Seventeen: Just Like Old Times…

Later that night, after swimming practice ended, Emily slid into her favorite booth at Applebee's, the one with the old-fashioned tandem bicycle suspended from the ceiling and the colorful license plates on the walls. Her sister Carolyn, Gemma Curran, and Lanie Iler—two other Rosewood Day swimmers—piled in beside her. The dining room smelled like salty French fries and burgers, and an old Beatles song was playing loudly on the stereo. When Emily opened the menu, she pleased to see that mozzarella sticks and hot wings were still featured appetizers. The southwest chicken salad still came with spicy ranch dressing. If Emily closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was last year at this time, when she used to come to Applebee's every Thursday night—back when nothing bad had happened yet.

"Coach Lauren had to be smoking crack when she wrote that set of five hundreds," Gemma whined, flipping through the laminated menu.

"Seriously," Carolyn echoed, shrugging out of her Rosewood Day Swim Team jacket. "I can barely lift my arms!"

Emily laughed with the others, then saw a flash of blond hair out of the corner of her eyes. She stiffened and glanced toward the bar, which was packed with people watching an Eagles game on the flat-screen TVs. There was a blond guy at the very end of the bar, talking animatedly to his fate. Emily's heart slowed down. For a second, she'd thought he was Jason DiLaurentis.

Emily couldn't get Jason off her mind. She hated that Aria had brushed off her warnings about him in the courtyard on Tuesday, making excuses for his anger. And she really didn't know what to make of the strange photo A had sent her yesterday, the one of Ali, Naomi, and Jenna all together, presumably friends. If Jenna was Ali's friend, Ali might've opened up to her truthfully, right? She might've told Jenna a deep, dark secret about her brother, having no idea that Jenna was going to reveal something similar.

A few months ago, before the cops arrested Ian for Ali's murder, Emily had seen an interview with Jason DiLaurentis on TV. Well, it was sort of an interview—a reporter had tracked him down at Yale, asking him what he thought of the investigation into his sister's murder, and he'd waved them away, saying he didn't want to talk about it. He stayed away from his family as much as possible, he said—they were too messed up. But what if Jason was the one who was messed up? The summer between sixth and seventh grade, Emily had been over at Ali's house when the DiLaurentises were packing up to go to their mountain house in the Poconos. While the whole family industriously carried suitcases to the car, Jason slumped on the recliner in the den, flipping through the TV channels. When Emily asked Ali why Jason wasn't helping, Ali just shrugged. "He's in one of his Elliott Smith moods." She rolled her eyes. "They should put him in the mental ward, where he belongs."

A shiver traveled down Emily's back. "Jason need to be in a mental ward?"

Ali rolled her eyes again. "It was a joke," she groaned. "You're so literal!"

But as she turned to carry another suitcase to the car, Ali's mouth flickered slightly. It seemed like something was going on deep beneath Ali's cool exterior, something she wouldn't admit.

Emily had forwarded A's picture to each of her old friends. Both Spencer and Hanna had responded, saying they had no idea what it could mean, but Aria hadn't acknowledged it at all. What if they should be worrying about Jason? There was a lot about him they didn't know.

A blond waitress in a green Applebee's button-down and an Eagles baseball cap took their orders. Then the swimmers started talking about the party at the Radley. "Topher managed to snag an invite, and he wants me to go," Carolyn was saying. "But what do you wear to something like that?"

Emily sipped her Vanilla Coke. Topher was Carolyn's boyfriend, but usually the two of them preferred Heroes marathons to fancy parties. "What about the pink dress I wore to the Rosewood Day benefit?" she suggested. Then she drummed her fingers on the table. "You don't have to worry about me borrowing from your closet yet again. I already got a dress."

Carolyn's eyes lit up. "You're going?"

"Someone asked me," Emily blurted out. Lanie and Gemma leaned forward, intrigued.

Carolyn squeezed Emily's arm. "Let me guess," she whispered. "Renee Jeffries from Tate? You guys were so cute when you were talking before the two hundred flu last month. And someone told me she's…you know." Carolyn trailed off.

Emily fiddled with the red straw in her Vanilla Coke. She hadn't told her family or swimming friends about Isaac yet.

She took a deep breath and looked at the others. "Actually…it's a guy."

Carolyn blinked hard. Lanie and Gemma smiled, puzzled. On TV, the Eagles scored a touchdown. The whole room cheered, but none of them turned.

"I met him at church," Emily went on. "He goes to Holy Trinity Academy. His name's Isaac. We're sort of…dating."

Carolyn placed her palms flat on the table. "Isaac Colbert? The hot guy in that band, Carpe Diem?"

Emily nodded, pleased color rising to her cheeks.

"I know him," Gemma said, swooning. "We worked on the same Habitat for Humanity project last year. He's gorgeous."

"Is it serious?" Carolyn's eyes popped wider and wider.

Emily nodded again, gazing at her sister. "I plan to tell Mom and Dad. Don't break the news to them first. I just needed to make sure it was…for real."

Carolyn picked up a piece of garlic bread that had just arrived. "Go you." Gemma gave Emily a high five, and Lanie patted her on the back.

Emily breathed out, relieved. She'd worried about how that would go. And she'd especially fretted that Carolyn would make a face and ask her why she'd put the family through the lesbian stuff if she was going to eventually date guys again.

But now that her thoughts had turned to Isaac, she couldn't help but think about what had happened at dinner last night. All those awful, jabbing digs. All those bitter looks. And that photo in the drawer, the one of Emily beheaded. Would Emily and Isaac be able to go to the Radley party together, if Mrs. Colbert knew what they'd done?

She'd left Isaac's house soon after seeing the photo in the drawer, not telling Isaac a word about it. But she had to say something. They were a couple. They were in love. Surely he would understand. She could say, Are you sure your mom likes me? Does your mom like to haze your new girlfriends? Did you know your mom is a psychopath and beheaded me in a photo?

Their dinners came, and the swimmers scarfed them down. As the waitress cleared their plates, Emily's phone rang. Spencer Hastings, said the name in the Caller ID window. A flutter of nerves treated through Emily's stomach. She glanced apologetically at her friends, slid out of the booth, and walked down the hall toward the bathroom. It was way too loud in the bar area to even attempt a phone conversation.

"What's up?" Emily said when she pushed through the bathroom door.

"I got another note," Spencer said.

Emily placed a shaky hand on the marble sink and stared in the mirror. Her eyes were round, and her face had gone very pale. "W-what did it say?"

"Basically that we have to keep searching or pay A's price."

"Searching…for the killer?" Emily whispered.

"I guess. I don't know what else it could mean."

"Do you think it has to do with that photo I got? The one of Ali and Jenna?"

"I don't know." Spencer sounded hopeless. "That doesn't make much sense either."

A toilet flushed, and a pair of loafers shuffled behind one of the stall doors. Emily tensed. She hadn't realized anyone else was in the bathroom. "I have to go," she hissed into the phone.

"Okay," Spencer said. "Be careful."

Emily clapped her phone shut and stuffed it back into her pocket. When the stall door opened and the woman emerged, Emily's blood went cold.

"Oh." Mrs. Colbert stopped short. She was dressed in a silk blouse and black pants, as if she'd come from work. The corners of her mouth turned sharply down.

"Hi," Emily chirped, her voice an octave higher than it normally was. Her hands shook. "H-how are you?"

Mrs. Colbert whisked past her to the sink and turned on the hot tap. She plunged her hands underneath the stream of water, rubbing so vigorously it was a wonder her skin didn't peel off in curls. She was blocking the paper towel dispenser, but Emily didn't dare ask her to move.

"Are you and Mr. Colbert having dinner here?" Emily asked, mustering a smile. "I love their burgers."

Mrs. Colbert whirled around and glared at her. "Cut the sweet act. It's insulting."

Emily sucked in her stomach. Another cheer erupted from the bar. "I'm…sorry?"

Mrs. Colbert turned off the tap and tore off a piece of paper towel violently, wadding it up in her hands. "I didn't want to say this in front of my son, which is why I tolerated you at dinner the other night. But you've disrespected me and my home. As far as I'm concerned, you're trash. Don't you dare set foot in my house again."

Emily paled. All other sounds fell away. Dizzily, she backed out of the room butt-first and sprinted back to her table. She snatched he coat off her chair and darted for the door. "Emily?" Carolyn called, standing halfway up. But Emily didn't answer. She had to get out of here. She had to get away from Isaac's mom before she could say anything else.

Bitter wind swept across her cheeks as she walked into the parking lot. Carolyn was right behind her, tugging at her sleeve. "What's wrong?" her sister asked. "What happened?"

Emily didn't answer. She wasn't sure she could answer. You've disrespected me and my home. Mrs. Colbert had said it all.

She stared at the bright Applebee's sign, cursing her terrible luck. Why did Mrs. Colbert have to eat at Applebee's tonight of all nights? And it was 8 P.M., not exactly the normal dinner time hour. It was bitter cold out, too, a good night to stay indoors.

Then from deep inside her purse, Emily's phone chimed. Suddenly, it hit her. Maybe it wasn't luck or coincidence that Mrs. Colbert was at Applebee's tonight. Maybe someone had told her to come.

"Just…give me a sec," she said to her sister. She walked over to the curb near the takeout door and lowered herself down. Her cell phone's greenish window glowed in the darkness. One new photo message, the screen said.

A picture appeared on the Nokia's screen. But it had nothing to do with Emily, Isaac, or Isaac's mom. Instead, it was of a big room with stained-glass windows, glossy wooden pews, and thick red carpeting. Emily frowned. It was Holy Trinity, her family's church. There was Farther Tyson's confessional, the little wooden alcove near the lobby. Someone was emerging from the confession booth, his head bowed. Emily brought the phone close to her face. The guy in the photo was tall, with short, dark hair. A Rosewood Police Department badge glowed on his jacket, and a pair of handcuffs dangled from his belt.

Wilden?

Then she noticed the text at the bottom of the photo. Even though she wasn't quite sure what it meant, an uneasy shiver rippled from the top of her head down to the soles of her feet.

I guess we all have stuff to feel guilty about, huh? —A