"Melissa knew all this time but never said anything?" Aria ran her hands along the edge of her chin. "That's weird." She thought of A's three clues about Ali's killer: that she was close by, that she wanted something Ali had, and that she knew every inch of the DiLaurentises' yard. All three clues together only applied to a handful of people. If Melissa knew about Ali and Ian, then maybe she was one of them. "Should we tell the cops about Ian and Ali?" Spencer suggested. Aria wrung her hands together. "I mentioned it to Wilden." A flush of surprise passed over Spencer's face. "Oh," she said in a small voice. "Is that okay?" Aria asked, raising an eyebrow. "Of course," Spencer said briskly, regaining composure. "So...do you think we should tell him about A?" Aria widened her eyes. "If we do, A might..." She trailed off, feeling nauseated. Spencer stared at Aria for a long time. "A's completely running our lives," she whispered. Hanna was still immobile in her bed. Aria wondered if she really could hear them, just like Lucas said. Perhaps she'd heard everything they'd just said about A and wanted to tell them what she knew, only she was trapped inside her coma. Or maybe she'd heard everything they'd said and was disgusted that they were talking about this instead of fretting over whether Hanna would ever wake up. Aria smoothed the sheets over Hanna's chest, tucking them up to her chin like Ella used to do when Aria had the flu. Then, a flickering reflection in the little window behind Hanna's bed caught her eye. Aria straightened, her nerves jangling. It looked like someone outside Hanna's partition was lurking next to an empty wheelchair, trying not to be seen. She whipped around, her heart racing, and pulled back the curtain. "What?" Spencer cried, turning around too. Aria took a deep breath. "Nothing." Whoever it was had vanished. 9 IT'S NO FUN BEING THE SCAPEGOAT

Light streamed into Emily's eyes. She hugged her pillow and sank back into sleep. Rosewood's morning sounds were as predictable as the sunrise--the barking of the Kloses' dog as they set off on their walk around the block, the rumbling of the garbage truck, the sounds of the Today show, which her mother watched every morning, and the crowing of the rooster. Her eyes sprang open. A rooster? The room smelled like hay and vodka. Abby's bed was empty. Since the cousins had wanted to stay longer at last night's party than Emily did, Trista had dropped her off at the Weavers' gate. Maybe Abby hadn't come home yet--the last she'd seen of Abby at the party, she'd been all over a guy who wore a University of Iowa T-shirt that featured a big, scowling Herky the Hawk mascot on the back. When she turned her head, she saw her aunt Helene standing in the doorway. Emily screamed and pulled the sheets around her. Helene was already dressed in a long patchwork jumper and a ruffle-edged T-shirt. Her glasses teetered precariously on the end of her nose. "I see you're up," she said. "Please come downstairs." Emily rolled out of bed slowly, pulling on a shirt, a pair of Rosewood Day Swim Team pajama pants, and argyle socks. The rest of the previous night rushed back to her, as comforting as sinking into a long, hot bath. Emily and Trista had spent the rest of the night making up a crazy square dance, and a bunch of the boys had joined in. They'd talked nonstop on the drive back to the Weavers' house, even though both of them were exhausted. Before Emily got out of the car, Trista had touched the inside of Emily's wrist. "I'm glad I met you," Trista whispered. And Emily was glad too. John, Matt, and Abby were at the kitchen table, staring sleepily at their bowls of Cheerios. A plate of pancakes sat in the middle of the table. "Hey, guys," Emily said cheerfully. "Is there anything for breakfast other than Cheerios or pancakes?" "I don't think breakfast should be your main concern right now, Emily." Emily turned, her blood running cold. Uncle Allen stood at the counter, his posture stiff, a look of