out of nowhere, looming over her. “Where to?” he asked in a bored voice.
Aria swallowed hard. “The airport,” she said, handing over a ten. “K-keep the change.”
The conductor took it, then passed on, keys jingling at his waist. Aria let out a long, freaked-out breath. You’re going to be fine, she told herself, instinctively reaching into her bag and making sure her passport was still there. You’re going to be just fine.
If only she could believe it was true.
9
SPENCER FOLLOWS UP
A few hours after the funeral, Spencer sat silently in the passenger seat as her mother steered her Mercedes up 76 to the city. Mrs. Hastings made a sour face, and then gestured violently at the car in front of her. “Don’t you dare cut me off, Ford Fiesta,” she warned.
Spencer squeezed her palms together. Her mom only snarled at other drivers when she was really, really pissed off, and right now it was pretty clear what was making her angry. Yesterday, at the hospital, a cop had explained to Mrs. Hastings that since Spencer no longer had a driver’s license, someone would now have to drive Spencer to her appointments, lawyer’s meetings, and the trial. Mrs. Hastings had made a pinched face. “But I have things to do,” she’d whined. “This is an extreme inconvenience.”
Needless to say, her mom hadn’t had a heart-to-heart with Spencer about what had happened in Cape May. No questions about what they were doing at the beach to start with. No inquiries about how she felt about Emily’s death or how scared Spencer must have been when she tried to rescue her. Her mom probably found it easier not to get emotionally involved.
Thank goodness for Melissa, who’d been calling Spencer nonstop since she was released from the hospital, bringing her takeout in bed, and staying up late to watch Arsenic and Old Lace, their favorite old movie, with her. Melissa had apologized profusely for not being there at the hospital when Spencer woke up—she’d been working all weekend, and no one had even called her until Spencer was released. Spencer had said it was okay—after all, it would have been très awkward with her, Melissa, and Wren all in the same room.
Spencer had considered telling Melissa about the Wren coincidence, but there had never been a perfect moment for it. Whatever. She just had this one return checkup with Wren at the hospital, and then she’d never see him again.
Within minutes they were speeding down Market Street, and Mrs. Hastings pulled into Jefferson Hospital. “I’ll wait there.” She gestured to a café on the corner of 10th and Walnut.
Spencer mumbled thanks and climbed out of the car. As she walked into the antiseptic-smelling lobby, she felt light-headed. She glanced in a large mirror just past the information desk, taking in her streaky makeup and the strained look in her eyes. She’d been crying a lot lately.
Her hands balled into fists at the memory of the fight they’d had after the funeral. How dare Hanna say those things! How dare she and Aria just sit there and say they hadn’t even wanted to stay in Cape May, and imply this was all her fault? Didn’t they realize how guilty she already felt? Didn’t they understand she was already worrying about the same thing? She hated herself for the snarky things she’d said to Hanna . . . and then that she’d almost hit her. Who had she turned into? Who had all of them turned into? She pictured Ali lurking somewhere close, laughing her ass off. Stupid bitch.
Spencer took a deep breath. She needed to move on, take a step, go to this appointment. She wiped her eyes and stepped into the elevator.
Wren’s office was on the third floor, across from a patient wing. The waiting room was generic, with lots of magazines strewn around the tables and a Live! with Kelly and Michael broadcast on a flatscreen in the corner. Spencer gave her name at the front desk and sat primly in the chair. When she tried to cross her ankles, her foot banged against the monitor the police had clamped around her leg after the funeral. She glowered at its blocky, imposing shape, hating that it was attached to her at all times.
The door opened, and there was Wren. “Ah. Spencer,” he said. “Come on back.”
Spencer held her chin high and didn’t make eye contact with him. Wren led her straight to an examining room and had her sit in a chair opposite him. She stared at his Adidas sneakers, irritated that they were the same shoes he’d worn last year while he was in med school. He still smelled the same, too—like cigarettes. She wondered if he still smoked; they’d shared a cigarette together the first time they’d met at the Moshulu restaurant.
“So,” he finally said in a grave voice, tapping the top of a manila folder. “How was Emily’s funeral? That was today, wasn’t it?”
Spencer bristled. “How did you know that?”
Wren stared at his hands, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry. It was on the news. Look, I know it’s got to be hard. You guys were close, right? You used to talk about her a lot.”
Spencer stared at a chart of the human body and made a noncommittal groan.
“Is it all right if I check you out now?” Wren asked tentatively, placing the folder on the table.
Spencer shrugged. “Do what you gotta do.”
Wren rose and pressed a stethoscope to her back, then her chest. Spencer felt her cheeks burn—his hands were so close to her boobs—but she continued to sit straight and think impersonal, unsexual thoughts.