Prologue: After Emily catches Alison DiLaurentis, finally unmasking her as "A", Alison is on trial for a slew of charges (conspiracy to murder, accessory to murder, fraud, etc.) However, Ali maintains her innocence, and the public couldn't be more in love with her. Alison's defense team shifts the blame to none other than the former hero and captor herself: Emily Fields. Will Emily do something drastic to clear her name?
A/N: Hi everyone! This story occurs directly after the last PLL book, Vicious. In that book, Emily catches Alison DiLaurentis, who had framed Emily, Aria, Hanna, and Spencer for her death, which she faked, exposing her once and for all as A. Or so we think.
*One change to canon: Alison does not confess, maintaining her innocence, and has not been convicted. If you haven't read the books, feel free to message me any questions. But essentially, you should have everything you need below. You can see this as a "serial killer Ali" or "Ali-as-A" AU fic.
It was late November and bitter cold just outside of Rosewood, Pennsylvania. Temperatures had dropped below freezing the previous night, creating a thick layer of ice over the windshields of every car in a lonesome, dingy motel parking lot.
It was early morning, and Emily Fields glared at the ice, still bleary eyed, gripping her keys hard in her hand. She didn't have an ice pick because the car was a rental, and the only other items in her hotel room were a ratty backpack, half-eaten packages of takeout, and an empty bottle of vodka. In fact, she hadn't packed anything in preparation for the Northeast winter. She was lucky she'd even remembered to bring a jacket.
With an exasperated clench of her jaw, she got into the car and kicked the defrosters into high gear. She rubbed her hands together for warmth, hoping that the ice would melt soon because, otherwise, she wouldn't have time to get a coffee before the evidentiary hearing.
But as she waited, the possibility of a quick escape looked bleaker and bleaker. The ice remained as thick and resolute as it did five minutes before, and Emily thought about how she even got here, how she'd never wanted to experience the Pennsylvania cold again. That was the whole point of moving to California, wasn't it? Sunny days, ambient weather, perfect road conditions? And yet here she was under a gray, sunless sky, her fingers and nose tingling with numbness, a shelf of ice obscuring her view of her shitty motel.
This was never what she wanted. She never wanted to come back here.
Six months ago, when she'd picked up and moved, she'd thought she'd finally gotten her wish. She'd thought everything, the pain, the paranoia, the sleepless nights, she'd thought it was all over. She'd felt light, free, unencumbered, filled with possibility. And she had been. For a little while at least.
Over the next two months, she'd settled into Los Angeles nicely. She'd made money giving surf and swim lessons, even picked up bartending for extra cash. She was even beginning to embrace the beach bum life. Hang loose, right?
People even recognized her sometimes. They shook her hand, stood too closely to her and yelled, "You're the girl that caught that psychopath, right?!" She'd wince and nod and then they'd buy her drinks she didn't need, but she drank anyway. She'd even met a girl, Laura. Nothing serious, but it was more than she'd ever been able to have before. Before Alison DiLaurentis.
She'd thought this would be her "A.D." time. Or her "A.A.D" time. Her life After Alison DiLaurentis.
But she'd been stupid to think it would last. That Alison wouldn't find a way to turn everyone and everything against her again.
It was about three months in when she started seeing a new tone in the papers.
"Alison DiLaurentis maintains innocence!"
"Alison DiLaurentis claims Pretty Little Liars maimed and tortured her!"
And that was only the beginning. The tides shifted on Emily, and Alison DiLaurentis went from infamous murderer to helpless victim. Strangers began staring at her, peering accusingly over the edges of their expensive lattes. Her bartending tips dried up, and her manager said he didn't have shifts for her. No one wanted surf lessons, no, not from Emily Fields.
"Hero, Emily Fields, may not be hero after all!"
Those articles and a thousand more just like them would swim behind Emily's eyes at night. She would wake at 2 and 3 AM, clawing at the air, covered in sweat, convinced Alison was standing over her bed. She would see that photo of Alison, the one plastered all over the internet, that showed her penetrating blue eyes, her dancing smile, her pink, shriveled left cheek. The scar, it was a blemish on an otherwise picture perfect facade. It begged the question, how could this happen to such a beautiful girl? It made you think, no! That's not the face of a murderer!
Emily wanted to rip it into a thousand pieces. She wanted to watch it burn.
The worst articles were the ones that implied that Emily had been in love with Alison. Somehow, every news outlet in the country had obtained that video of her shouting, "I'll never love you! Never, ever! And I will kill you!"
They called her obsessed. They'd said Alison's rejection of her drove her crazy. They weren't totally wrong.
She had been crazy, but not because Ali rejected her. In fact, quite the opposite. Emily had refused to tell Alison she'd loved her, and Alison had murdered her girlfriend outright. Emily could still remember screaming those words, her voice breaking. She'd meant it. She was going to kill her. She could still feel the splinters in her hands as she tore apart the house, the deep cuts across her knuckles. Two girls she loved, dead, gone, because of Alison DiLaurentis. Emily wondered if she would ever be free.
"Emily Fields won't take interviews!"
"Emily Fields, a drunk? A recluse? A liar?"
Emily couldn't handle it. Her tenuous grasp on her new life slipped. She'd gotten rid of her phone. She'd moved to an outlying city. She'd started taking self-defense lessons, she studied up on how to be untraceable. She was convinced people were following her, that nowhere, no one was safe. She drank more, and she became obsessed with Ali's case.
Emily didn't know how long this lasted. Weeks turned into months. And months turned into the onset of Ali's trial proceedings, beginning with her evidentiary hearing back in Rosewood. She packed a bag (no ice pick), jumped on a flight, and now she was here, watching the ice thaw.
Emily had never thought she would be here. She had never thought Alison DiLaurentis could get off for murdering her twin sister and Emily's best friend, for murdering Emily's girlfriend, for torturing her and her friends for months, years, and yet… here Alison was, defying the entire world. Per usual.
An hour later, Emily was coffee-less and belligerent, her courtroom seat feeling hard and unyielding beneath her. Like a church pew. Or a bus stop. She'd crept into the far back row and slipped a pair of dark sunglasses over face. There would be reporters here, and she did not need their questions.
"Emily, why did you say you'd never love Alison?"
"Emily, why did you kidnap Alison?"
"Emily, were you jealous of Nick Maxwell?"
Emily pressed her hand to her temple, willing the voices to stop, begging for silence.
"This court is now in session," the judge commanded from the front of the room, causing Emily to jerk her head up. Both the district attorney and Alison's lawyer stood, and she watched them warily.
Today, Alison's lawyer wore a black, pinstriped suit. The collar of his shirt was white and stiff, his tie impeccably silky. He was some sort of big shot from New York. The type that smiled widely at the camera, teeth large and white. He liked to hold his hands wide open and invitingly while he would say, "There's absolutely no case against my client."
His client, Emily tried to ignore, tried not to look at the slender form next to him. Regardless, she could see her in her periphery. She could see that Alison's hair looked long and silky, curling just at the shoulders. She wore a blue blouse, a tiny dot of color in the corner of Emily's vision, the hue that Emily knew would bring out her eyes. Alison was staring straight ahead, probably maintaining a look of doleful innocence, a fabrication Emily knew she'd perfected over the years.
"The floor is yours, Mr. Gellar," the judge continued, hunched over in his chair. "Present the evidence you've gathered against Mrs. DiLaurentis for the charges of accessory to murder, conspiracy to murder, and fraud."
Emily breathed deeply, trying to maintain her focus. She stared at the defense attorney who in turn peered over at the district attorney with an air of arrogance and disdain.
"I'm curious to hear what Mr. Gellar has prepared when there's absolutely no evidence against my client," he said, a virtual carbon copy of the images Emily had seen of him on TV.
"Mr. Mercer," the judge warned with a harassed roll of his eyes.
"That's an insulting understatement, your honor," the prosecution barked back. "There is the testimony of the four young women involved, and—"
"Four young girls who are all reasonably well known as 'pretty little liars,'" the defense shot back with mocking air quotes. "It's absurd to say their accounts can be trusted more than my client's. She has been nothing but a model inmate the last six months—"
"Alison DiLaurentis is alleged to be extremely manipulative—" Mr. Gellar, the district attorney, said in an attempt to regain footing.
"Slander," the defense interjected with a cocky shake of his head.
"And there's the letter she wrote that proves it. She confesses, she even brags about a number of murders, including that of her sister—"
"Nick Maxwell confessed to writing that letter on the stand," the defense attorney cut in again, "under oath."
Both sides traded statements with such alacrity that Emily's head shot back and forth between them, making her neck ache. She wondered if either the defense or the prosecution planned to allow the other to get full sentence out without interrupting.
"And the diary Mrs. DiLaurentis wrote," the prosecution weathered on with a sharp glance at the defense. "In it, she claims to have known and been accessory to multiple criminal acts, working as an accomplice to Nick Maxwell."
"Which Nick Maxwell also admitted to coercing her to commit," Mr. Mercer countered, throwing his hands up as if this whole thing were a comedy, a mockery to the justice system.
"And while we're on the subject of this diary," he continued, throwing a hip out. "In Fisher vs United States, the court held that the Fifth Amendment protects the production of personal documents when the act results in incriminating testimonial communication. My client can't incriminate herself through her own diary."
"That's one example, your honor," the prosecuting DA said with an overly dramatic sigh. "There are at least a dozen other instances where courts ruled that the Fifth Amendment provides no protection for the contents of personal documents."
The judge levelled each of them with an assessing gaze.
"I'm going to have to agree with Mr. Gellar here," he said after a moment. "The diary can stay."
Emily let out a relieved sigh.
"However," he continued. Emily held her breath again. "I'm not sure I can move forward with merely testimony and a diary alone. You have no further evidence?"
The district attorney looked red and splotchy, his bottom lip stuck out. The defense attorney smiled smugly in return.
"There's no eye witnesses, there's no proof of communication between Nick Maxwell and Mrs. DiLaurentis," Ali's attorney stated. "There's no DNA, blood, or even video."
The district attorney appeared to be at a loss of words.
"The sad thing is," he continued, sounding indignant, self-righteous. "All of the evidence is in favor of Mrs. DiLaurentis' diary. So much that the prosecution proved in a completely separate trial, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Alison was captured and nearly murdered at the hands of the very same group of girls who are blaming her now."
"Even the very 'hero' of this elaborate, made-up saga," he added with condemning glance backwards, looking into the courtroom crowd, "swore on video that she would kill my client in the same location where the torture and blood were found."
Emily froze as his eyes landed on her. She felt his gaze like a thousand watt spotlight.
"This is a person," he said pointing an accusing finger at her, "who has every motive to want to hurt Alison, and she did."
Emily seethed, staring at his haughty features, his over-confident disposition. What made her angriest, she supposed, was that he wasn't wrong. Emily had wanted to hurt Alison. And, maybe, she still did. Because Alison had tortured her. Because she was a liar. Because she was "A." But the attorney didn't care if what he was saying was true, he just loved the publicity. He loved sitting next to poor Ali D, the beautifully maimed girl who was so misunderstood, so mistreated.
He turned back to the judge, having proven his point, and Emily noticed Alison sit up a little straighter.
"We have the photo of Mrs. DiLaurentis smiling during her alleged imprisonment with Nick Maxwell," Mr. Gellar continued, attempting to reassert himself. "And, to be quite frank your honor, with the arrival of this new killer, we need more time to go through all of Mrs. DiLaurentis' communications."
Emily closed her eyes, clenching her teeth again. That was another thing she didn't like to think about. Over the last few weeks, police had been on the hunt for a killer, a copycat of sorts. One who would stalk and murder young girls, girls like Emily and her friends. It put Emily on edge, her dreams all the more terrifying.
"You've had six months, Alex," the judge responded impatiently.
"But this is a recent development that highly impacts this case," Mr. Gellar argued back with desperation. "They are clearly connected."
But even Emily could tell the prosecution was posturing, that this case was about ten seconds from being thrown out completely.
"That may be true, but you're not getting another three months to waste taxpayer dollars on the thin line of evidence I'm seeing here," the judge countered, confirming Emily's fears.
Her heart sank, she felt her internal temperature rise. This couldn't, couldn't be happening.
Mr. Gellar stammered, but during the diversion, Emily caught a minor movement at the defense table. Ali had turned, her angular profile coming into sharp view. It was like spotting a lion in tall grass. Emily wasn't sure whether to hide or if it was too late. Ali's piercing, crystal-blue eyes swept over the crowd, the dozen or so faces, before settling directly on Emily. Emily felt rooted to the spot, frozen, hypnotized by the intensity of that gaze. But, then, Ali smirked slightly. And winked at her.
Emily's mouth fell open, had anyone seen that?
"You get a one week recess, that's it," the judge said, emphasizing his point with the slam of his gavel. Alison was already turned back towards her desk, watching her lawyer collect his things.
Emily felt hot tears begin to rise, threaten her vision. She shot up from the uncomfortable bench, rushing down the aisle. She pushed open the courtroom doors, feeling like she'd been punched, feeling dizzy, like she'd just entered some sort of alternate hellscape.
Emily cringed outside the courtroom, doubled over. She tried to collect herself. It was happening again. The sweats, the pounding heart, the dizziness. It felt like her whole body was clenching, constricting, like it was trying to choke the very life out of her.
Ali would get off. And then the media would say Emily was the copycat killer. But she knew, she just knew, that Ali was to blame. That this was because of her minions, her "Ali-cats."
Emily couldn't go through that again. She would snap, break. Alison just couldn't get away with this. She couldn't get away with everything. No. Not again. Not this time.
"—Dilaurentis?"
Emily heard the name somewhere behind her, over her own heavy breathing, over the blood rushing in her ears. She glanced back to see two cops standing near a side door, thumbs tucked into their belt loops.
"You got stuck with that today?" the other replied with a joking half smile as Emily lifted herself up, resting her hand on the wall for support.
"Yeah," the other sighed, kicking at invisible lint on the floor. "I hate going into that burn clinic. I hate seeing the little kids, you know?"
"Well, at least you have DiLaurentis to look at, right?" the other teased back, making Emily's stomach curdle.
But she thought quickly.
Alison was going to the burn clinic? Emily had read Ali had been treated for her burns, but she didn't know it was still happening. And she was going today?
There was only one burn clinic in town, and Emily had volunteered at it multiple times growing up. She knew that place inside and out. She could get in, she thought, a hazy plan taking shape in her mind. She could get Alison alone. And she could shut her up once and for all.