Three: If Only Someone Had Scammed Spencer Years Ago…

As the dim, midwinter Sunday sun disappeared over the horizon, Spencer stood in her family's backyard, surveying the fire's destruction. Her mother stood next to her; her eye makeup was smudged, her foundation blotchy, and her hair limp—she hadn't gotten her daily blowout from Uri, her hairdresser, this morning. Spencer's dad was there too, for once without his Bluetooth headset fastened to his ear. His mouth wobbled slightly, as if he was trying to hold in a sob.

Everything around them was ruined. The towering, old-growth trees were blackened and battered, and a stinky gray haze hung over the treetops. The family's windmill was now not much more than a carcass, the blades charred, the latticework splintered and crumbled. The Hastingses' lawn was crisscrossed with tire treads from the emergency vehicles that had rushed to the fire. Cigarette butts, empty Starbucks cups, and even a drained can of beer were strewn across the grass, remnants of the rubberneckers who had swarmed the scene and lingered long after Spencer and the others had been taken to the ER.

But the worst, most heartbreaking result of the fire was what it had done to the family's barn apartment, which had been standing since 1756. Half the structure was still intact, though the wood siding, once cherry red, was not a charred, toxic gray. Most of the roof was missing, all of the leaded glass in the windows had blown out, and the front door was a pile of ash. Spencer could see straight through the empty shell into the barn's great room. There was a huge puddle of water on the Brazilian cherrywood floor, left over from the gallons of water the firemen had pumped into the barn. The four-poster bed, plush leather couch, and mahogany coffee table were ruined. So was the desk where Spencer, Emily, and Hanna had gathered just the night before, IMing Ian about who really killed Ali.

Only, it looked like Jason and Wilden weren't Ali's murderers. Which meant Spencer was back to knowing absolutely nothing.

She turned away from the barn, her eyes tearing up from the gas fumes. Closer to the house was the spot where she and her friends had collapsed on the lawn after running from the flames. Like the rest of the yard, it was littered with trash and soot, and the grass was scrubby and dead. There was nothing special about it at all, no magical indication that Ali had been there. Then again, Ali hadn't been there—they'd hallucinated her. It had been nothing more than a side effect of inhaling too much smoke. Workers had found her decomposed body in the DiLaurentises' old backyard months ago.

"I'm so sorry," Spencer whispered as a piece of red roofing dislodged itself from the barn and tumbled to the ground with a thud.

Slowly, Mrs. Hastings reached out and grabbed Spencer's hand. Mr. Hastings touched her shoulder. Before Spencer knew it, both her parents were wrapping their arms around her, engulfing her in a shaking,blubbering hug. "I don't know what we would have done if something had happened to you," Mrs. Hastings cried.

"When we saw the fire, and then when we heard you might be hurt…" Mr. Hastings trailed off.

"None of this matters," Mrs. Hastings went on, her voice thick with sobs. "All of this could've burned down. At least we still have you."

Spencer clung to her parents, her breath catching in her bruised throat.

In the past twenty-four hours, her parents had been beyond wonderful to her. They'd sat by her hospital bed all night, hyper-vigilantly watching Spencer's chest rise and fall with every ragged breath. They'd bugged the nurses about getting Spencer water as soon as she wanted it, pain pills as soon as she needed them, and warmer blankets when she felt cold. When the doctor discharged her this afternoon, they'd taken her to the Creamery, her favorite ice cream parlor in Old Hollis, and bought her a double scoop of maple chip. It was a big change—for years, they'd treated her like the unwanted kid they begrudgingly let live in their home. And when she'd recently come clean about plagiarizing her award-winning Golden Orchid essay from her perfect sister, Melissa, they'd basically excommunicated her.

Only now there really was a reason for them to hate her, and the minute Spencer told them, their concern their rare show of love, would vanish. Spencer squeezed them hard, savoring the very last moment they'd probably ever speak to her again. She'd put his off for as long as she possibly could, but she had to tell them sometime.

She stepped back and squared her shoulders. "There's something you need to know," she admitted, her voice hoarse from the smoky air.

"Is it about Alison?" Mrs. Hastings's voice swooped. "Because, Spence—"

Spencer shook her head, cutting her off. "No. Something else."

She gazed at the blackened branches high in the sky. Then the truth spilled out in rapid succession. How, after Spencer's grandmother, Nana Hastings, didn't leave Spencer any money in her will, Melissa suggested Spencer might have been adopted. How Spencer registered with an online adoption site and just days later received a message that her birth mother had been found. How her visit with Olivia Caldwell in New York had been so wonderful that Spencer decided she wanted to move to the city permanently. Spencer just kept talking afraid that if she stopped, she'd burst into tears. She didn't dare look at her parents, either, for fear their devastated expressions would break her heart.

"She had left behind her real estate agent's card, so I called and gave him my college savings account number to cover the security deposit and first month's rent," Spencer went on, curling her toes inside her gray suede slouch boots. She could barely get the words out.

A squirrel scuttled in the grimy underbrush. Her father groaned. Her mother squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hand to her forehead. Spencer's heart sank. Here we go. Commence Operation: You're Not Our Daughter Anymore. "You can guess what happened next." She sighed, gazing at a tall birdhouse near the deck. Not a single bird had approached it since they'd been out here. "The broker was obviously working with Olivia, and they cleaned out the account and disappeared." She swallowed hard.

The backyard was silent and still. Now that the sunlight was almost gone, the barn looked like a ghost town relic, the dark windows like hollow eye sockets in a skull. Spencer sneaked a peek at her parents. Her dad was pale. Her mom sucked in her cheeks, as if she'd swallowed something sour. They exchanged a nervous look, then checked the front yard, perhaps scanning for press vans. Reporters had been pulling up to the house all day, grilling Spencer about whether she'd really seen Ali.

Her dad took a deep breath. "Spencer, the money doesn't matter."

Spencer blinked, startled.

"We can trace what happened to it," Mr. Hastings explained, wringing his hands. "It's possible we'll be able to get it back." He gazed off at the weather vane on top of the roof. "But…well, we should have seen it coming too."

Spencer frowned, wondering if her brain was screwed up from inhaling residual fumes from the fire. "W-what?"

Her dad shifted his weight and glanced at his wife. "I knew we should've told her years ago, Veronica," he mumbled.

"I didn't know this was going to happen," Spencer's mom squeaked, raising her hands. The air was so chilly, her breath came out in visible puffs.

"Tell me what?" Spencer pressed. Her heart started to thud. When she breathed in, all she could smell was ash.

"We should go inside," Mrs. Hastings said distractedly. "It's awfully cold out here."

"Tell me what?" Spencer repeated, planting her feet. She wasn't going anywhere.

Her mother paused for a long time. A creaking noise sounded from inside the barn. Finally, Mrs. Hastings sat down on one of the enormous boulders that peppered the big backyard. "Honey, Olivia did give birth to you."

Spencer's eyes widened. "What?"

"Kind of gave birth to you," Mr. Hastings corrected.

Spencer took a step back, a brittle twig snapping under her boot. "So I was really adopted? Olivia was telling the truth?" Is this why I feel so different from you guys? Is this why you've always preferred Melissa—because I'm not really your daughter?

Mrs. Hastings spun the three-carat diamond on her finger. Somewhere deep in the woods, a tree branch fell to the ground with an earsplitting crack. "This certainly isn't something I thought we'd discuss today." She took a Zen-centering breath, shook out her hands, and raised her head. Mr. Hastings rubbed his gloved hands together fast. Suddenly, they both looked so clueless. Not like the always-poised, absolutely-in-control parents Spencer knew so well.

"Melissa's delivery was complicated." Mrs. Hastings drummed her hands on the slick, heavy boulder. Her eyes flickered to the front of the house for a moment, watching as a battered Honda slowed at their driveway. Curious neighbors had been circling the cul-de-sac all afternoon. "The doctors told me that giving birth to another child could endanger my health. But we wanted another baby, so we ended up using a surrogate. Basically…we used my egg and your dad's…you know." She lowered her eyes, too demure and proper to say sperm aloud. "But we needed a woman to carry the baby—you—for us. So we found Olivia."

"We screened her thoroughly to make sure she was healthy." Mr. Hastings sat down next to his wife on the rock, barely noticing that his handmade A. Testoni loafers had sunk into the sooty mud. "She seemed to fit what we wanted, and she seemed to want us to have you. Only, toward the end of her pregnancy, she started to get…demanding. She wanted more money from us. She threatened to escape to Canada and keep you for herself."

"So we paid her more," Mrs. Hastings blurted. She put her blond head on her hands. "And in the end, she did give you up, obviously. It's just…after how possessive she became, we didn't want you to have any contact with her. We decided that the best thing we could do was keep it a secret from you—because, really, you are ours."

"But some people didn't get that," Mr. Hastings said, rubbing his salt-and-pepper hair. His cell phone rang in his pocket, playing the first few bars of Beethoven's Fifth. He ignored it. "Like Nana. She thought it was unnatural, and she never forgave us for doing it. When Nana's will said she was only giving money to her 'natural-born grandchildren,' we should have come clean. It seems like Olivia has been waiting for a moment like this all along."

The wind calmed down, coming to an eerie standstill. The Hastingses' dogs, Rufus and Beatrice, clawed at the back door, eager to get out and see what the family was doing. Spencer gaped at her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings looked ragged and exhausted, like admitting this had taken everything out of them. It was obvious this was something they hadn't talked about in a long time. Spencer looked back and forth at them, trying to process it all. Their words made sense individually, but not as a whole. "So Olivia carried me," she repeated slowly. A shiver went up her spine that had nothing to do with the wind.

"Yes," Mrs. Hastings said. "But we're your family, Spencer. You're ours."

"We wanted you so badly, and Olivia was our only option," Mr. Hastings said, gazing up at the purplish clouds. "Lately we seem to have lost sight of how important we all are to one another. And after everything you've gone through with Ian and Alison and this fire…" He shook his head, staring again at the barn and then at the ruined woods beyond. A crow screeched and circled overhead. "We should have been there for you. We never wanted you to think you weren't loved."

Her mother tentatively took Spencer's hand and squeezed. "What if we…start fresh? Could we try that? Could you forgive us?"

The wind gusted again and the smell of smoke intensified. A couple of black leaves blew across the lawn into Ali's yard, coming to a stop near the half-dug hole where Ali's body had been found. Spencer fiddled with the plastic hospital bracelet that still circled her wrist, oscillating from shock to compassion to anger. In the past six months, her parents had taken away Spencer's barn apartment living privileges and let Melissa stay there instead, cut off her credit cards, sold her car, and told her on more than one occasion that she was dead to them. Damn right I haven't felt like I had a real family, she wanted to scream. Damn right you haven't been there for me! And now they wanted to just wipe the slate clean?

Her mother chewed on her lip, twisting a twig she'd picked up off the ground in her hands. Her father seemed to be holding his breath. This was Spencer's decision to make. She could choose to never forgive them, to stamp her foot and stay angry…but then she saw the pain and regret in their faces. They really meant it. They wanted her to forgive them more than anything. Wasn't this what she wanted most in the world—parents who loved and wanted her?

"Yes," Spencer said. "I forgive you."

Her parents let out an audible sigh and wrapped their arms around her. Her dad kissed the top of Spencer's head, his skin smelling like his favorite Kiehl's aftershave.

Spencer felt like she was floating outside her body. Just yesterday, when she'd discovered her college savings were gone, she'd assumed her life was over. She'd actually thought A was behind it all and had punished Spencer for not trying hard enough to track hard enough to track down Ali's true killer. But losing that money might have been the best thing that could have happened.

As her parents stood back and appraised their younger daughter, Spencer attempted a wobbly smile. They wanted her. They really wanted her. Then, a slow, roiling wind blew through the yard and another familiar scent tickled her nose. It smelled like…vanilla soap, the kind Ali always used to use. Spencer flinched and the horrifying image of Ali covered, choking on flames, sped back.

She shut her eyes, willing the vision out of her head. No. Ali was dead. She had hallucinated her. And that was that.