“Ha,” Hanna said, reaching for a Kleenex and blotting her eyes.
Mike removed the yellow rubber lacrosse bracelet from his wrist and held it out to her. “I don’t have a ring, but take this,” he said. “I mean it. Let’s get married. Like, tomorrow.”
Hanna blinked. “You’re serious?”
“Of course I am.”
She wiped her nose. “Like, with a ceremony and everything? And with a document, to make it legal? Can it be legal? Are we old enough?”
Mike frowned. “I think so. And yes, I want it to be totally legal. I want you, Hanna. And I want you to know that I’m always going to want you, no matter what.”
Hanna stared at the rubber bracelet in her hands. It had been awarded to him when he made varsity lacrosse. Once, in Jamaica, before their run-in with Tabitha, she and Mike got a couples’ massage. Hanna had commented on how he’d left the bracelet on even though the masseuses instructed them to remove all jewelry. Removing this would be like removing a part of myself, Mike had said, a totally serious look on his face.
She considered being with Mike for the rest of her life, and it didn’t take long for her to realize she liked the idea. She was touched, too, by the gesture. Mike knew full well what their fate might be. He knew the pitfalls of being with someone in prison—or at least she hoped he’d absorbed those parts in Orange Is the New Black and not just the lesbian scenes.
She looked up at him. “Can we have a real wedding?”
He shrugged. “Whatever you want.”
“So I’d get to wear a dress? And throw a party?”
Mike smiled. “Is that a yes?”
Hanna licked her lips, suddenly feeling shy. “I think it is,” she whispered, and then threw her arms around him. “Yes, Mike Montgomery, even though it’s crazy, I’ll marry you.”
“That’s just what I wanted to hear,” Mike whispered back, and slid his lacrosse bracelet on her tiny wrist. Hanna shut her eyes and laughed. Wearing the bracelet felt better than any diamond ring on her finger. It was, literally, priceless.
12
COURTROOM DRAMA
Never in her life did Spencer think she would visit the Rosewood Courthouse as many times as she had in the past several years. She knew the place like the back of her hand by now, including which side entrance to use to avoid the press, which vending machine actually spit out the correct snacks, and which bench in the courtroom had an irritating squeak when you sat on it.
But walking up the stone steps on the first day of her murder trial, the place looked entirely different. There were so many more cameras than usual, even at the side entrances, and everyone was screaming her name as she rushed inside—including a bunch of people gathered together in a tight knot, all of them wearing T-shirts that said Ali Cats Unite. Spencer stopped cold, surprised at the sight of the Ali Cats up close—they all looked so ordinary. The woman in the front, who was overweight and had shiny red hair and bore a startling resemblance to Spencer’s old piano teacher, lunged forward, leering at Spencer. “Are you ready for prison, bitch?” The rest of the group cackled. Spencer shot away quickly, her heart thudding hard.
Inside, security had set up extra metal detectors, but even so there were long lines. The lights in the courtroom seemed to be harsher and brighter, almost like interrogation fluorescents. And this time, the jury box was full of people who were all staring at Spencer judgingly.
She tried not to look at them as she filed into the room, but it was tough. Every movement she made, every tuck of her hair behind her ear or wipe of her nose, she feared the jury would see as arrogant, or icy, or immature. I didn’t do it, she tried to convey, peeking over and noticing that one of them looked like her uncle Daniel. Which wasn’t entirely a good thing—Uncle Daniel categorically hated children.
Then her gaze settled on a youngish girl at the very end of the jury box who was staring at her with even more disdain than the others. Ali Cat, a voice in her brain whispered, the image of the group outside still so fresh. Was it possible?
Her phone beeped. Spencer reddened and silenced it, but she checked the screen before slipping it into her bag. Two messages had come in. The first was a text from a 215 number she recognized but didn’t have in her contacts: Hope you’re feeling okay. Are those sleeping pills working? Please reach out if you need to talk. I’m here. Wren.
Her first feeling was annoyance. Hadn’t she told Wren she wasn’t interested?
The second note was an email from George Kerrick, who worked for the bank who held Spencer’s trust fund. Dear Spencer, I have inquired about your wish to withdraw funds, and your account is on strict lockdown. I’m sorry; there’s nothing more I can do at this time.
She glowered at the screen. Reaching out to Kerrick had been her one attempt to come up with $100,000 for Angela. But who had ordered a lockdown? Spencer’s mom? The police?
There were some shuffling sounds, and Hanna filed in and took her place on the other side of their lawyer. Spencer glanced at her, then looked away. There had been a few missed calls from Hanna on Spencer’s phone, but Hanna hadn’t left her a voicemail. Spencer suspected Hanna wanted her to apologize—it was the way she got, Spencer remembered, when they used to have fights in seventh grade. Hanna had even once frozen Ali out until Ali crumbled and said she was sorry. But what about what Hanna had said? Spencer was unbelievably hurt that Hanna could accuse her of being responsible for what had happened to Emily. Dealing with Emily’s death was already hard enough.
After a moment, Hanna thrust her chin in the air and turned away. Fine, Spencer thought.