Game on, bitch, Hanna mouthed to Kate. Then she daintily pulled her bag into her chest and waltzed around her stepsister-to-be into the Rosewood Day hallway, waggling her fingers at Mike, Noel, and the others. But as she was passing the cafeteria, she heard a sarcastic cackle reverberate off the walls. She stopped, the hair on the back of her neck rising. The laugh wasn’t coming from Steam, but from the cafeteria.
All the tables in the lunchroom were full. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Hanna saw a figure behind the rotating pretzel oven slither out the back door. The person was tall and lanky and had blond, curly hair. Hanna’s heart stopped. Ian?
But no. Ian was dead. The person who had sent his parents that text earlier today was an impostor. Shaking off the thought, Hanna pulled her school blazer around her shoulders, drained the last of her latte, and continued down the corridor, trying her best to strut like the fearless, gorgeous, unflappable girl she was.
8
IF THE DOLLS COULD TALK…
As soon as Emily finished swim practice Tuesday afternoon, she drove to Isaac’s house and parked at the curb. Isaac opened the front door of his house, grabbed Emily tight, and inhaled deeply. “Mmm. I just love it when you smell like chlorine.”
Emily giggled. Despite the fact that she always washed her hair twice in the locker room showers after every practice, the distinct pool smell stubbornly clung to her hair.
Isaac stepped aside, and Emily walked into the house. The living room smelled like apple and peach potpourri. There was the picture on the mantel of Isaac, his mom, and Minnie Mouse at Disney World. The floral couch was covered with lacy pillows Mrs. Colbert had embroidered, bearing messages like Hugging Is Healthy and Prayer Changes Everything.
Isaac pulled at one of the sleeves of Emily’s coat, then the other. When he turned to open the closet door, she heard a creak coming from the mudroom. Emily froze, her eyes round. Isaac turned to her and touched her hand. “Why so jumpy? The press isn’t here, I promise.”
Emily licked her lips. The press had been hounding her and her friends constantly, and earlier that day, she’d heard the latest: that the Thomas family had received an e-mail from Ian, and that Emily and the others had made up seeing Ian’s body in the woods. That obviously wasn’t true—but what was? Where had Ian gone? Was he really alive…or did someone just want them to think he was?
More than that, Emily couldn’t stop thinking about the Jason DiLaurentis incident on Sunday night. She had no idea what she would’ve done if Isaac hadn’t been with her. Every time she considered the possibility of facing Jason alone, she shuddered with fear.
“Sorry,” she said to Isaac, trying to snap out of her mood. “I’m okay.”
“Good,” Isaac said. He took her hand. “Since we have the place to ourselves, I thought I’d show you my bedroom.”
“Are you sure?” Emily glanced at the photo of Isaac, his mom, and Minnie Mouse again. Mrs. Colbert had a policy that Isaac wasn’t allowed to bring any girls into his room—ever.
“Sure I’m sure,” Isaac answered. “My mom will never know.”
Emily smiled. She had been curious about his bedroom. Isaac squeezed her hand and led her up the stairs. Each stair riser was decorated with a different doll. Some of them were yarn-haired rag dolls in calico dresses, and others were baby dolls with hard china heads and eyes that closed when they were laid flat. Emily averted her eyes. She’d never been one to play with dolls like other girls—they’d always kind of freaked her out.
Isaac pushed through a door at the end of the hall. “Voilà.” There was a striped spread on the double bed in the corner, three guitars on stands, and a small desk with a new iMac. “Very nice,” Emily said.
Then she noticed a large white object on top of the dresser. “You have a phrenology head!” She walked over to the big mold of a skull and traced her fingers over the words that were written across the head. Guile. Forethought. Avarice. Victorian doctors thought they could determine a person’s character simply by the way his or her skull was shaped. If he had a lump in a particular spot on his head, he was a good poet. If the lump was elsewhere, he was very religious. Emily wondered what her head bumps said about her.
She grinned at Isaac. “Where did you get this?”
Isaac walked over to her. “Remember that aunt I told you about when we got Chinese last week? The one who’s into horoscopes and stuff? She got this for me at a flea market.” He touched a spot on Emily’s skull. “Hmm, you feel very bumpy.” He glanced at the phrenology head. “According to this, you’re really good at giving affection…or you make others want to give you affection. I can never remember which.”
“Very scientific,” Emily teased. She touched the top of his head, feeling for a bump. “And you’re…” She leaned back, searching the ceramic head for an appropriate quality. The thief. The mimic. The murderer. Rosewood PD needed one of these heads—they could massage every cranium in town and find Ali’s murderer right away. “You’re wise,” she concluded.
“You’re beautiful,” Isaac said. He slowly steered her over to the bed and pulled her down. She felt flushed and short of breath. She hadn’t anticipated lying down on Isaac’s bed, but she didn’t want to get up. They kissed for a while longer, easing down until they were lying flat on the pillows. Emily thrust her hand underneath his T-shirt to feel his warm, bare chest. Then she giggled, astonished at her behavior.
“What?” Isaac asked, pulling away. “Do you want to stop?”
Emily lowered her eyes. The truth was, whenever she was around Isaac, a calmness came over her. All of her anxieties and worries flew out the window. Being with him, she felt safe and secure…and in love.