Crushed Read Free

trust. Aria didn’t dare tell them, either—the less those girls knew, the better.
    After a while, what happened didn’t haunt Aria as much anymore. Olaf had disappeared into oblivion, and he’d taken the painting with him. Things had improved between her and Noel, too, that Iceland trip a distant memory. She was safe. No one knew.
    Wishful thinking. Someone did know—and that person was keeping this secret very, very quiet until the time was right. And now, at the end of the girls’ senior year, that very same someone decided to make it public.
    The third—and scariest—A.

1
Watch Your Back
    On a sunny Monday morning, Spencer Hastings walked into her kitchen and was greeted by the smell of coffee and steamed milk. Her mother; her mother’s fiancé, Nicholas Pennythistle; his daughter, Amelia; and Spencer’s sister, Melissa, were sitting around the farmhouse table watching the news. A coifed man was giving a follow-up report on an explosion that had occurred on a cruise ship off the coast of Bermuda one week before.
    “Authorities are still looking into the cause of the explosion that forced all passengers on the cruise ship to evacuate,” he said. “New evidence suggests that the blast originated in the boiler room. A video surveillance tape that was recovered shows two grainy figures. It’s unclear whether the individuals in the video caused the explosion or if it was a freak accident.”
    Mrs. Hastings set down the coffee carafe. “I can’t believe they still don’t know what happened.”
    Melissa, who was in Rosewood visiting friends, glanced at Spencer. “Of all the cruises, it would be yours to have a crazy Unabomber on board.”
    “I’m glad I wasn’t on that boat.” Amelia, who was two years younger than Spencer and had wild curly hair, a pug nose, and a penchant for sweater sets and Mary Janes—even after the makeover Spencer had given her in New York City—snorted haughtily. “Were you guys on a suicide mission? Is that why you went rogue and sailed to that cove instead of to shore?”
    Spencer padded toward the toaster, ignoring her. But Amelia kept talking. “That’s what everyone’s saying, you know—you and your three friends have cracked. Maybe you need to live in Dad’s panic room twenty-four-seven, huh?”
    Mr. Pennythistle gave Amelia a stern look. “That’s enough.”
    Mrs. Hastings set a cup of coffee down in front of her fiancé. “You have a panic room, Nicholas?” she asked, seemingly eager to change the subject. She hadn’t exactly learned how to discipline Amelia yet.
    Mr. Pennythistle laced his fingers together. “At the model home in Crestview Estates. I built it after those mob guys moved into some of the surrounding neighborhoods—you never know. And besides, a certain kind of buyer might like that sort of thing. Of course, I doubt Spencer could attend Princeton from there. There’s no Internet access.”
    Spencer started to chuckle, but then stopped. Mr. Pennythistle probably wasn’t making a joke—he was a brilliant land developer, a real estate mogul, and a pretty good cook, but he definitely wasn’t a comedian. Still, she didn’t mind him—he made a wicked gumbo every Saturday, played her favorite sports radio station in the kitchen when he was cooking, and even let Spencer drive his pimped-out Range Rover now and then. If only his daughter were bearable.
    Spencer slipped two slices of rye bread into the slots of the toaster. Amelia had a point, of course—trouble was following her everywhere. Maybe she should go to a panic room for a while. Not only had Spencer been on the Splendor of the Seas , but one of her best friends, Aria Montgomery, had also been in the boiler room when the explosion occurred. Equally disconcerting, Aria had come into possession of a locket on that cruise that belonged to Tabitha Clark, a girl they’d accidentally hurt in Jamaica last year. At the time, they’d thought Tabitha was the real Alison DiLaurentis, the evil twin