Wicked by Sara Shepard

long, weapon-sharp icicles hung off the garage, glittering under the floodlights.
    Something flickered near the thick line of black trees that separated part of Spencer’s yard from Ali’s. Then she heard a cough, and Spencer spun around and screamed. Melissa was standing behind her in the foyer, her hands clasped at her waist, a ghostly expression on her face. “God,” Spencer said, pressing her hand to her chest.
    “Sorry,” Melissa croaked. She moved quietly into the living room and brushed her hands along the top of the antique harp. “I heard what you told Wilden. You guys got another note?”
    Spencer raised a suspicious eyebrow. Had Melissa been hovering in the doorway, spying? “If you were listening, why didn’t you tell Wilden that Ian called you from prison and begged us not to testify?” Spencer demanded. “Then Wilden might have believed that Ian wrote the note. He might have been able to re-arrest him.”
    Melissa plucked a harp string. There was a helpless expression on her face. “Did you see Ian on TV? He looked so…thin. It’s like they didn’t even let him eat when he was in jail.”
    Rage and disbelief rushed through Spencer’s body. Did Melissa actually feel sorry for him? “Just admit it,” she sputtered. “You think I’m lying about seeing Ian with Ali that night, just like I lied about the Golden Orchid. And you’d rather Ian hurt us than believe he could’ve killed her— and that he deserves to go back to jail.”
    Melissa shrugged and plucked another string. A sour note filled the room. “Of course I don’t want anyone to hurt you. But…like I said. What if this is all a mistake? What if Ian didn’t do it?”
    “He did ,” Spencer yelled, her chest burning. Interesting, she thought, that Melissa didn’t admit whether she thought Spencer was lying or telling the truth.
    Melissa waved her hand dismissively, as if she didn’t feel like getting into it again. “In any case, I do think Wilden’s right about those notes. It’s not Ian. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to threaten you. Ian might be upset, but he’s not an idiot.”
    Spencer turned away from her sister, frustrated, and peered out over the cold, empty front yard just as her mother’s car pulled into the driveway. Moments later, the door from the garage to the kitchen slammed, and Mrs. Hastings’s high heels clacked across the kitchen floor. Melissa sighed and padded down the hall. Spencer heard them murmuring, then the crackle of grocery bags.
    Spencer’s heart began to pound. She had the urge to run upstairs, hide in her room, and try not to think about Ian or anything else, but this was her first opportunity to confront her mother about Nana’s will.
    Rolling back her shoulders, Spencer took a deep breath and walked down the long hallway into the kitchen. Her mother was leaning over the counter, pulling a fresh-baked rosemary bread loaf out of a Fresh Fields grocery bag. Melissa scuttled in from the garage, a case of Moët champagne in her arms.
    “What’s all that champagne for?” Spencer asked, wrinkling her nose.
    “The fund-raiser, of course.” Melissa shot her a duh look.
    Spencer frowned. “What fund-raiser?”
    Melissa lowered her chin, surprised. She glanced at their mother, but Mrs. Hastings continued unpacking organic vegetables and whole-wheat pasta, her lips pressed tightly together. “We’re having a Rosewood Day fund-raiser here this weekend,” Melissa explained.
    A little squeak escaped from Spencer’s throat. A fund-raiser? Event planning was something she and her mom always did together. Spencer organized the invitations, helped plan the menu, took RSVP calls, and even arranged the classical music playlist. It was one of the few things Spencer did better than Melissa—few people were OCD enough to create dossiers on each invitee, complete with information as to who didn’t eat veal and who didn’t mind sitting next to the vile Pembrokes at dinner.
    Spencer turned to face her