So... what was that finale? Ugh. Well, whatever it was, it made me finally write a PLL story, albeit an AU one. Even though the universe is somewhat different, A is as inventive as ever. As a side note, I do know who A is in this story and how s/he is unmasked. (Of course I do. Who do you take me for, Marlene? :P) What I don't know, though, is whether I'll be writing from Spencer's point of view only or if I will/should try for chapters from the other girls' perspective too. Let me know what you think!

Spencer Hastings was having one hell of a Thursday morning. First of all, no part of her brain had registered her chirpy alarm tone; thus, she had spent the 6-7 am slot literally drooling onto her pillow (Too soft!) instead of literally dripping sweat onto a Pilates reformer while Sabrina, her instructor (Entirely too peppy… and way too sadistic!), shouted encouragements. Secondly, in her hurry to tend to the ominous light of her work phone, she had spilled her freshly-brewed double ristretto all over her last light-colored shirt (Should really have taken care of the dry cleaning this past weekend!). Thirdly, finally walking to work—in a knee-length navy dress she'd worn once last week—clutching a venti coffee like a lifeline, she had almost got hit by a cab. (Dammit, everyone knows that you can cross a street whenever—it's just avenues that are problematic!)

And now... just as she hit her shared office at last and switched from flats to a pair of pumps, her desk phone rang.

Hackett, A., the little LCD screen read.

She groaned.

Then she chirped into the receiver, "This is Spencer! How are you, Arthur?"

"Spencer! Good, you're here already!" He sounded very pleased. It was only 8:30, after all—kind of early, even for him. "I just left Andrew a voicemail."

Spencer did a fist pump internally before focusing on the actual subject matter of Hackett's call, which involved precedents for risk-factor disclosures a new client of his should make and a pro bono incorporation thing he wanted her and Andrew to work on together.

The actual subject matter didn't matter too much, though. The most important thing was that she was here and Andrew hadn't been in his office. That was just about reason 562 why Hackett, one of the firm's biggest rainmakers—and as such, a huge decisionmaker and an awesome reference—should prefer her to Andrew Campbell. Then again, she would need approximately another 783 little victories like this one to overcome two simple facts: Andrew had testicles and was a pro at golf. Her mood took a nosedive.

The next call she got certainly didn't make it soar again. With a quick eye roll, she let this one go straight to voicemail.

The message turned out to be as predictable as expected.

"Hey Spence," she could practically hear her sister Melissa's lips squeeze into a thin line over her clenched (perfect) teeth, "since you're not answering your cell, I thought I'd try this number.

Anyway, mom and I are both wondering if you'll be able to make it this weekend."

Melissa let out a small sigh.

"Just let either of us know when you can, okay? Thanks!"

Spencer wanted to laugh at the way her sister ended the message—like she was signing a work email, Thanks, Melissa—but she crumpled her brow instead. Up until that point, Melissa had sounded as though she really cared. That made things harder. Spencer loved her sister, she really did, but she was starting to accept that they would never be the braid-each-other's-hair-and-whisper-secrets kind of sisters. When she was younger, Spencer thought this was the case because Melissa just didn't care enough to try. As she was getting older, it slowly dawned on her that neither of them had been trying hard enough. They had always been just too similar, too competitive, too intent on being the best in their parent's eyes. Spencer felt bad for both of them and wished so much that their relationship would improve.

But that desire all but vanished each time she had to listen for hours on end about Melissa's doing the planning on this or that deal, her general climbing of the investment banking ladder, her growing responsibilities (as opposed to Spencer's paper pushing as a first-year associate), dinners and dates. Spencer guessed Melissa couldn't really help it anymore, after all those years of being conditioned to talk incessantly about her successes, but that didn't mean she could sit through it all quietly. This led to family gatherings ending with a sulky Melissa retreating to her room even more often than when they had been in high school. And despite her mother's compassionate looks, it all made Spencer feel like a black sheep and a spoilsport.

She shook her head, willing herself not to think about the weekend until she was in her apartment. She logged into the firm's document database and started to dig for precedents for Hackett.

By 4:30 pm, Spencer was wiped. After a couple of quick shoulder rolls, she headed to the twentieth-floor cafeteria for a late lunch.

For some reason, the place was teeming with gangly youths in suits. High schoolers? Undergrads? Probably here for a moot court competition or something. A bunch of them surrounded a dark-haired, jeans-clad guy about Spencer's age or a bit older. Definitely not a part of the firm. Their teacher, maybe? Spencer shrugged a little. Kinda cute. And vaguely familiar?

But her stomach wouldn't let her ponder on that any longer. The embarrassing rumbling made her turn away from the hot entrée line and towards the nearest fridge.

"Hey, Spencer!"

She tore herself away from the two boxes of sushi she was eyeing indecisively and turned to the source of the voice.

"Hi Shana, how are you?" She flashed a smile at the litigation associate she'd met on their first day.

"Can't complain!" Shana replied cheerily. "Except about the lunch choices." She frowned at the sushi boxes in Spencer's hands.

Both girls laughed.

"Any big plans for the weekend?"

Spencer paused.

"Not really," she answered after a beat, "I might go home. My sister wants to do a family dinner."

"Nice! You're from Pennsylvania, right?" Shana knit her brows together. "Rosewood?" she asked tentatively.

"Wow, great memory!" Spencer was about to say. Honestly, she had no idea where Shana was from.

But someone butted in before she could open her mouth.

"Yep! Spencer's a Rosewood girl through and through!"

She forced herself not to glare at Andrew Campbell's grin. God, was he this insufferable in high school, too?

"Hi, Andrew," she said in the most cordial tone she could muster.

As if on cue, her cell phone rang.

"I'm sorry, I have to take this." She returned the sushi boxes to the fridge.

Shana and Andrew look at her with compassion.

"Great to see you, guys," she offered as she hit Accept.

"Take care, Spencer!"

"See you!"

She hung up on the telemarketer as soon as she was out of the room. Then she rode the elevator all the way to the ground floor. She stepped out of the huge marble building into the May sun and breathed in deeply. Tourists traipsed by, laughing and talking loudly. For a moment, she felt really small and lost. But then she shook her head. Her spine straight, she started to stride towards Lexington Avenue. Screw it, she was going to have espresso cheesecake from the Two Crows for lunch. With an espresso or two.

Fifteen minutes later, almost uncomfortably full, she trotted back onto Lex. With a sigh of relief, she noticed there were no new calls, texts, or emails on her work phone. Her personal phone, though, was blinking with a new text.

Unknown

Heading home for the weekend? Say hi to Jenna for me! -A

Spencer froze in place, causing a lady with frosted hair and a dozen Bloomingdales bags to nearly fall over.

That spring evening, so long ago now, flashed before her eyes in all of its horrible glory. She had learned to live with the Jenna thing. She had learned to distract herself whenever she thought of the Cavanaughs' freshly painted garage. She had done what she had to do. They'd all agreed.

She forced herself to breath in through her nose and out of her mouth.

It's okay. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

But that sounded even more hollow than usual.

Someone knew. No, not someone. Andrew. "Spencer's a Rosewood girl," his voice rang in her ears. She could still see his huge grin. Andrew knew. But how?

She had to tell the others.

Did she?

Her thoughts were feverish as she walked back to her office.

She didn't, she decided as she exited the elevator. The four of them hadn't exactly kept in touch, not since Ali…

She stopped short once again, this time because of the cafeteria coffee cake on her desk. Bon appétit! ~Andrew, said the yellow post-it next to the paper plate. She hesitated for a split second before she threw the dessert into the bin under her desk. Her heart pounded as she studied the neat black-ink block letters.

How could he know? Who the hell would tell Andrew Campbell?

But it had to be Andrew. He'd heard her talk about Rosewood in the cafeteria.

"A is for Andrew," she said mechanically, not knowing why.

A, another, girlier voice repeated in her head, is for Alison.

Spencer turned the post-it into a yellow ball and sat on the edge of her chair.

A is for Alison, the girly voice singsang.

The summer sun was making Ali's shiny, silky locks look even more golden. Ali was tan and thin and gorgeous, and Spencer felt kind of sick but she ooh'd and ahhh'd over her new Tiffany ring with a little A monogram.

Spencer felt something heavy in the pit of her stomach.

"A is for Alison," she whispered.

Is it possible? Could she really be back? Back from where? Would she dare talk about the Jenna thing? Now?

Spencer's head was about ready to explode.

"Hey Spence," Cindy, her officemate, poked her head into the room, "I just bumped into Hackett. He wants to see you."

Spencer smiled wearily and rubbed her temples. She could not fall apart just yet.

Exiting Hackett's office, Spencer glanced at her wristwatch. 8:01. She was too tired to sigh.

Her phone's screen lit up.

Turn on the news, bitch. -A

A jumble of underlined blue letters and numbers followed.

Spencer bolted into the nearest conference room, not sure why she was that nervous. Her palms sweated as she hit the link.

A woman's nasal voice boomed through the empty room. Spencer hit the volume button like a woman possessed until the voice was little more than a whisper. Then she focused on the scene in front of her. She was looking at a livestream of Rosewood's local news station. There were kind of jerky, unfocused shots of grass and dirt, then of familiar houses, trees and pink flowers, and then of men in blue uniforms and of yellow tape.

"… can neither confirm nor deny that the body discovered under the gazebo is that of Alison DiLaurentis, who went missing almost six years ago, after her freshman year at the University of Pennsylvania. Alison-"

Spencer turned her phone off, the pink azaleas from her mother's flower beds dancing in front of her eyelids.

She was going to have to go back to Rosewood after all.