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Chapter 59

Early the next morning, Mona and our mother leave for a spa that's two hours away. Mom wanted me to go, too. She almost forced me. But I declined. For some reason, even though I jump out of my skin every time someone touches me, and I can't stand the dark, I don't want to leave Rosewood.

I feel like we're getting closer to finding out who "A" is and ending this mess once and for all. We have a name: Charles. And we know that he's part of the DiLaurentis family. There's no way I can pack up and leave for a week now. I'm sick of things happening while I'm out of the loop, and I'm not going to let it happen again. I've been texting the other girls often, keeping the conversation mostly casual while trying to subtly dig for updates, but so far, they all seem to be doing what I'm doing: Recovering.

I'm curled up in a chair in the living room late that morning, reading a magazine and relishing in the quiet. My dad stayed home with me. He's supposed to be on a big important business trip in Chicago, but he took the first flight home once we escaped from the dollhouse. He said he's going to try and stay with us for as long as he can.

It's great, having my dad home. But he's spent all morning hovering around me, asking me how I am and if he can get me anything. I know he's just trying to help, but honestly, I just want things to go back to normal. Every time someone asks me how I'm doing or mentions anything about what I've been through, awful flashbacks fill my mind.

I'm vaguely aware that I should probably be seeing some sort of therapist, but I'm not about to bring it up. The last thing I want to do is spent an hour a week telling some stranger about the things I can't even tell my own parents.

The doorbell rings, and I nearly fall out of the chair. I set down the magazine shakily, realizing that the bell has the same pitch as those awful chimes. Three chimes means we have to go to our rooms, I think as I get up and go to answer the door.

I'm expecting one of the girls, or a cop, maybe, to try and get some more information out of me – even though I've told them a million times that I've already said everything I know.

When I swing open the door, my eyes nearly pop out of my head. "Alison?"

"Can I come in?" she asks, twisting her hands together in what almost seems like a nervous way.

"Um, yeah," I stammer, standing aside so she can walk in. I haven't seen Alison since the night we escaped, and even then, I was so shaken up that all I really noticed was that she was wearing the same yellow shirt I was.

But now I can't stop staring as she walks into my living room. Her hair is shorter now, to her shoulders instead of halfway down her back, and she's wearing jeans and the sort of sweater that I would expect my mother to wear.

Weird.

Irritated at being interrupted, I cross my arms. "What do you want, Alison?" The words come out a little harsher than I intended.

She frowns at me, and I'm not sure if she looks offended or concerned. "I just wanted to make sure you're doing okay," she insists. "Is Mona here?"

"No," I say suspiciously, leaning back against the arm of the couch. "She's out of town with our mother. But I wanted to stay home."

"I get it," Alison says quietly, gazing around the room. "My dad wants us to leave, too. He doesn't think it's safe here."

I stare at her for a moment, blinking in surprise. "Well, I mean…it's not."

Still looking uncomfortable, she rubs at her arms, not meeting my eyes. "I know."

I take a step back. Something about the way she said that, like she knows exactly what it's like, like she's been through it all, too, rubs me the wrong way. "But that's the thing, Ali," I say, not even trying to hide my annoyance now. "You don't know. You have no idea what it was like to be trapped down in that place. We've been through things you can't even imagine."

"I've never been kidnapped," she relents, and I bite my lip, reminded of the fake story that she concocted when she first came back to Rosewood. "But I've been through things, too. I was attacked in my own house, Viola."

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. The last thing I want to do is relive all of my various traumas. "Did you come here just to have some stupid competition? Who's had it worse?"

"No," Alison says, stepping closer. Her eyes are downcast. "I never got to thank you," she goes on, speaking quickly. "For keeping my secret, back in Ravenswood."

"What?" I demand, furrowing my brow as that day comes rushing back to me. Following one of "A's" hints to Ravenswood. Chasing one of the two red coats up the stairs, up to Ezra's lair. Finding out that Alison was still alive.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

"I thought for sure that you were going to tell the girls that you saw me," Alison goes on, finally meeting my eyes. "That's why I ran."

A little embarrassed, though I'm not sure why, I shrug and tap my fingers against the arm of the couch. "You asked me to keep it to myself. I know what it's like to have secrets."

"You really helped me that day," she insists, looking a little embarrassed now, too. "Thank you. And I really am sorry for what you went through…in that place."

I flinch. Psycho. Murderer. The voice from that fake rooftop rings through my head, as clearly as if I was still there, and I close my eyes, turning away. I can't handle talking about the dollhouse. Not yet. But I guess it's unrealistic of me to expect that no one's going to bring it up. "Don't be sorry," I mutter, pressing a hand to my throbbing forehead.

Alison rubs her arms, and again, I'm struck by how different she looks. In her buttoned sweater and jeans, she could be my mother's age. "I am sorry," she says intently. "Most of this is my fault, anyway."

This is the second time I've heard this kind of self blame in less than twenty four hours. But this time I'm not talking to my sister, and I can't think of anything comforting to say, because really…she's kind of right.

I think for a moment, wondering what my life would be like right now if I'd never met Alison, if she'd never chosen my sister as one of her verbal punching bags. Mona never would've become "A," no one would have stolen the game from her, and the dollhouse never would have happened.

My life would be…normal.

I turn back to Alison, hit with the urge to say all of this, but they're not the words that spill from my mouth. "Ali…who is Charles?"

"I don't know," she says instantly, her look of shame turning to one of concern. "I asked my dad yesterday…he told me there's no Charles in our family."

"That can't be true," I snap, suddenly angry. "There were all those pictures down in that place, of that little blond boy…and that video…" I think back to the old-style video footage that we found, of the little boys with Jessica DiLaurentis at the Campbell Family Apple Farm. There's no way that Charles isn't a DiLaurentis. There's just no way.

"I know that he lied to me," Alison says sharply, looking uncomfortable. "But there's nothing I can do to get him to talk."

I raise an eyebrow before I can stop myself. The old Alison would have pursued this relentlessly, would have yelled and threatened and held her breath until her father confessed. But this Alison…I obviously don't know her at all. And it's starting to make me mad.

"He's your father," I say harshly, frowning at her. "You're going to have to make him give you answers."

"You're not the only one telling me that," Alison mutters, moving toward the door. "And trust me, Viola, I want to know the truth just as badly as you do."

I sigh, letting my arms fall to my sides. I've never been so tired in my life. More than ever, I can't wait for this whole thing to be over. And even though, in some ways, we're closer than ever to the end, in others, I feel like we've never been farther away.

"That's all I wanted to say," Alison says quietly, pulling the door open slowly. "I just hope you're doing okay."

I force a smile, nodding. "Thanks, Alison. I'll be fine. Eventually."

She nods back and slips out, letting the door shut behind her. Exhausted from that conversation alone, I flop down on the couch and lean back, grimacing.

I'm still there several hours later, curled up in the chair, watching television and trying to think about anything other than Charles and the dollhouse, when the phone rings.

I jump, my heart leaping into my chest, and I get up from the couch, hoping it's just my mother calling. I'm starting to wish that I had gone with them to Saratoga, after all.

But it's not my mom's number that projects up from the caller ID.

ROSEWOOD PD.

"No," I groan, glancing at the window. My dad's out picking up takeout for dinner – he offered to cook but I politely declined. The last thing I feel like doing is having a chat with the police, but I brace myself and pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"Is this Viola Vanderwaal?" the male voice says gruffly.

I take a deep breath and respond shakily, "Yes."

"We need you to come down to the station."

My breath catches in my throat. "Why?" I ask, my voice small.

The officer clears his throat. "We have a lead on the identity of your kidnapper."

...

Let me know what you think! Next, Viola must make a big decision while being questioned by the police.