her. But in the end, Emily always felt bad and said, “Ali, you have no reason to run away. Your life is perfect here.” And Ali would shrug in response, saying Emily was right, her life was pretty perfect.
Until someone killed her.
The fry cook turned up the volume on the tiny TV sitting next to the eight-slice toaster and an open package of Wonder Bread. When Emily looked up, she saw a CNN reporter standing in front of the familiar Rosewood Memorial Hospital. Emily knew it well—she passed it every morning on her drive to Rosewood Day.
“We have reports that Hanna Marin, seventeen-year-old resident of Rosewood and friend to Alison DiLaurentis, the girl whose body mysteriously turned up in her old backyard about a month ago, has just awakened from the coma she’d been in since Saturday night’s tragic accident,” the reporter said into her microphone.
Emily’s coffee cup clattered against her saucer. Coma? Hanna’s parents swam onto the screen, saying that, yes, Hanna was awake and seemed okay. There were no leads as to who had hit Hanna, or why.
Emily covered her mouth with her hand, which smelled like the fake-leather Greyhound bus seat. She whipped her Nokia out of her jean jacket pocket and turned it on. She’d been trying to conserve the battery because she’d accidentally left her charger behind in Iowa. Her fingers shook as she dialed Aria’s number. It went to voice mail. “Aria, it’s Emily,” she said after the beep. “I just found out about Hanna, and…”
She trailed off, her eyes returning to the screen. There, in the upper right-hand corner, was her own face, staring back at her from the photo she’d had taken for last year’s yearbook. “In other Rosewood news, another one of Ms. DiLaurentis’s friends, Emily Fields, has gone missing,” the anchor said. “She was visiting relatives in Iowa this week, but vanished from the property this morning.”
The fry cook turned from flipping a grilled cheese and glanced at the screen. A look of disbelief crossed his face. He looked at Emily, then back at the screen again. His metal spatula fell to the floor with a hollow clatter.
Emily hit END without finishing her message to Aria. On the TV screen, her parents were standing in front of Emily’s blue-shingled house. Her father wore his best plaid polo shirt, and her mom had a cashmere sweater cardigan draped over her shoulders. Carolyn stood off to the side, holding Emily’s swim team portrait for the camera. Emily was too stunned to be embarrassed that a picture of her in a high-cut Speedo tank suit was on national television.
“We’re very worried,” Emily’s mother said. “We want Emily to know that we love her and just want her to come home.”
Tears bloomed at the corners of Emily’s eyes. Words couldn’t describe what it felt like to hear her mother say those three little words: we love her. She slid off the stool, pushing her arms into her jacket sleeves.
The word PHILADELPHIA was plastered on top of a red, blue, and silver Greyhound bus across the street. The big 7-Up clock over the diner’s counter said 9:53. Please don’t let the 10 P.M . bus be sold out, Emily prayed.
She glanced at the scribble-covered bill next to her coffee. “I’ll be back,” she said to the cook, grabbing her bags. “I just have to get a bus ticket.”
The fry cook still looked like a tornado had picked him up and dropped him onto a different planet. “Don’t worry about it,” he said faintly. “Coffee’s on the house.”
“Thanks!” The sleigh bells on the diner’s door jingled together as Emily left. She ran across the empty highway and skidded into the bus station, thanking the various forces of the universe that had prevented a line from forming at the ticket window. Finally, she had a destination: home.
13
ONLY LOSERS GET HIT BY CARS
Tuesday morning, when she should have been strolling into her Pilates II class at Body Tonic gym, Hanna was instead lying flat on her back as
Until someone killed her.
The fry cook turned up the volume on the tiny TV sitting next to the eight-slice toaster and an open package of Wonder Bread. When Emily looked up, she saw a CNN reporter standing in front of the familiar Rosewood Memorial Hospital. Emily knew it well—she passed it every morning on her drive to Rosewood Day.
“We have reports that Hanna Marin, seventeen-year-old resident of Rosewood and friend to Alison DiLaurentis, the girl whose body mysteriously turned up in her old backyard about a month ago, has just awakened from the coma she’d been in since Saturday night’s tragic accident,” the reporter said into her microphone.
Emily’s coffee cup clattered against her saucer. Coma? Hanna’s parents swam onto the screen, saying that, yes, Hanna was awake and seemed okay. There were no leads as to who had hit Hanna, or why.
Emily covered her mouth with her hand, which smelled like the fake-leather Greyhound bus seat. She whipped her Nokia out of her jean jacket pocket and turned it on. She’d been trying to conserve the battery because she’d accidentally left her charger behind in Iowa. Her fingers shook as she dialed Aria’s number. It went to voice mail. “Aria, it’s Emily,” she said after the beep. “I just found out about Hanna, and…”
She trailed off, her eyes returning to the screen. There, in the upper right-hand corner, was her own face, staring back at her from the photo she’d had taken for last year’s yearbook. “In other Rosewood news, another one of Ms. DiLaurentis’s friends, Emily Fields, has gone missing,” the anchor said. “She was visiting relatives in Iowa this week, but vanished from the property this morning.”
The fry cook turned from flipping a grilled cheese and glanced at the screen. A look of disbelief crossed his face. He looked at Emily, then back at the screen again. His metal spatula fell to the floor with a hollow clatter.
Emily hit END without finishing her message to Aria. On the TV screen, her parents were standing in front of Emily’s blue-shingled house. Her father wore his best plaid polo shirt, and her mom had a cashmere sweater cardigan draped over her shoulders. Carolyn stood off to the side, holding Emily’s swim team portrait for the camera. Emily was too stunned to be embarrassed that a picture of her in a high-cut Speedo tank suit was on national television.
“We’re very worried,” Emily’s mother said. “We want Emily to know that we love her and just want her to come home.”
Tears bloomed at the corners of Emily’s eyes. Words couldn’t describe what it felt like to hear her mother say those three little words: we love her. She slid off the stool, pushing her arms into her jacket sleeves.
The word PHILADELPHIA was plastered on top of a red, blue, and silver Greyhound bus across the street. The big 7-Up clock over the diner’s counter said 9:53. Please don’t let the 10 P.M . bus be sold out, Emily prayed.
She glanced at the scribble-covered bill next to her coffee. “I’ll be back,” she said to the cook, grabbing her bags. “I just have to get a bus ticket.”
The fry cook still looked like a tornado had picked him up and dropped him onto a different planet. “Don’t worry about it,” he said faintly. “Coffee’s on the house.”
“Thanks!” The sleigh bells on the diner’s door jingled together as Emily left. She ran across the empty highway and skidded into the bus station, thanking the various forces of the universe that had prevented a line from forming at the ticket window. Finally, she had a destination: home.
13
ONLY LOSERS GET HIT BY CARS
Tuesday morning, when she should have been strolling into her Pilates II class at Body Tonic gym, Hanna was instead lying flat on her back as
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