Twenty-Two: If The W’s Walls Could Talk…

Thursday evening, after a dinner at Smith & Wollensky, an upscale Manhattan steak house Spencer's father frequented, Spencer followed her family down at the W Hotel's gray-carpeted hallway. Sleek black-and-white Annie Leibovitz photographs lined the halls, and the air smelled like a mix between and fresh towels.

Her mother was on her cell phone. "No, she's sure to win," she murmured. "Why don't we just book it now?" She paused, as if the person on the other end was saying something very important. "Good. I'll talk to you tomorrow." She clapped her phone closed.

Spencer tugged at the lapel of her dove-gray Armani Exchange suit—she'd worn a professional outfit to dinner to get into award-winning essayist mode. She wondered who her mom was talking to on the phone. Perhaps she was planning something amazing for Spencer of she won the Golden Orchid. A fabulous trip? A day with a Barneys personal shopper? A meeting with the family friend who worked at the New York Times? Spencer had begged her parents to let her be a summer intern at the Times, but her mother had never allowed it.

"Nervous, Spence?" Melissa and Ian appeared behind her, pulling matching plaid suitcases. Unfortunately, Spencer's parents insisted that Melissa come along to Spencer's interview for moral support, and Melissa had brought Ian. Melissa held up a little bottle labeled Martini To Go! "Do you want one of these? I could get one for you, if you need something to calm you down."

"I'm fine," Spencer snapped. Her sister's presence made Spencer feel like roaches were crawling under her Malizia bra. Whenever Spencer shut her eyes, she saw Melissa fidgeting as Wilden asked her and Ian where they'd been the night of Ali's disappearance and heard Melissa's voice saying, It takes a very unique person to kill. And that's not you.

Melissa paused, shaking the mini martini bottle. "Yeah, it's probably best you don't drink. You might forget the gist of your Golden Orchid essay."

"That's very true," Mrs. Hastings murmured. Spencer bristled and turned away.

Ian and Melissa's room was right next to Spencer's and they slipped inside, giggling. As her mother reached for Spencer's room key, a pretty girl about Spencer's age swept past. Her head was down, and she was studying a cream-colored card that looked suspiciously similar to the Golden Orchid breakfast invite Spencer had tucked into her tweed Kate Spade bag.

The girl noticed Spencer staring and broke into a glimmering smile. "Hi!" she called brightly. She had the look of a CNN newscaster: poised, perky, congenial. Spencer's mouth fell open and her tongue lolled clumsily in her mouth. Before she could respond, the girl shrugged and looked away.

The single glass of wine Spencer's parents had allowed her to drink at dinner gurgled in her stomach. She turned to her mom.

"There are a lot of really smart applicants up for the Golden Orchid," Spencer whispered, after the girl rounded the corner. "I'm not a shoo-in or anything."

"Nonsense." Mrs. Hastings's voice was clipped. "You are going to win." She handed her a room key. "This one's yours. We got you a suite." With that, she patted Spencer's arm and continued down the hall to her own room.

Spencer bit her lip, unlocked the door to her suite and snapped on the light. The room smelled like cinnamon and new carpet, and her king-size bed was loaded with a dozen pillows. She squared her shoulders and wheeled her bag to the dark mahogany wardrobe. Immediately, she hung up her black Armani interview suit and placed her lucky pink Wolford bra and panty set in the top drawer of the adjacent bureau. After changing into her pajamas, she went around the suite and made sure all of the chunky picture frames were straight and the enormous cerulean bed pillows were fluffed symmetrically. In the bathroom, she fixed the towels so they hung evenly on the racks. She positioned the Bliss body wash, the shampoo, and the conditioner in a diamond pattern around the sink. When she returned to her bedroom, she stared blankly at a copy of Time Out New York magazine. On the cover was a confident-looking Donald Trump standing in front of Trump Tower.

Spencer did yoga fire breaths, but she still didn't feel any better. Finally, she pulled out her five economics books and a marked up copy of Melissa's paper and spread everything on her bed. You are going to win, her mother's voice rang in her ear.

After a mind-numbing hour of rehearsing parts of Melissa's paper in front of the mirror, Spencer heard a knock at the little adjoining door that led to the next suite. She sat up, confused. That door led to Melissa's room.

Another knock. Spencer slid out of bed and crept toward the door. She glanced at her cell phone, but it was impassive and blank. "Hello?" Spencer called softly.

"Spencer?" Ian called hoarsely. "Hey. I think our room connect. Can I come in?"

"Um," Spencer stammered. The adjoining door made a few clanking noise, then opened. Ian had changed out of his dress shirt and khakis into a T-shirt and Ksubi jeans. Spencer curled up her fingers, afraid and excited.

Ian looked around Spencer's suite. "Your room is huge compared to ours."

Spencer clasped her hands behind her back, trying not to beam. This was probably the first time ever she'd gotten a better room than Melissa. Ian gazed at the book splayed out on Spencer's bed, then shoved them aside and sat down. "Studying, huh?"

"Sort of." Spencer stayed glued to the table, afraid to move.

"Too bad. I thought we could take a walk or something. Melissa's sleeping, after just one of those to-go cocktails. She's such a lightweight." Ian winked.

Outside, a series of cabs honked their horns, and a neon light blinked on and off. The look on Ian's face was the same one Spencer remembered from years ago, when he'd stood in her driveway, about to kiss her. Spencer poured a glass of ice water from the pitcher on the table and took a long gulp, an idea forming in her mind. She actually had questions for Ian…about Melissa, about Ali, about the missing pieces of her memory, and about the dangerous, almost taboo suspicion that had been growing in her mind since Sunday.

Spencer set down her glass, her heart thumping hard. She tugged at her oversize University of Pennsylvania T-shirt so that it fell off one of her shoulders. "So, I know a secret about you," she murmured.

"About me?" Ian thumbed his chest. "What is it?"

Spencer pushed some of her books aside and sat next to Ian. When she inhaled his Kiehl's Pineapple Papaya facial scrub smell—Spencer knew the whole Kiehl's skincare line by heart, she loved it so much—her head felt faint. "I know that you and a certain little blond girl used to be more than just friends."

Ian smiled lazily. "And would that little blond girl be…you?"

"No…" Spencer pursed her lips. "Ali."

Ian's mouth twitched. "Ali and I hooked up once or twice, that's it." He poked Spencer's bare knee. Tingles shot up Spencer's back. "I liked kissing you more."

Spencer leaned back, perplexed. In their last fight, Ali had told Spencer that she and Ian were together, and that Ian only kissed Spencer because Ali made him. Why, then, did Ian always seem so flirty with Spencer? "Did my sister know you hooked up with Ali?"

Ian scoffed. "Of course not. You know how jealous she gets."

Spencer stared out over Lexington Avenue, counting ten yellow taxis in a tow. "So were you and Melissa really together the whole night Ali went missing?"

Ian leaned back on his elbows, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "You Hastings girls are something. Melissa's been talking about that night too. I think she's nervous that cop is going to find out that we were drinking, since we were underage. But so what? It was over four years ago. No one's going to bust u for it now."

"She's been…nervous?" Spencer whispered, her eyes widening.

Ian lowered her eyes seductively. "Why don't you forget about all that Rosewood stuff for a little while? He brushed Spencer's hair off her forehead. "Let's just make out instead."

Desire teemed through her. Ian's face came closer and closer, blocking out Spencer's view of the buildings across the street. His hand kneaded her knee. "We shouldn't do this," she whispered. "It's not right."

"Sure it is," Ian whispered back.

And then, there was another knock on her adjoining door.

"Spencer?" Melissa's voice was thick. "Are you there?"

Spencer sprang out of bed, knocking her books and notes to the floor. "Y-yeah."

"Do you know where Ian went?" her sister called.

When she heard Melissa turning the adjoining door's knob, Spencer frantically gestured Ian toward the front door. He leaped off the bed, straightened his clothes, and slipped out of the room, just as Melissa pushed the door open.

Her sister had shoved her black silk sleeping mask onto her forehead and wore striped Kate Spade pajama pants and bottoms. She raised her nose slightly to the air, almost as if she was sniffing for Kiehl's Pineapple Papaya. "Why is your room so much bigger than mine?" Melissa finally said.

They both heard the mechanical sound of Ian's key card sliding into his door. Melissa turned around, her hair swinging. "Oh, there you are. Where'd you go?"

"To the vending machines." Ian's voice was buttery and smooth. Melissa shut the adjoining door without even saying good-bye.

Spencer flopped back on the bed. "So close," she groaned loudly, although, she hoped, not loud enough for Melissa and Ian to hear.