Wanted. (Book Eight)

Four: The Blond Bombshell.

As the winter sun dipped low on the horizon, Emily sat in the passenger seat of Hanna's Prius, watching Lancaster Avenue fly by. They were speeding to Yarmouth, where the DiLaurentises now lived. Spencer and Aria were meeting them there.

"Make a right here," Emily instructed, reading from the directions Mrs. DiLaurentis had given her. They entered a subdivision called Darrow Farms. It looked like it had once been a real farm, with rolling green hills and lots of fields for crops and livestock, but a developer had subdivided it into identical plots of enormous homes. Each house had a stone facade, black shutters, and fledgling Japanese maples in the front yard.

It wasn't difficult to find the DiLaurentises' house—it had an enormous crowd at the curb, a large podium in the front yard, and swarms of cameramen, reporters, and producers. A phalanx of cops stood guard near the DiLaurentises' porch, most with intimidating black pistols on their belts. Many of the people in the throng were journalists, but there were definitely some curiosity-seekers, too—Emily spied Lanie Iler and Gemma Curran, two girls on her swim team, leaning against a sequoia. Spencer's sister, Melissa, loitered next to a Mercedes SUV.

"Whoa," Emily whispered. Word had spread. Whatever was happening must be huge.

Emily slammed the car door and started with Hanna toward the crowd. She'd forgotten to bring mittens, and her fingers already felt fat and jointless from the cold. She'd been scatterbrained about everything since Jenna's death, barely sleeping at night, hardly eating anything at meals.

"Em?"

Emily whirled around, signaling to Hanna that she'd catch up with her in a minute. Maya St. Germain stood behind Emily, wedged next to a boy in a Phillies snow hat. Under a black wool coat, Maya wore a striped boat-neck shirt, black jeans, and black leather ankle boots. Her curly hair was pinned back with a tortoiseshell clip, and her lips were coated in cherry-scented ChapStick. Emily spied a yellow wad of banana gum in her mouth, reminding her of the day she and Maya first kissed.

"Hey," Emily said cautiously. She and Maya weren't exactly on good terms—not since Maya had caught Emily kissing another girl.

Maya's lip quivered, and then she burst into tears. "I'm sorry," she blubbered, covering her face. "This is so hard. I can't believe Jenna's..."

Emily felt a twinge of guilt. She'd seen Maya and Jenna together a lot lately—roaming the halls of Rosewood Day, walking through the atrium at the King James Mall, even at the diving competition of one of Emily's swim meets.

A tiny movement at the DiLaurentises' front window caught Emily's eye, distracting her. It looked like someone had parted the curtain, and then dropped it again. For a moment, she wondered if it was Jason. But then she noticed him near the podium, tapping on his cell phone.

She turned back to Maya, who was pulling a plastic Wawa bag from her army-green knapsack. "I wanted to give you this," Maya said. "The workers cleaning up the fire found it and thought it was mine, but I remember it from your room."

Emily reached into the bag and extracted a pink patent-leather change purse. A swirly initial E was inscribed on the front, and the zipper was pale pink. "Oh my God," she breathed. The pouch had been a gift from Ali in sixth grade. It had been one of the Ali artifacts Emily and her friends had buried in Spencer's backyard before Ian's trial. Their grief counselor claimed the ritual would help them heal from Ali's death, but Emily had missed the pursed ever since.

"Thank you." She clutched it to her chest.

"No worries." Maya snapped her bag shut and slung it across her chest. "Well, I should go be with my family." She gestured through the crowd. Mr. and Mrs. St. Germain stood by the DiLaurentises' mailbox, looking a little lost.