Pretty Little Liars #14 by Sara Shepard Page B

is among a growing number of victims in Rosewood, along with socialite Gayle Riggs, who was murdered in the driveway of her new Rosewood home, and Kyla Kennedy, a burn patient who was found dead behind the hospital,” a deep baritone voice said. “New questions are swirling about a serial criminal on the loose. Authorities are also investigating a possible tie-in to the bombing of the Splendor of the Seas cruise ship a few weeks ago—students from Rosewood Day Prep and other surrounding schools were on board.”
    Spencer shifted jerkily into reverse, nearly taking out a goose. If only they could hand over their texts from A. The texts would clear up this serial-killer thing in no time.
    She turned onto her street, drinking in the late spring splendor. Tons of flowers had bloomed, and cherry blossoms floated down from the sky. But when she saw the news vans in front of her house, she hit the brakes. She was about to back out of the street and drive somewhere else —anywhere else—when the reporters descended on the car.
    â€œMs. Hastings, please!” The reporters banged on her window. “Just a few questions! What led you to Noel Kahn’s body?”
    â€œIs it all just too much?” another reporter bellowed. “Are you girls thinking about killing yourselves?”
    Spencer ducked her head and pulled into the driveway. The reporters had the good sense not to follow her, but they kept shouting. Mr. Pennythistle’s Range Rover loomed in front of her. That was odd: It was just past four, and usually Mr. Pennythistle didn’t get back from work until after six. And there was Mr. Pennythistle himself, standing on the porch, staring at Spencer as she drove in. Spencer’s mother, who wore knee-length khaki shorts and an old polo shirt from the Four Seasons Hotel in St. Barts, stood next to him, her expression grave. Spencer’s quasi stepsister, Amelia, sat on the steps, still in her St. Agnes school vest and plaid skirt—she was the only girl Spencer knew who wore her uniform after dismissal. There was a satisfied smirk on her face.
    Spencer shifted into park and glanced at all three of them, feeling like something was up. “Uh, hi?” she asked cautiously as she walked up.
    Mrs. Hastings guided her toward the door. “Good, you’re home,” she said through gritted teeth.
    Spencer’s heart did a somersault. “W-what’s going on?”
    Mrs. Hastings pulled her into the house. The family’s two Labradoodles, Rufus and Beatrice, lumbered up to greet them, but Mrs. Hastings paid them no mind—which meant something really must be wrong. She looked at her fiancé. “ You tell her.”
    Mr. Pennythistle, still in his business suit, sighed deeply and showed Spencer a picture on his phone. It was of a trashed living room. After a moment, Spencer recognized the heavy, copper-colored curtains and the marble-topped coffee table. “Your model home?” she squeaked. The model home had the panic room where she and her friends talked about A.
    â€œA neighbor called last night,” Mr. Pennythistle said gravely. “They walked by with their dog and saw smears all over the window and broken glass on the floors. And Amelia said she saw you stealing the model’s keys from my office last week. Did you do this?”
    Spencer shot a look at Amelia, who was now practically jumping up and down with glee. Narc . “Of course not. I mean—yes. I went into the model a few times. But I didn’t trash it last night. I was home last night.” She looked pleadingly at all of them, but then she realized—she’d been the only one home. Her mom and Mr. Pennythistle had gone to Amelia’s orchestra performance.
    Mr. Pennythistle cleared his throat, then flipped to the next photo. In this one, a tall blond girl stood in the corner of the living room, her gaze on the front door. It was Spencer .
    â€œThis is