Twenty-One: An Offer She Can't Refuse.

Two afternoons later, Ali and Spencer sat at Spencer's dining room table, watching the rain stream down the windows. They'd cleared some of the china plates, napkins, and candlesticks off the table—Mrs. Hastings was the type who always had the table set so she could wine-and-dine a guest at a moment's notice—to make way for Ali's laptop and a stack of index cards. They were using Ali's iTunes to pick a playlist for the impromptu end-of-school party Ali had put together for Friend. The flash cards contained vocabulary words for their English final tomorrow.

"Okay, megalomaniac," Spencer said.

Ali tapped the chair back. "Is that a band or a vocab word?"

Spencer giggled. "Vocab, silly."

Ali threw up her hands. "You got me."

Spencer flipped the card over. "Someone who had delusional fantasies of power, relevance, and omnipotence."

"Got it," Ali said, turning away. That definition reminded her of someone: her psychotic sister. Wanting to be the only DiLaurentis girl. Pushing her out of the family by any means possible. And now they were bringing her back.

It was six days, one hour, and twenty-three minutes—roughly—until her sister returned, and Ali had no idea what to do about it. Worse, her family had thrown themselves into preparing for her twin's return: getting a new quilt for the guest bedroom, buying her a laptop and a desk, inquiring about membership for her at the Rosewood Country Club. Setting up an account at the Rosewood pharmacy so they could easily refill her meds. Mrs. DiLaurentis had even had the balls to ask Ali if she had any clothes that wouldn't mind giving up—"Courtney" probably needed a few things to start her off. As if Ali was really going to let her wear jeans and T-shirts! It was incredible: Even though her parents believed the girl in the hospital was the real Courtney, they were still treating her better than they'd ever treated Ali when she was there.

She'd tossed and turned all night, having nightmares about the corridors of the Preserve and the moans she used to hear at the Radley. Could her sister prove, unequivocally, that Ali had lied for all these years—and forced her to take her place in the Preserve? And what could Ali do if she did? It was true, after all.

"Ali?"

Spencer was staring at her, a pencil hovering halfway between her mouth and the paper. Her blue eyes were wide, and strands of hair come loose from her ponytail. "I asked if you thought Nas would work for the playlist."

"Oh." Ali spun her initial ring around her finger. "That sounds good."

Spencer cocked her head. "Are you okay?"

"Of course!" Ali blurted. Then she shrugged. "I just had a crappy night's sleep last night. Jason was playing his awful music again; you know how that goes."

Spencer flipped a page of the textbook. The grandfather clock in the hall banged out the hour. Just as Ali's mind started to wander into the wasteland of hysteria once more, Spencer slapped the book shut and looked at her phone. "Yes," she whispered, tapping the screen.

Ali looked up. "What is it?"

Spencer smiled slyly. "Nothing."

Ali shifted her chair over to get a peek, but Spencer hid the screen with her hand. Not before Ali could see Ian Thomas's name at the top of a text message, though. "You're texting Ian," Ali stated.

Spencer placed her phone face down on the table. "Maybe I am."

Ali stared at her, shocked by the snarky, haughty tone of voice Spencer was using. That tone was reserved for her and only her. She held Spencer's gaze for several beats. She was not going to ask Spencer about this. She was not stooping so low that she had to beg.

Just as she thought, after a few seconds, Spencer's tough exterior cracked. "Okay, okay. You know how I've had that crush on Ian? He and I kissed on my driveway a little while ago." She cuffed Ali's arm playfully. "Which puts me ahead in the older boy-kissing competition."

Ali kept her features composed. "Hmm," she said tepidly.

Spencer twirled the pencil in her hands. "I think he wants me bad. He was all over me." She gave Ali a smug little smile. "So now I'm wondering what to do. Should I call him? Wait for him to come to me? It's going to happen again—I just know it. But I don't know how to play things. Maybe I should invite him to your party? What do you think?"

Ali's mouth fell open. Was Spencer serious? Did she honestly think the Ian thing was for real, that it was going to continue? He was dating her sister. She glanced at an old picture of Melissa on the wall, for a moment feeling bad for her. Then she pictures that man reaching across and touching her mom's face. That man who was possibly her father, some asshole not even big enough to admit that she was his. How dare her mother never tell her this! How dare she kept it a secret from the entire family! What if Ali wanted to meet this guy, wanted to know where she truly came from? Did she matter in all this? She felt like she did at Radley—forgotten, second-best, an impediment instead of something to nurture and cherish. Bitch.

She felt that same black, gummy nastiness she'd felt with Aria the other day ooze over her. She turned to the row of photographs along the wall instead, grabbing the big frame of Melissa's senior picture. "That's a pretty foul thing to do to your sister, Spence," she said. "He's your sister's boyfriend."

Spencer squinted. "So?"

Ali looked into Melissa's eyes in the photograph. They were the same blue as her own. "I know you hate her, but that's low, even for you."

"But you told me to go for him!" Spencer bellowed, her voice cracking.

Ali frowned. "No, I didn't."

Now Spencer was on her feet. "Yes, you did! Don't you remember Melissa's party? You said, You should totally go for him. All's fair in love and war."

Ali crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, I've changed my mind. And anyway, I didn't think you'd actually do it."

Spencer stopped over to the corner of the room and aimlessly stared out the window. The view was of Melissa's barn. There was a light on inside; Melissa must have been home. "I really like him," she said tremulously, her eyes glistening with tears. "I thought you'd be happy for me."

Ali sighed and stood up. "I'd be happier if you liked someone else."

Realization washed across Spencer's face. "Do you like him?"

Ali shook her head sharply. "No. I just think it's wrong. And I think you should tell Melissa what you did."

"I can't!"

Ali sank into one hip. "Yes, you can, Spence. And if you don't, I will."

Spencer's eyes searched Ali's face as if she'd never seen her before. After a moment, she turned to the side and let out a small shriek. "Maybe I don't need you as a friend anymore," she growled through gritted teeth.

Ali laughed. "C'mon, Spence. You'd be nothing without me."

"That's not friendship. I'm tired of you always trying to be better than me."

Ali snorted but didn't take the bait. "Besides, if we're no longer friends, then I have absolutely no reason not to tell Melissa what happened. I'm only keeping my mouth shut because I care about you so very much." She blinked innocently.

Spencer ran a hand down her forehead. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She walked over to her books, gathered them up in her arms, and marched angrily out of the room, dropping a few index cards as she went. She didn't come back to pick them up, and Ali stared at her neat, even handwriting. Svengali, it said. Definition: a person who, with evil intent, controls another person by persuasion or deceit. The Svengali may feign kindness and use manipulation to get the other person to yield his or her autonomy.

That's me, Ali thought grimly. It's who my family has turned me into.

She walked through the bushes and into her yard. But just as she was about to open the front door to her house, her skin prickled. It felt like there was someone standing behind her, watching, but when she turned, the street was empty. She narrowed her eyes at the Cavanaughs' house across the street. The blinds were drawn. No lights were on.

Something fluttered out of the doorjamb and fell to her feet. She bent down, picked it up, and frowned at the Polaroid photo before her. It was the picture she'd taken of herself and Ian at Romeo and Juliet a few weeks before. Only now there was red-lipsticked writing over her and Ian's smiling faces. Ali drew in a breath as she read the message, then looked around once more.

"Hello?" she said quietly, her voice cracking. "Ali?" No answer.

Swallowing hard, she looked down at the message once more. You're dead, bitch, it said, in handwriting that looked eerily like her sister's.