The table felt slick and cold, ice cold.
Almost like her dad's eyes when she had told Isabel that he had hooked up with his ex-wife.
But if Hanna wanted to live, she had to listen to A.
Every morning when she woke up and brushed her hair, she would daydream about a terrible flood that had washed away A.
A heavy rainstorm would come and wash the stalker bitch right out of her black combat boots.
But here Hanna sat, at an interrogation table, with two of her three best friends, and a very bad feeling in her empty stomach.
A had survived the rain.
I do not own Pretty Little Liars.