Good morning, good morning! Happy update Tuesday! I'm hoping this lovely, final Tuesday in June is finding you well. Someone was saying there's something important happening today, but I don't know what that is. :P I'm kidding, obviously. I know tonight is the final episode of PLL. To be honest, the show needed to end three years ago, but I'm sad for the cast, anyway. But not too sad- they're the ones getting paid for this, so... :P I may actually even watch the episode if I'm feeling bold. Probably not. But maybe?
Anyway, thank you for your responses on the last chapter. Things are definitely going to get worse before they get better, I'm sorry to say. I also want to mention that I'll be going away for vacation for a couple of weeks, so I may be able to get another chapter out to you next week, but if I don't, don't fret. I'll be back mid-July and we'll wrap this sucker up then. Okay, cool. So I will see you in the reviews then, right? Awesome. Love you all! :D
Six
"Which is the true nightmare, the horrific dream that you have in your sleep or the dissatisfied reality that awaits you when you awake?" – Justin Alcala
She's about ready to eat her own limbs. She's starving to the brink of death.
Once, when Spencer had been about twelve or thirteen, she'd gone with her father to a charity auction to benefit starving children in Africa. Her father had raised the bid to almost five thousand dollars, sure he would be outbid, but in the end, he was named winner. His smile was tight as he shook hands with the auctioneer; surely, Spencer knew he must be proud his money was going to help save the lives of thousands in a country less fortunate than theirs, but she was also fairly certain he hadn't been expecting to spend quite so much. He'd grumbled about it the entire ride home, but Spencer had remained silent, because she couldn't quite get the images of these poor children out of her head. Sunken eye sockets, rail-thin arms and legs that could snap at the slightest touch, concaved stomachs and ribs barely concealed behind their thin layer of skin, poking painfully outward, excruciatingly unavoidable. To this day, Spencer's still not sure how her father had been able to turn a blind eye to their suffering; these images still haunt her dreams at night.
She wonders what he would say if he could see her now.
Painfully, Spencer crawls across the floor on her hands and knees and pushes the mirror away from the wall. Adding another tick mark with the nail she'd wrenched out of the back of the mirror with bloody fingers, she notes she's been here for at least a week, if not more. It isn't the most precise method of time keeping; after all, she doesn't know how long she spent unconscious after –A had stricken her in the face until she woke on this very floor, but she's been keeping track ever since. In this week, she has not seen any food. Well, she's certainly seen food; she's seen pad Thai and pizza and cheeseburgers and French toast and chocolate éclairs and lasagna and a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings. But she's just imagined these things, right down to the smell, and not a single morsel of food has passed her lips. –A has rewarded her, each day, with a cup of water and Spencer does what she can to ration it out to last her the entire day. Often, she can't. Often, she's so desperate for anything to fill her stomach that she upends the glass rapidly, right down to the very last drop, and her stomach rages like a storm, famished and raring for more.
But more, of course, never comes.
Looking at her reflection has become almost as excruciating as the hunger pains that plague her stomach to no end. Her hair is oily, dirty and stringy, matted and tangled in many places, and she wonders if she'll ever be able to get a brush through it again. Exhaustion and sleep deprivation have painted permanent dark circles beneath her eyes because it's been a week, perhaps longer, and she's gotten maybe two, maybe three hours of sleep in total, out of fear of what he'll do to her while she's unconscious. She's thin; she's so very, very thin and she didn't exactly have a ton of body weight to sacrifice in the first place. She pulls her knees up to her chest and all her ribs grind together, bare bone on bone, protruding from her skin as if begging for cover. She'd read about this in biology two years ago; when a human being begins to starve to death, the body does everything in its power to stay alive, relying on the fat stores in various parts of the body and eating those to make up for the lack of sustenance in the stomach. It is only after the body has used up all of its fat resources that the person dies; by that time, the person is literally just skin and bones. Spencer glances down at her arms, her legs, her small, concaved stomach and realizes she's halfway there.
She's starving and distractions don't help too much to take her mind off of the hunger, but still, she tries. She thinks a lot about school, about how much she's missing, about how valedictorian is so out of the realm of possibilities now, it's not even funny. She thinks about the kids at school and wonders what they're thinking about this whole thing. She doesn't have many close friends outside of the three girls, but she has her acquaintances and she wonders what Andrew's thinking, what her teammates must think, about her absence. It had all happened so suddenly; first Mona had been murdered, then the girls had gone missing… Surely, students must be on edge and parents must be losing their minds at the sudden tragedies striking the high school population. But then she thinks about the events that transpired two years ago, when Alison had gone missing, and thinks otherwise. No one missed her; no one had mourned her. In fact, they'd all been glad she was gone and not one single person had even batted an eyelash over her disappearance. And she understands why; really, she does. She's just hoping her classmates do not feel the same about the four of them.
She spends a lot of time thinking about her family- her sister, her parents, even Jason. She can picture their reactions perfectly without even having to see them. Jason would turn his grief and frustration inward, as he had in the wake of Alison's disappearance, and wonder if it was something he did that had caused their kidnapping. Melissa would cry; to the outside world, she'd appear the angst-ridden sister who desperately missed and mourned her sister, but behind closed doors, Spencer's not sure Melissa would actually care too much that she was gone. They hadn't ever exactly liked each other and it's something Spencer would like to fix if and when she ever gets out of here. As for her parents, she knows her father would go on a rage-filled rampage, ready to sue every single resident of Rosewood until his daughter is found and then go back to basically ignoring her, ruling the town with an iron fist. Her mother would at least care enough to make an effort to join in the search herself and would continually breathe down the Rosewood PD's necks until they produced the result she was looking for. She would most likely be at that department everyday, spewing legal jargon for hours and citing every rule in the book until Spencer was back under her roof. The very thought alone brings a grim smile to Spencer's lips.
And of course, despite the ache it ignites within her heart, Spencer spends most of her time thinking about Toby. She can't bear the thought of what's going through his mind; he'd been shot, he'd fallen unconscious, and what had he found when he'd awoken? Not her, but, likely, news of her absence instead. She knows him and knows that he'd had the tendency, in the past, to hide away from the world when he was hurting, to wallow in his own despair away from the prying eyes of those who loved him, and wonders if this is what he's doing now. He's changed quite a bit in the two years she's loved him and she has no doubt that though he may have been knocked down by the news of her kidnapping, he likely hadn't stayed down, not anymore. She's sure he's out there, doing everything he can to bring her home, and this thought is what has carried her through her darkest moments this past week of hell has brought her. She truly believes, in her heart, in her soul, that he's recovered from his injury and is back on the case, fighting like hell for her protection and safety, just as he'd promised.
Spencer allows herself one moment, only one, to entertain the possibility that perhaps he hadn't survived the gunshot wound, but she does everything in her power to erase that from her thoughts. She would rather die in here than face the fact of Toby's passing.
She's done so once. A second time may actually kill her.
Spencer's starving, but nothing's changed, and she begins to think, again, of ways to escape, because she has no intention of remaining here and allowing –A the satisfaction of her death. She has no idea how to get the door open and she's not sure what awaits her if she ever does; a sure death, perhaps? But a quick and painless one will always beat the alternative- starving here on the floor until she descends into cardiac arrest. She always comes back to the window and she's fairly certain (only fairly; she's been hallucinating quite a bit, after all) Alison had left this way but every time Spencer goes near it, it's merely a black wall. Even if she could manage to wedge herself between the window and the wall (a feat nearly impossible, even at her current weight), she doesn't know if the fall is five feet or fifty. So she always comes back to her second option- the door. She's sure it's electronically coded; there's a slot near the bottom that opens at the same time every day for –A to push her routine cup of water through and Spencer wonders if there's a way she can get it open from this side, if she can fit her arm through, if she can reach the handle, if she'll ever be able to find the other girls.
She wonders if this is where –A had brought Alison that night two years ago. She wonders if Alison, too, is still here, somewhere.
She wonders how Alison has survived this for so long.
Just then, the slot in her door clangs open and Spencer sits up hastily, her spine as straight as an arrow, because she's been keeping track as best she can and according to her calculations it is much too early in the day for her daily cup of water (or perhaps night; time of day is quite arbitrary in here). Instead, a switchboard is pushed through, falling to the floor with a gentle thud before the slot slams closed once more. Curiosity gets the best of her and she crawls forward, her eyes widening in horror at the sight of three glaring red buttons, a photograph of each of her best friends underneath. She grips the switchboard with both hands, staring at the tortured looks on all her friends' faces and wonders in terror what this could possibly mean. Could pressing one of these buttons set her friends free? Or would it send them to an untimely and most likely excruciatingly painful death? She sits in the middle of the floor, cross-legged and wide-eyed, unsure of what to do next.
Luckily- or perhaps unluckily- her newest toy comes with instructions.
Choose one or all will suffer. Ten, nine, eight…
Spencer stares at the three buttons and has no idea what –A has in store for them now. They've been suffering for two whole years; what could possibly be different about this moment?
Choose one or all will suffer. Seven, six, five…
She swallows hard and wonders how she could possibly choose the person –A would inflict pain upon. She loves each one of these girls like they're her own flesh and blood.
Choose one or all will suffer. Four, three, two…
Whirling around in all directions, Spencer searches every last inch of the room for the speaker or hidden camera but comes up empty. The voice is tinny and mechanical and seems to come from nowhere. She doesn't know what to do. It's psychological, she thinks. If I don't choose, nothing will happen.
Choose one or all will suffer. One.
She stares hard at the switchboard but does not press a single button. And she's right; nothing happens.
At first.
Suddenly, she hears three distinctive, piercing screams that cut right through her and she knows them so well she can pinpoint exactly to whom they belong, but before she can react, the entire floor seems to come alive and she is screaming right with them. White-hot electricity radiates from the ground where she rests and no matter how quickly she tries to scurry away, no matter what direction she crawls, it does not cease. She cannot escape the current, for it has set her skin ablaze, boiled her blood, raised her hair on end. She screams and screams until she can taste blood and she's dying, she's sure she's dying, this is what it feels like to die.
As quickly as it begins, it ends. She's left shaking, twitching, on the floor, tears dried to her cheeks.
Commence punishment.
The slot opens again and her cup of water awaits her. Eagerly, like a refugee stranded in the Sahara, Spencer moves toward it, unable to see straight, barely able to move. The electric current had vaporized every last liquid in her body and she's parched. But just as she reaches the doorway again, the black gloved hand holding her cup of water lets go effortlessly and it careens to the floor, water cascading out in all directions, absorbing instantly into the floor. Spencer hobbles clumsily, drunkenly, over to the doorway, and reaches for the cup, but it's bone dry and she knows –A well enough to know she won't be getting another one. Her mouth feels like she's swallowed a handful of sand, like she's chewed a whole pack of sidewalk chalk, and her tongue weighs at least twenty pounds. She needs that water. She's sure she'll die without it.
Choose one or all will suffer. Ten, nine, eight…
Spencer groans in pain and glances at the switchboard she's abandoned in the middle of the floor. She hadn't expected –A would want to play again so soon, but perhaps she hadn't been thinking clearly. Dragging her exhausted, battered body over to the center of the room again, Spencer glances down in agony at the three faces looking up at her. How do I choose? How can I hurt one of you?
Choose one or all will suffer. Seven, six, five…
Tears sting the backs of her eyes as she contemplates the choice she's about to make, realizing in anguish that her face is on the three other switchboards and the girls are in identical torture chambers of their own, plagued with the very same Sophie's Choice. Her heart hammers against her chest and she pleads with them to understand. Please forgive me. Please forgive me for what I'm about to do.
Choose one or all will suffer. Four, three, two…
She can't do this. She physically cannot do this. Aria's always been a little spitfire, but Hanna would cut your neck if you looked at her funny, but Emily's been so strong and so brave since the beginning…
Choose one or all will suffer. One.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Spencer hits the switchboard at random, letting out a sob as her hand collides with the cool metal. She braces herself and has no idea who she hit until she hears the scream. Aria.
Instantly, her own floor awakens once more and involuntarily, screams of agony are ripped from her lungs. She's hot all over and she can't stop trembling and she's screaming, screaming, screaming, and she's in so much pain and she suddenly smells something burning and it's probably her clothing or maybe her hair but it hurts so much and she can't stop screaming and she doesn't know where she is or what day it is or who their torturer might be but she wants him to fry for this, fry, like she's frying right now, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts so much, and someone, one of the girls, someone had chosen her but it doesn't even matter because she chose too.
And then it stops. Her breathing is hitched, her heart skips a beat and then two, abnormal. She can't stop twitching, shaking, quivering.
Commence reward.
The slot opens once more and, tiredly, Spencer merely glances in its direction. A small drawstring bag is pushed through before the slot bangs shut again. And then there is silence.
Carefully, Spencer reaches for it as if it contains the smallest of bombs. But when she opens it, she's delighted to find a small crust of bread, no larger than her fist, a block of cheese of the same size, and a cluster of grapes still attached to the vine. Food, glorious food! Spencer reaches for the bread first, ripping it in half hungrily and shoving it roughly into her mouth, relishing in the way it tastes on her tongue, sustenance after so long without. She chews ferociously, rapidly, telling herself to pace herself because she doesn't know when she'll see food again and she doesn't, of course, want to choke, but she's so desperate and so hungry and it's been so incredibly long, she cannot take her own advice. The bread and cheese are gone in seconds. She glances at the cluster of grapes and wonders if she should ration them out.
She knows she should. She also knows she won't.
Body still humming with electricity, Spencer plucks each grape off the vine, one by one, and eats like she's never seen food before, slumping helplessly against the wall.
She wonders if she'll see food again.
He's been working tirelessly, day in and day out, in order to find her and this means sleep comes easily. Unfortunately, the nightmares do, too.
In one, he never finds her. He spends his entire adulthood searching, combing every inch of Rosewood, and then Pennsylvania, and then the country looking for his girlfriend and her three best friends. He's well into his thirties when their families give up, hold memorial services presuming their children have perished, and thank Toby for his efforts but plead with him to put it to rest. But he has a feeling; he knows Spencer's counting on him, that it's been years but she hasn't given up on life so why should he give up on her? The Hastings' divorce, the Montgomerys move abroad, Ashley Marin sinks into despair and the Fields' leave Pennsylvania altogether but still, Toby does not give in. He comes close, once, when he finds four bodies in an unmarked grave in Utah, but DNA comes back and it isn't the girls and he's relieved. He drives himself mad with his conquest, eating, sleeping and breathing the chase, and his father has him committed, just like his mother. He spends the rest of his days wandering Radley Sanitarium, agitated, and so eager to get back out there, to find her, to prove himself. At night, he believes he hears his mother singing and when she comes to him, corporeal and glowing, he tells her all his sorrows and she holds him as she did when he was a child. I believe you, honey. I've always believed you.
In another, he finds her physically, but mentally, she's gone for good. They track and trace the son of a bitch who'd captured these four girls down to an abandoned shed in the middle of nowhere. There isn't any running water or electricity and the girls are huddled in a corner, clinging to one another, covered in mud and blood and feces. They're so wary of human contact that the moment one of Toby's officers comes near them, they shriek and cry and lash out, scratching a pretty sizeable chunk out of the officer's cheek. It's just about the saddest sight he's ever seen but what scares him most is how realistic it feels and how easy it is to accept that this is what they've become. Tortured into insanity, forced into darkness from which they will never recover. They cannot answer simple questions. They do not know their own names. When they're forcibly pried apart, Toby hesitantly approaches Spencer, who merely glances emptily in his direction, and, keeping his hands in her line of vision, he reaches out tentatively and takes her hand. She doesn't pull away. He pushes a strand of matted hair away from her face. She doesn't move a muscle or make a sound. He collects her in an embrace and tells her everything is going to be okay, that she's safe now, that he'll never let anything happen to her so long as they both shall live, and then she breaks, pushing away from him, screeching, collapsing on the ground, combusting. She doesn't know who he is. Worse, she doesn't know who she is. And Toby visits her everyday in Radley, but they've got her on so much medication, she sits, comatose, in the corner and doesn't hear a word he says. He spends everyday with the girl he loves and spends every night mourning the one he's lost.
But in the worst one, he finds her, but it's already too late. –A turns out to be some creep, some older man who was obsessed with Alison and her friends, and he's been hiding them in plain sight all along. There's an apartment building by Hollis where he kept them for six weeks and once they have him shackled and en route to prison, they go in and begin their search and rescue mission. There are walls full of evidence, photos of the girls plastered on every surface, and detailed descriptions of their everyday lives in true stalker fashion. They split up, Toby's team and he, knocking down doors, peering through closets, pulling apart the paneling to see if he's hidden them somewhere. And then Toby gets this strange, eerie feeling that makes his hair stand on end and it leads them to the basement of the complex, which already reeks with the strong scent of death. Bile begins to rise in his throat and his heart is pounding so loudly it echoes off the brick walls and he knows but he cannot bear the thought. There's an industrial sized freezer and a dumpster and both are excruciatingly good hiding places for bodies. Turns out, he's used them both and just as Toby's trying to grasp the discovery of Hanna and Emily tossed carelessly into the dumpster, a colleague of his yanks open the freezer and Aria and Spencer tumble out, frozen and lifeless, onto the floor. He falls to his knees, gets sick twice, and then crawls over to her body, grasping her shoulders with shaking hands. Tears fall onto her motionless face, lips blue, eyelashes crispy with frost, and he pulls her against him, cursing his timing. He hadn't been quick enough. He hadn't found her in time. He hadn't done enough. He'd failed her and now she's gone.
This one always rips him from sleep, his pillow soaked through with tears, his body trembling with grief. It's the dream he has most often. It's the dream he'd most like to forget.
It's the dream he's just had right now.
He bolts upright in bed, his chest heaving, tears still pouring from his eyes. He clenches them shut again, wiping at his cheeks, and inhaling a deep, calming breath to get his subconscious to reset itself once more. He has no doubt one of these dreams will plague his mind again; it's like watching the worst possible rerun on repeat for the rest of his days. Pushing back the blankets on his bed, Toby stands and makes his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. The cool liquid refreshes him but only for a moment. The night only heightens his fear and he can't stop thinking about her. It scares him when he thinks about it- never seeing her again. He thinks about the sorry life he'd had before her and thinks about all she brings to his life, now, and how he'd never have that again if she were to never be found, and it scares him so much, his heart begins to race. Spencer Hastings is his entire world; she's always been his entire world. And right now, at this very moment, it feels like his world has stopped, like everything is moving in slow motion, like everyone around him is rushing by at the speed of light, but Toby is standing completely still.
He drains his glass and sticks it in the dishwasher, padding softly back to his bed. Flipping his pillow to a side not drenched in his sorrow, Toby lies down and closes his eyes, trying desperately to have a nice, easy, dreamless sleep. It never comes. Instead, the minutes tick by and the moon and stars dance along the omniscient blanket outside, but he cannot get her out of his head. He wonders if she's being fed, if she's sleeping, if –A's hurting her over and over. He wonders if she's trying to get out or if she's given up hope. He wonders and wonders until it eats away at his resolve and he rolls to the other side of the bed, the one belonging to her despite the fact that they do not live together, and the pillow she regularly sleeps on still smells of her, her sweet fragrance lingering in the fabric. Toby clings to this feeling, buries his face in the pillow, and eventually, finally, falls asleep.
He dreams he finds her, or at least he thinks he does, a dozen times, but each time he reaches her, it's not her face, it's not her body, it's not her.
She's always just out of reach.
He spends the night alternately tossing and turning and having terrible, awful dreams and wakes hours later, groggy.
Caleb texts him and asks if he'd like to meet for coffee so they can begin to hash this thing out and, wanting desperately to escape his apartment of horrors, Toby agrees. He dresses and heads downstairs to The Brew, securing a table in the back corner so as not to be bothered before ordering and awaiting his liquid caffeine. In moments, Caleb's there too and he looks just about as exhausted as Toby feels; clearly, sleepless nights and torturous nightmares have been plaguing his best friend's mind just as equally. They sit and sip identical coffees in silence for a while, because as adamant as they both are about finding this psychopath who had taken their girls, they truthfully don't know where to begin in the search. Toby wants to bring Spencer home more than he wants to do just about anything right now, but he has absolutely nothing to work with.
"So…" Toby opens, watching the steaming liquid swirl in his mug. "Got any ideas?"
"No." Caleb frowns. "You know what's ironic?"
"What?"
"The girls might have an idea," He sighs but there's a wry grin on his face. "The girls might know where we could start looking, if they were here."
"Yeah." Toby repeats. "If they were here."
"They were suspecting so many people. It literally could be anyone." Caleb says. "They could be anywhere."
"Well maybe if we try to figure out a pattern with the messages they were sent," Toby suggests. "Obviously, after Mona was hospitalized. She hurt them immensely, but this person… This wasn't an amateur. This person who took the game from her is just…"
"Sick." Caleb finishes. "I think that's somewhere we can start, though. You called it a game. This person has always treated them like they're dolls in some life-sized dollhouse."
"Yes and that night Mona died," Toby points out. "He sent them on a wild goose chase that resembled a real-life version of Clue. He thinks this whole thing is a game and he always has. It's like he has no regard for their lives; it's all just a ruse."
"You know what? He's also used a lot of callbacks to nursery rhymes and childish things like that." Caleb adds. "The singsong texts-"
"They always rhymed," Toby nods. "Always."
"But," Caleb sighs. "What do we do with this information? I don't know anyone who likes dolls and games and nursery rhymes."
"Mona did." Toby says. "But Mona's dead."
"Unless…" Caleb trails off. "Look, they never found Alison's body, right?"
"Right."
"And the girls think she's still alive, right?"
"Yes," Toby hesitates. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking," Caleb explains. "What if she's been the mastermind behind this all along?"
Toby frowns, but isn't shocked; honestly, he's had the very same thought more than once. "It actually would make a lot of sense. She tortured the girls when she was alive; or, around. And if she is still alive, why would that suddenly stop?"
"Exactly." Caleb nods. "It wouldn't."
"But if it is her, if it's been her since Mona was committed, would she really take it so far as to kidnap and torture her best friends?" Toby asks. "I mean, I know Spencer used to say she put them through hell just so they could prove they were really her friends, but this is going a bit far, don't you think?"
"Well she's a sociopath. I don't think she's in her right mind." Caleb replies. "And if you try to think like her… She fakes her death. She fabricates a story about being kidnapped and shows herself only to the girls to prove she's still alive, knowing this will drive them crazy and no one will believe them no matter what they say. She tells them she's in danger and they go after her, but she kidnaps them the same way she allegedly was and then reveals herself once she knows they're trustworthy again. It's sick, yes, but if you look at it like that, it kind of makes sense."
"Okay, so let's say she is this person. Let's say Ali's –A." Toby says. "Where would she take them?"
"I don't know." Caleb shrugs. "Any ideas? I never knew her. You did."
"I did." Toby replies. "But I never knew her very well. She made my life a living hell and I tried to stay away from her, after that. I definitely didn't know any of her secret hiding spots."
Caleb glances up as the door to The Brew opens and a new patron enters. Nodding towards the entryway, he asks, "You want to bet he does?"
Toby turns and comes face to face with Jason DiLaurentis, who had joined the line at the counter upon entering, but has since abandoned his conquest for coffee and instead comes over to where Toby and Caleb are perched at the table, nodding in greeting. "Hey. This where the meetings are held?"
"You bet." Caleb confirms and motions towards the open chair. "Take a seat."
He does so and immediately asks, "What do we know so far?"
"The girls are gone. This masked murderer that goes by the pseudonym '-A' is most likely the one who took them." Toby says. "And… end of list."
Caleb adds, "I realize that's not much to go by-"
"That's nothing to go by." Jason interrupts. "You don't have any leads?"
"We don't have anything. When this person took them, he or she didn't leave a single drop of evidence." Toby goes on. "They were gone without a trace."
"I want to help." Jason tells them. "I want to help any way I can. I am not losing another sister to this monster."
At this, Toby and Caleb share a glance, and this does not go unnoticed by their third party. Immediately, he demands, "What? What's going on?"
"Jason," Caleb asks gently. "Have you considered the possibility that Alison might be behind this?"
"How could Alison be behind this?" Jason implores. "She's been dead for two years."
Toby questions, "Has she?"
"Oh good. You've been sipping on Spencer's Kool-Aid too, huh?" Jason rolls his eyes. "She's dead. You will not convince me otherwise. Her body is out there, somewhere, and I'm going to find it so I can finally lay my sister to rest."
"But have you thought about-?"
"No. I don't need to think about it." Jason shakes his head. "Alison is dead. This psycho- this sick fuck who took the girls most likely used the 'Ali's alive' ruse to lure them into his trap so he could have his way with them just like he did my sister. And you two need to be careful, because you sound like you're falling for it, too."
Toby contemplates this and wonders if this is true. Had the girls become prey just because they had followed a false glimmer of hope that their friend might actually still be alive? He shakes his head of these thoughts; he doesn't want to think about it. It's truly unbearable. "Okay well… Do you have any ideas?"
"No. I've got nothing." Jason says. "That's why I came to you guys. You're closer to them than I am. I assumed you'd have some answers by now."
"Well, you know what happens when you assume."
"Hey," Toby cuts off what would likely be an indignant retort from Jason. "Can you still get us past firewalls or whatever you call them and get into someone's computer?"
"Sure," Caleb nods. "But you don't have –A's computer, do you? That might've saved us a lot of trouble."
"No." Toby shakes his head. "I don't have –A's computer, but Ezra-"
"Ezra?" Caleb pulls a face, but then realization dawns on him and his eyes widen. "Oh, Ezra!"
"He was monitoring every single thing the girls did and he likely still has records of everything –A sent them." Toby explains. "If we can get into his computer and his files-"
"-then I can get ahold of a message or two that –A sent, trace the IP address and track it using a GPS. We find –A's lair, we find –A, we find the girls." Caleb nods. "Toby, you're a genius. Why didn't we think of this sooner?"
"Ezra," Jason pulls a face. "That guy's a creep."
"Tell me about. But he's about to be a useful creep." Toby grins but then falters a moment, remembering. "Wait… We'll never get into his place. He's still in jail."
"And Aria could've let us in," Caleb reasons. "But… you know…"
"Wait," Jason points out. "He lives on Westmoreland Ave, right? In that apartment complex across from the park?"
"Yeah, why?"
"We own that place." Jason grins. "I mean, DiLaurentis Properties does. I can get us in."
"You can?"
"Sure." Jason nods. "I can cite code checks, building maintenance, open house, whatever. We're in."
Euphoria fills Toby's veins and for once, he feels like they're actually making progress. But relief and excitement do not stay; the door jingles open and when Toby turns to see who's entered the coffeehouse, he tenses. Tanner, in full uniform, saunters up to the counter, places an order congenially, and then notices him, sitting in the back and staring hard. Her visage turns sour and her mouth twists into a frown. Be cool. You're not doing anything wrong, Toby tells himself, but his stomach still churns and his heart still bangs against his ribcage as she takes slow and steady footsteps towards him, her hands shoved roughly into her jacket pockets. She takes a moment to glance at the men on either side of him, but does not extend a hand or introduce herself. For an odd reason unbeknownst to him, Toby's glad; he's not here to make nice and he's not going to pretend just for his friends' sake.
Tanner stares at him, her cold eyes boring into his, and says, "Officer Cavanaugh."
"Detective Tanner." Toby returns with just as much enthusiasm, standing his ground.
"I surely hope you are not discussing what I think you're discussing with civilians. And out in the open, here, with so many witnesses." Tanner tells him. "You're off the case. I do hope you remember that."
"I don't know what you're referring to." Toby replies, shrugging. "I'm simply having a cup of coffee with my friends."
"Right." Tanner purses her lips. "Coffee and conspiracy. The taste Rosewood loves."
She turns to go and Jason asks, "That's your boss?"
"Not really," Toby says. "She took me off her case."
"She's brutal." Caleb replies. "Even worse in person than she is on TV."
"That's why we have to find the girls and fast." Toby explains. "The second we prove her wrong, she'll never want to show her face in this town ever again."
She's been fighting so hard, but eventually, she slips.
She falls asleep.
In her dream, she's chasing something through her backyard, anger and adrenaline pumping through her veins. Whatever she's chasing has just darted behind the shed and Spencer reaches for a shovel lying in the grass, gripping the cool metal in both her hands. The winds are whipping her hair all around her face, knotting in tangles at her shoulders, and when she glances down, she notes she's wearing that same argyle sweater, the high collar, the dark jeans. It's that night; Spencer races around the shed and finds Alison on the ground, dirt under her fingernails, her hair matted with blood at her crown. She whirls around, eyes narrowing, and for reasons unbeknownst to Spencer, she is filled with an overwhelming sense of hatred for the girl on the ground. She raises the shovel over her head and Alison grins maniacally. What are you going to do, Spencer? The blonde teases, her voice shrill. Wild. Hit me? Kill me? You don't have the guts. You're not a killer, Spencer. You're nothing. The shovel comes down and collides with Alison's skull with a sickening crack. Over and over again, Spencer beats Alison into the ground until the grass is spattered with blood and brains and she finally, finally, feels free.
She awakens with a start, feeling achy and ill and uneasy, tears stinging her eyes, her breathing incredibly shallow.
And then, she notices the blood.
She's lying in a pool of it and it's painted her sweater, stained her arms and legs. Horrified, Spencer does everything she can to try and scrub it off of her skin, feeling all over to try and locate the wound even though she feels no pain. She's not sure it's her blood but then, if it isn't, whose is it and how did it get here? It's Alison's, she immediately panics and a few tears spill down her cheeks. You just killed her, remember? But she couldn't have; she remembers that night vividly. They drank, they joked, it rained. Thunder had crashed in the skies above, lightning illuminated even their darkest secrets, and then they'd fallen asleep. When they awoke, Alison was gone. But where did she go? It's the question that has plagued Spencer and her friends for two years. And in moments like these, after nightmares like that, it's her anxiety-ridden mind that always fills in the blanks. She went outside. You followed. She said something that set you off, like she always did. You argued. You grabbed the shovel. She threatened you. And you silenced her. Forever.
Shaking her head, Spencer rips the sweater off of her body and tosses it over the pool of blood. Out of sight, out of mind.
She scrambles towards her bedroom door and catches sight of herself in the mirror. Bloody, dirty, exhausted. She looks like the heroine at the end of a horror film.
Reaching upwards, her hand clasps over the door handle and she twists. Every day she's been here, she's tried the door, perhaps foolishly, to no avail.
Except today. The handle gives way and the door clicks open.
Adrenaline courses through her bloodstream and she's awake, now. Without thinking, Spencer scrambles out of her bedroom and into the hallway, darkness rising and all-encompassing. She pulls herself to her feet, bracing the doorframe for support, and she's so weak and unstable, she feels like a baby deer taking its first steps. She can't see anything; her "bedroom" may have been a torture chamber, but it was well lit and it's such a sharp contrast from this hallway where everything is bathed in darkness. Taking a tentative step forward, Spencer feels her way along the wall, moving ever so slowly as her eyes slowly begin to adjust to the lack of light. She cannot see, but she can hear, and from what sounds like just a few feet away, another door clicks open and there are footsteps on the hardwood floor. Spencer's heart begins to race and she's sure that this is the moment she comes face to face with –A and meets a sure death, all in one.
But then, the figure speaks. "Hello? Is someone there?"
Hanna. Relief floods her veins and Spencer clears her throat, her voice sounding foreign even to her. "Hanna? It's me."
"Spence?" Hanna replies, painfully disoriented. "Where are you? I can't… I can't see shit."
"Hold on," Spencer says and her eyes adjust just a bit more. She can just make out Hanna's form. Moving forward, she reaches out and grabs her friend's hand and Hanna grips back hard. "Are you okay?"
"No. Are you?"
"Of course not."
In moments and from the two other doors at their end of the hallway, Aria and Emily emerge and for once, Spencer's grateful for the dark. She's not sure she could stand to look her friends in the eye. Aria asks, "Could we please just not talk about what we just did?"
"I'm not sure I could even find the words." Spencer tells her and they all silently agree.
"I love you guys," Emily emits, her voice wavering. "And I'm sorry."
They pull one another into a collective embrace and fall apart together, as they always have. Spencer knows each one of these girls, herself included, has been tried and tested and tortured in the very same way. She knows it had been –A's way of trying to get them to turn on one another, to implode, to resort to loneliness and self-doubt and despair. But they're all so traumatized by this experience and by every experience they'd had thus far that she knows she's bound to these girls for life. After all, for the four of them, their struggles have always and will always strengthen, not divide. When their group hug ends, there's a calm air of forgiveness resonating from each and every one of them and Spencer knows that, no matter how long it may take to recover from what they've just endured, her relationship with these girls has not been fatally damaged.
Welcome. Please follow the lighted pathway.
Suddenly, the hallway illuminates on either side with glowing blue lighting along the baseboard, much longer than they had been expecting. It leads them away from their bedrooms of horror and though they'd like nothing better than to escape them, they're all collectively a bit wary of trusting anything –A suggests right about now. Hanna wonders, "What do we do?"
Welcome. Bienvenidos. Bienvenue. Wilkommen. Please follow the lighted pathway.
"I guess we don't have much of a choice." Aria replies and the girls begin to make their way forward. "We follow the lighted pathway."
As they do, Spencer glances in all directions, studying every last inch of this place as if the end of the lighted pathway would hold a final exam. Emily asks, "Did Alison visit any of you or just me?"
"I saw her." Aria confirms and Hanna nods.
"I saw her, too." She adds, "She called me Hefty Hanna again, that bitch."
"Well, to be fair, look at what you're wearing."
"Hey, I did not dress myself in my 'Labor Day Weekend from two years ago' best." Hanna defends. "You're wearing it, too. Spencer looks like a politician's wife again. Aria's got the pink hair."
"I am ripping this out the second we get out of here." Aria vows. "I never want to see pink hair ever again."
After a beat of silence, Hanna asks, "Where do you think he's taking us?"
"I don't know." Emily shrugs. "Somewhere he can torture the four of us together?"
"This place creeps me out." Aria shakes her head, shivering. "I want to get out of here. Now."
"I'm not sure that's in the cards right now."
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure his intentions are to keep us in here forever."
"Well, that's not going to happen." Spencer announces and the others shoot her a questioning glance as she keeps a keen eye on every surface, runs her hand over the walls, commits the endless hallway to memory.
"It's not?"
"No. We're not going to let it happen."
"How?" Aria wonders and, eyeing Spencer's ministrations a bit closer, she adds, "What are you doing?"
"Look, -A has given us three out of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, right? Conquest, War, and Famine." Spencer explains. "Do you know what the fourth one is?"
"Yeah." Emily answers after Hanna and Aria shake their heads. "It's Death."
"Exactly." Spencer confirms and the stakes have never been higher. "So if we can't find a way to escape, we're going to die in here."