Melissa swished him away, squinting at the little screen. “It says here that a group of girls in Ohio got so many A notes that one of them killed the girl who was doing it.”
“Ugh.” Spencer leaned over to look, too. There was a sidebar about the Ali Cats, Ali’s psycho fan club. MEMBERS OF THE ALI CATS HAVE BEEN HOLDING CANDLELIGHT VIGILS IN VARIOUS LOCATIONS, PRAYING THAT ALISON DILAURENTIS IS STILL ALIVE. “THE MEDIA HAS SPUN THIS STORY ONLY ONE WAY, JUST LIKE THEY ALWAYS DO,” SAID A WOMAN WHO ASKED TO REMAIN ANONYMOUS. “BUT ALISON IS A BRAVE, UNIQUE INDIVIDUAL WHO IS A VICTIM OF STIGMA, PREJUDICE, AND INTOLERANCE. SHAME ON ALL THOSE WHO CANNOT SEE THAT.”
An oily feeling filled her. A victim of prejudice and intolerance? What was that lady smoking?
It was so frustrating. Spencer had told her friends she wanted to let Ali go—before this mess, she’d been accepted to Princeton, and she’d recently heard from the Princeton admissions committee that there was a good chance she could still attend as long as she aced her final exams. But forgetting Ali was easier said than done; Ali kept popping up. And those Ali Cats—it was insane. How could they worship someone who had murdered practically half of Rosewood?
As soon as Spencer had discovered the Ali Cats, she’d felt an itch to retaliate. Taking them down didn’t seem like an option—they had a right to form whatever weirdo group they wanted. Instead, she’d created a website for other people who’d been bullied, a safe forum for kids to share their experiences and feelings. So far, it had gotten pretty decent traction; she had almost two thousand “likes” on the blog’s Facebook link. Every heartbreaking new bullying response she received on Facebook, Twitter, or email just reaffirmed how necessary a site like this was. There were so many people who’d suffered from bullying, some at much worse a cost than Spencer. Maybe putting these stories out there would stop it from happening, somehow. Or at least slow it down.
“I wish people would find something else to obsess over,” Melissa said angrily, slipping her phone back into her purse.
Spencer nodded. She wanted to talk to her sister about Ali still being alive, but so far, Melissa hadn’t seemed open to the conversation. Spencer could understand. Melissa was probably sick of thinking about it, too.
Then Melissa’s eyes lit up. “Oh my God, there’s Kim from Wharton! We have to say hi!”
She clutched Darren’s hand, and they flitted off into the crowd. Spencer gazed around the room once more. Someone giggled behind her, and she suddenly felt an eerie prickle on the skin of her arms. This place was so crowded, and there was barely any security. It seemed like a perfect place for Ali to hide.
Stop thinking about her, Spencer scolded silently, smoothing down her hair and taking another sip of the martini. She drifted toward the bar. Only one barstool was free, and Spencer settled into it and grabbed a handful of mixed nuts from a small bowl. She gazed at her reflection in the long mirror behind the bar. Her blond hair shone, her blue eyes were bright, and her skin was a golden color from the week she’d spent in Florida. But it was pretty much wasted here—everyone was over forty. Besides, Spencer didn’t want to get mixed up in another relationship. All guys ever gave her were trouble and heartbreak.
“Excuse me, are you Spencer Hastings?”
Spencer turned and stared into the eyes of a young woman in a gray pin-striped suit and brown pumps. “Yes, but I’ve forgotten your name,” she said, figuring the woman was one of Mr. Pennythistle’s business associates. He had a rotating cast of businesspeople over for cocktails.
“That’s because I haven’t told you yet.” The woman smiled. “It’s Alyssa Bloom.” She set her glass of white wine on the counter. “My goodness, my dear. You’ve been through so much.”
“Oh, well, you know.” Spencer felt her cheeks redden.
“How does it feel for everything to actually be over?” Alyssa Bloom said. “You must be so thrilled, I would think.”
Spencer bit her lip. It’s not over, she wanted to say.
Ms. Bloom took a tiny sip of her wine. “I’m assuming you’ve heard about the Alison groupies? What do they call themselves again?”
“The Ali Cats,” Spencer groaned automatically.
“And the copycat As all over the country?” The woman sniffed. “It’s dreadful. It’s not the lesson people should be learning.”
Spencer nodded. “No one should have to go through what I did,” she admitted. It was the response she often gave the kids who wrote to her blog with their stories.
The look in the woman’s eyes indicated she wanted Spencer to say more. But suddenly, Spencer felt paranoid. Who was this Alyssa Bloom? Lately, Spencer had received a lot of calls from insidious, gotcha-journalism types who tried to lure her into a conversation just to get her to say something stupid.
“I’m sorry, what is it you do?” Spencer blurted.