“It should be a lot of fun,” Mrs. Fields said, a small smile on her face. “Are you planning on bringing anyone?”
Emily smiled dreamily. If only she could bring Jordan. They’d have so much fun there, dancing, stockpiling delicious desserts, sneaking off to make out . . .
“Emily?” Mrs. Fields gazed at her curiously. “You all right?”
Emily smiled. She was tempted to tell her mom about Jordan, especially because she might be free in a few short months. But maybe it would be better to wait a little while longer, until her mom recovered a bit more from her heart attack.
“I’m just glad it’s Wednesday!” she chirped, staring wistfully at the ceiling.
Her parents exchanged a nervous glance. Mrs. Fields cleared her throat. “We’re worried about those bruises. Where did you get them again? The pool?”
Emily touched her neck. She’d almost forgotten about them. “It doesn’t matter,” she said faintly. “I’m fine.”
Then, Mr. Fields shifted forward in his seat. “Oh dear,” he said with a grunt, his brow furrowing at something on the TV screen.
Emily followed his gaze. The mug shot of Nick appeared. It was an update on the murder case.
“Nicholas Maxwell’s lawyers have informed us that Maxwell will try to plead insanity for all the murders,” a male reporter in an ugly sweater-vest announced. “He has been a patient at mental hospitals in the past, and his counsel is confident he wasn’t a mentally stable member of society when he committed these crimes.”
“What?” Emily squeaked, frustrated. It didn’t seem fair that Nick could plead insanity—he’d just be thrown back into The Preserve or something. She wanted him to rot in jail.
Mrs. Fields glanced anxiously at Emily. “Maybe we should turn this off.”
“It’s okay,” Emily said quickly. She wanted to see the rest.
Then came a still shot of the Maxwells’ house, a large estate in New Jersey. Emily had actually visited the house with Iris only a few weeks ago. Iris had had an unrequited crush on Nick—she’d known him as Tripp—while they were at The Preserve, and she’d wanted to go through his things to see if he’d felt the same way. While they searched the house, they found an old phone of his; Ali’s picture had been on it. It had been the only clue that Ali and Nick were secretly linked.
“This is the home where Maxwell grew up,” the reporter’s voice said, the big house still on the screen. “Since the story broke, vandals have broken windows and tried to damage the property in other ways. Protesters have done the same thing to the Maxwells’ other homes in the area. The family has had a long history of making real estate investments and flipping homes, having several properties on the market at any given time.”
The news moved to a story about an overturned tractor-trailer on I-76, but Emily couldn’t pay attention. Something about the story stuck in her brain. Suddenly, she realized what it was: She hadn’t realized the Maxwells owned a lot of properties in the area. There was a townhome, though: the one that featured the surveillance photo of Ali outside it. Spencer’s friend Chase, who’d run a website about the Ali case, had found that photo, and he and Spencer had tracked the town house down—not that they’d found any evidence of Ali inside. But it had belonged to Joseph and Harriet Maxwell—Nick’s parents, not that they knew that at the time.
But where else were their homes? Could Ali be hiding in one?
Gritting her teeth, Emily slowly rose from the table and looked aimlessly around the kitchen, as though something in the room would give her an answer.
But nothing was coming to her. She darted out of the kitchen. “Emily?” her mom called after her. “You should eat something!”
“I’ll be back,” Emily yelled over her shoulder.
A spoon clattered in a bowl. “She’s acting so strangely,” Emily heard her mother whisper.
Emily continued to climb the stairs and walked down the hall to her bedroom. She shut and locked the door, flung herself on the bed, and looked at her laptop. A while ago, Spencer had shown her the link to the county register’s office, which listed the names of every real estate transaction throughout the Philadelphia area, all on public record. She pulled it up and typed in Maxwell. A series of hits popped up, and she quickly narrowed her search. Sure enough, the town house in Rosewood was on the list—it was now for sale. There was another house in Bryn Mawr, as well as a bunch of properties that had already changed hands. And then, at the bottom of the page, her gaze fixed on a final listing. Ashland. Its status was: For Sale.
Her mind went still. The Maxwells had a house in Ashland. As in the Ashland they were in five days ago. She thought again of the slip the convenience store clerk, Marcie, had made about a blond girl buying water. Maybe the cashier did know something. Maybe Ali was a regular customer.
She clicked on the link, hoping it would list an address, but there were no further details. How could she find out where the house was?
One by one, she dialed Spencer, Aria, and Hanna, but not a single one answered. She dropped her phone in her lap, feeling anxious. She needed to talk to someone about this. Something had to be done—now. This felt like a vital clue. But she felt too scattered to think clearly or make a decision.
Jordan. Perhaps she’d have some advice. Maybe she could help Emily think of ways to work through how they could find Ali without anyone getting hurt.
The number for the Ulster Correctional Facility was still on the call list in her phone. But were prisoners even allowed phone calls? It wasn’t like summer camp, where parents or friends could call on the office phone and campers could call them back; prisoners could probably only talk to their lawyers.