Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Feburary 2012

“In the case of the State of Pennsylvania versus Spencer Hastings,” the judge intones, voice measured but not unkind, “for the murder of Alison DiLaurentis - ”

Spencer does not flinch. She already knows the words. Has rehearsed them in her head, heard them whispered in her nightmares, etched them into her bones.

“- as the defendant has already pleaded guilty on all counts, it comes to me, the Judge, to provide an adequate sentence for this matter. I have taken into account all factors, including the severity of the crime and the age of the defendant, and hereby sentence Spencer Hastings to imprisonment for twenty-five years, with a non-parole period of fifteen.”

The courtroom exhales.

Spencer does not.

She stands when prompted, legs stiff, posture perfect in the way she was taught. A good little Hastings. Her gaze drops to the polished wood of the defense table. Her pulse is a dull echo in her ears. Behind her, she hears it. Hanna's breath catches, a sharp sound like someone punched her in the stomach. Emily is crying softly, and Aria whispers something under her breath. Spencer doesn’t turn to look.

She knows what she’ll see if she does.

She will see pain. She will see loyalty, unshaken even after everything. And worst of all, she will see hope, the kind that claws at her like guilt.

They believe she’s innocent. They always have. They came here today thinking they could still change her mind, that they could talk her out of whatever this is. But Spencer is committed to her silence. 

She has to be. 

It is the only way this ends.

The girls were never going to be like her parents. Her parents didn’t demand explanations or offer comfort. They cut her off. Completely. All they gave her was a cold, competent lawyer and a quiet disappearance from her life. As if Spencer had already ceased to be their daughter.

A part of her wishes they had screamed at her. That they had demanded to know what had happened to their brilliant, promising daughter. But they had always cared more about optics than truth.

The judge is still speaking, finishing the formalities that will seal her fate. The deputy approaches, and Spencer holds out her wrists automatically. The metal cuffs click into place again, biting against her skin like they belong there.

She doesn’t fight it.

She doesn’t cry.

She just follows the deputy as he leads her from the courtroom, her eyes fixed on the scuffed floor beneath her feet.

Behind her, the world she knew is unraveling. The friends she would have died for are breaking in real time. She hears Emily call her name once, broken and terrified. Spencer flinches.

But she doesn’t stop.

She walks.

This is the choice she made.

It was not the truth, but it was necessary.

And choices, in this town, always cost something.

Chapter Text

March 2027

The clothes itch.

The denim pants are too short at the ankles, and the white long-sleeved shirt clings in all the wrong places. The fabric is stiff, unyielding, like it was washed one too many times in water that was far too hot. Prison-issue. No one is supposed to look good in them, only decent enough to be released back into the world.

Spencer stands at the edge of the road just outside the prison gates, her back to the gray cement walls that held her for fifteen years. Her fingers grip the thin packet of paperwork that tells the world she’s done her time. In her other hand, a flimsy plastic bag swings slightly in the breeze, half-transparent and pitiful. It holds everything she owns now, a second shirt, two sizes too large, a worn paperback mystery novel with cracked spine and yellowed pages, and her old wallet. Her ID is still inside, still shows a much younger Spencer Hastings staring blankly ahead with hollow eyes and carefully flat hair. It doesn’t look like her anymore. It probably never did.

She walked out the same way she walked in. 

Alone.

No one knows she’s leaving today. Not the media, not her family, and not the girls. She made sure of that. The release date was delayed once, then pulled forward without warning. Bureaucracy in motion. She let it happen without protest.

They used to try. The girls. In the beginning, when the trial was still fresh in everyone’s minds and her guilt felt like something that could still be reasoned with, they tried to visit. They drove all the way out to the prison, every weekend for the first few months. But Spencer never added them to the visitor list. She couldn’t. Seeing them would have shattered the carefully built narrative she clung to like armor.

After that came the letters.

So many letters.

Emily's were soft and hopeful. Hanna's were short and biting, filled with anger she couldn't direct anywhere else. And Aria's… Aria’s were the hardest to ignore. She kept writing even after the others gave up. Every few weeks. Neatly folded paper, pressed with that quiet, yearning sort of love that never quite fades. Spencer read them all. She kept them hidden under her mattress, re-reading them when the nights grew too long and the silence clawed at her.

But she never answered. Not once.

Eventually, the letters stopped.

The bus arrives in a low groan of brakes and exhaust, wobbling slightly as it hisses to a stop in front of her. The paint is faded, streaked with grime, and the windows are clouded with a thin film of dust. The door folds open with a mechanical wheeze.

Spencer climbs the steps slowly, her legs stiff from standing too long in one place. She hands the driver her ticket without a word. He doesn’t say anything either, just glances at her ID, nods, and jerks his chin toward the back of the bus. She moves down the narrow aisle, brushing past empty seats until she finds one by the window.

She sits.

The seat fabric is scratchy against her palms. It smells faintly of old cigarettes and something sweeter, maybe air freshener or fast food. She leans her head against the cool glass and watches the prison fade in the side mirror as the bus rumbles back onto the road.

The ride is long and quiet. The landscape shifts from rural dead space to fractured stretches of highway. Strip malls. Gas stations. Billboards advertising lawyers and liquor stores and cash-for-gold shops. Spencer presses her fingers against her thigh in rhythm with the hum of the tires. She doesn’t speak. No one else boards.

By the time the city skyline appears, it feels more like a shadow than a promise.

Philadelphia is gray under an overcast sky, the kind that promises rain but never quite delivers. The bus winds through cracked streets lined with sagging buildings. Trash collects at the curbs. Paint peels from doorframes and the sidewalks are littered with old flyers, cigarette butts, and the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but tired.

The apartment complex is worse than she expected.

Two buildings, both three stories, sit hunched behind a leaning chain-link fence. The bricks are faded, windows streaked with grime. One of the stair railings is held in place with duct tape. There’s a rusted mailbox nailed crooked to the wall near the entryway, stuffed with uncollected junk mail.

The bus driver says nothing when she steps off. The door creaks shut behind her, and the vehicle pulls away, leaving behind a gust of dust and the low growl of its engine disappearing into traffic.

Spencer stares at the front door of the complex. A single lightbulb above it flickers, casting dull yellow patches across the concrete.

She grips the plastic bag a little tighter.

This is where the state sends her. A place that barely looks safe enough to stand in, let alone live in. But it’s hers, at least for now.

Fifteen years ago, she stood in a courtroom and lied to protect the girls. Now she stands here with nothing but a bag of scraps and a heart full of memories she can’t afford to unpack.

She walks to the door, keys from the packet crinkling in her hand, and pushes her way inside.

Tomorrow, she meets her paole officer and then needs to make her way across town to the job she accepted as one of the conditions for her release.

But tonight, all she wants is to sleep without someone screaming in the dark.

The morning sun barely filters through the cracked blinds, casting a dull strip of light across the room. Gray clouds hang low in the sky, the air outside still heavy from last night’s humidity. Inside, the shrill beep of the alarm clock slices through the quiet. It’s one of those old models with thick red digits and plastic buttons that stick. The kind you forget exists until someone hands it to you in a cardboard box labeled "essentials."

Spencer turns it off with a sluggish hand and stares at the ceiling for a long moment. The apartment is still, too still. It doesn’t feel like a place meant for living. Just surviving.

She slept on the mattress without sheets. None were provided when she moved in, and she doesn’t have money for anything extra. Not yet. The vinyl cover sticks to the back of her legs, and she winces as she swings them over the side. She sits at the edge of the bed for a few seconds, breathing slowly. The room is cold, the air thick with stillness. Her bare feet press against the floor and she winces at how rough it feels. Not dirty, exactly, just unwelcoming.

Her parole officer meeting is at nine. She knows she can’t be late. The rules were drilled into her before she even walked out of the prison gates. Show up on time. Be honest. Don’t make waves. Any mistake, any misstep, and she could find herself back in the same place she spent half her life trying not to fall apart in.

She stands and moves across the room toward the small pile of clothes she left on the chair last night. There is no closet, only a single hook screwed into the wall. The same jeans from yesterday are folded as neatly as she could manage. The fabric is stiff and smells faintly of institutional detergent, but they’re all she has. Her only other shirt, a pale gray tee with a tiny hole near the hem, is draped over the back of the chair. She slips it on, wincing as the cold fabric brushes her skin.

It feels strange to get dressed without looking for shoes to match or a bag to throw over her shoulder. She used to think about outfits in layers. Blazers, cardigans, accessories. It was all part of the image. The armor.

Now her choices consist of one shirt or the other. Jeans or nothing.

Her eyes flick toward the small mirror nailed crookedly to the wall above the rust-stained sink. She stands in front of it, brushing her teeth with a dollar store toothbrush she bought yesterday at the corner store. No hot water. Just a shock of cold that jolts her more than the alarm ever could.

She stares at her reflection.

There’s a scar on her left cheek, just under the eye. It’s long since healed, the skin there slightly paler and smoother than the rest of her face, but it’s still visible. A quiet reminder of a fight she didn’t start and couldn’t afford to lose. She got it in her third year inside, just before they transferred her to the medium-security wing. She learned quickly that silence wasn't always protection, and that sometimes you had to fight just to stay whole.

The scar doesn’t hurt anymore, but it makes her face look different. Older. Like she’s carrying something people don’t want to ask about.

Her gaze shifts to her wallet on the table. It’s worn at the edges, still the same one she had the day she turned herself in. She opens it out of habit, even though there’s barely anything inside. Her ID sits in the plastic sleeve, untouched since the day she left. The photo is almost alien to her now. Young, stiff, trying too hard to look composed. A girl who hadn’t yet learned how long fifteen years could stretch.

She tucks the wallet into her pocket, then grabs the thin folder of paperwork she’s supposed to bring to the parole meeting. She holds it close to her chest, the edges already curling slightly from being handled so much.

On the corner of the kitchen counter, a few dollar bills sit folded beside the empty granola bar wrappers from last night. The last of what she has. She earned it inside, working in the laundry and library for ten cents an hour. Fifteen years of folding sheets and scrubbing mildew, and all she had to show for it was this thin cushion of bills and a handful of worn-out clothes. Most of her earnings went to commissary items. Soap. Toothpaste. Books, when she could afford them. And even then, it was never enough.

She glances once more around the apartment. The yellowed walls. The ceiling fan that doesn’t work. The stain in the corner she’s trying not to think about. Nothing here feels safe or settled.

But it’s hers. For now.

She unlocks the door and steps into the hallway. It smells like mildew and cigarette smoke. Someone is cooking something that reeks of grease and garlic. A baby is crying behind a nearby door. She walks carefully, her worn out shoes echoing softly on the peeling tile. The stair rail shakes beneath her hand as she descends.

Outside, the air is cool and damp. The sidewalk is slick from overnight rain, the clouds still hanging heavy above the low buildings. She heads for the corner, where the bus stop sign leans slightly sideways. A man sleeping under a blanket stirs on the bench but doesn’t look up as she passes.

When the bus arrives, she climbs on, flashes the transfer ticket she picked up yesterday, and finds a seat near the back. The windows are streaked with grime and the seat fabric itches. She presses her forehead to the glass and watches the city slide past. Cracked sidewalks. Graffiti-tagged fences. Strangers moving quickly with purpose while she floats through it all like she doesn’t belong.

She doesn’t know what her parole officer will be like. Strict, probably. Tired. Already guessing what kind of person she is. She’s not sure what version of herself she’ll need to be to make it through this first meeting, but she knows she’ll find it.

She always does.

And if she can make it through fifteen years, she can make it through one more hour.

Probably.

Chapter Text

Spencer arrives fifteen minutes early. Of course she does.

Being early is better than being on time. That was a rule drilled into her long before prison, part of the Hastings brand of perfection. She had absorbed it like oxygen. You showed up sharp, prepared, polished. Even after fifteen years in prison, some habits never leave you. Others dig deeper into your bones.

The parole office sits in the middle of Philadelphia’s central business district, surrounded by glass towers and steel. The streets are packed with people who move like clockwork, heels clicking, briefcases swinging, coffee cups steaming in the cold morning air. Spencer watches them with a strange detachment, as if through glass.

This is the life she could have had. 

Should have had. 

If she had finished her senior year. If she had followed the path laid out for her: UPenn, law school, internships with judges, cocktail parties with people who said words like legacy and clerkship. That could have been her, walking with purpose at 8:30 in the morning, with nothing heavier than deadlines and overpriced rent.

If A had never existed. If she hadn’t made the deal that tore everything away.

But she doesn’t regret the deal. Not really. It ruined her, yes. But if it kept the others safe, if it buried A and bought them even a fraction of a normal life, then she would make the same choice again. 

She stands in front of the building, her parole papers tucked into the pocket of her jeans, then steps inside and presses the elevator button with steady fingers. The ride to the twelfth floor is silent except for the low buzz of fluorescent lights. The hallway beyond smells of stale air and weak coffee.

Inside the parole office, the space is plain. Beige walls. Gray carpet. Plastic seating in a tired little waiting area. A receptionist with tired eyes glances at her ID, nods, and gestures toward an open seat. Three others are already waiting: two men and one woman, all dressed in mismatched thrift-store layers, all wearing that same guarded expression Spencer recognizes too well. She scans them out of habit, measuring posture, attitude, distance. Assessing for threat.

She picks a seat closest to the door and folds her hands in her lap.

Her appointment is at 9:00. She’s called in at 9:30.

The door finally opens, and a woman with a clipboard steps out. “Spencer Hastings?”

Spencer stands, smooths the front of her shirt, and walks into the office without a word.

The woman gestures for her to sit, then rounds the desk and sinks into her chair with a small sigh. Her nameplate says Laura Reeves. The desk between them is cluttered with paperwork and files, many stacked so precariously that a breeze could send them flying.

“Sorry for the delay,” Laura says, brushing some hair behind her ear. Her gaze flicks down to Spencer’s forearms, noting the faint track lines, traces of what once marked darker days. She doesn’t linger. “I’m Laura, and I’m your parole officer.”

Spencer nods, her face unreadable. A tight smile. The kind that means nothing but helps things move along.

Laura leans forward slightly, her voice firm. “You’ve been granted supervised re-entry into the community. Let me be very clear about this. You are not free. This is a conditional release. One mistake, one rule broken, and you go back. You’ll serve the rest of your sentence inside. No court date. No appeals. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Spencer answers quietly.

“I want to help you succeed,” Laura says, voice firmer now. “But I’m not here to coddle you. I’ve seen girls like you try to cheat the system, lie to themselves, fall back into patterns. I’ve also seen girls make it out. If you want to be one of them, listen carefully.”

She pulls a stapled sheet from a folder and slides it across the desk. “These are your terms. They’ll last for the next two years. If you complete those without incident, you’ll transition to a lower-risk category. Fewer check-ins. More freedom. But that is not where we start.”

Spencer takes the paper. Her fingers curl around it as Laura begins to speak.

“You must be inside your assigned residence by 11 p.m. every night. That’s non-negotiable. If you’re even ten minutes late and don’t call ahead with a valid reason, that’s a violation.”

Spencer nods silently, eyes on the page.

“You’ll submit to random drug and alcohol tests. Any use of controlled substances, even marijuana or a single glass of wine, is grounds for re-incarceration. No exceptions.”

She expected that. It still makes her stomach twist.

“You may not associate with other convicted felons or anyone currently under investigation or supervision. That includes contact in person, by phone, or online. You’ve been placed in a transitional work program,” Laura continues, flipping to the next page in her notes. “You’ll report to an entry-level carpentry job downtown. The supervisor there knows your history and has agreed to take you on. Show up on time, work your hours, no exceptions.”

Spencer’s breath catches. Carpentry. She thinks of Toby who had vanished like a wisp of smoke after she turned herself in. Never reached out, nothing, just gone. She nods anyway.

“You’ll contribute fifty percent of your wages to the Victim Support Fund,” Laura continues. “This is non-negotiable. It’s part of your release agreement.”

Spencer’s throat tightens. It’s fair. She knows it’s fair. But even so, the thought of giving up half of her already tiny paycheck sends a wave of anxiety through her chest. She nods anyway.

“You’ll check in with me once a month in person, and you’ll answer phone calls and emails within twenty-four hours. If your address, employment, or schedule changes, you notify me immediately. No delays.”

Laura’s voice softens slightly as she finishes. “That’s it, for now. Do you have any questions?”

Spencer shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I understand.”

Laura studies her for a moment, as if trying to read what sits behind Spencer’s eyes. After a moment, she nods.

“Okay, pick up the address for your work assignment at reception,” Laura says, already looking back down at the paperwork on her desk, the conversation clearly over.

Spencer waits a beat, expecting something more. A goodbye. A wish for luck. Anything to ease the tightness in her chest. But Laura does not look up again.

Right. That’s it, then.

Spencer turns without a word and walks out of the office, the door clicking shut behind her. She heads back through the drab hallway to the reception desk, where a woman with thin-framed glasses slides an envelope across the counter without meeting her eye.

Inside is a printed sheet with the address of her work assignment. Some carpentry workshop across town. The name means nothing to her, but the street sounds vaguely familiar.

She folds the paper and tucks it into her back pocket, then steps outside into the gray afternoon light. The city air is brisk and biting, but at least it isn't raining. She heads toward the bus stop and the traffic hums by in waves, the sidewalks beginning to empty now that the early rush is over.

Her shift starts at 2 p.m. and it’s just past 11. She has time, not that she has anywhere else to be.

She pauses under a streetlamp and pulls out her wallet, flipping it open with stiff fingers. Inside are a few crumpled bills, forty-five dollars and some change. 

That is all she has. 

No credit cards.

No emergency fund. 

No family allowance.

This money has to last until she gets her first paycheck. And she has no idea when that will be.

Her stomach clenches with a cold anxiety. She needs so much. Food, clothes, basic toiletries. Sheets for the mattress she slept on bare last night. A towel would be nice. Maybe even a fork that isn’t made of plastic.

She mentally calculates as she waits for the bus. Two-minute noodles. Bread. A jar of peanut butter. That should be enough to stretch her through the week. Maybe longer if she skips a meal here and there. With the leftover money, she can check out the thrift shop a few blocks from her apartment and see if they have a jacket, and maybe two shirts that don’t smell like antiseptic and industrial soap.

The jeans she has will have to last. Even if they itch and pinch at her hips.

The bus rattles as it pulls up in front of her. She boards quietly and takes a seat toward the back. Her eyes drift to the window as the city passes by in fractured reflections of steel, glass, and graffiti-tagged brick.

It’s been so long since she was part of a world that moved like this. Everyone else seems to have somewhere to go, someone waiting for them. Spencer’s chest aches with the ghost of what she used to be. She imagines herself at eighteen, walking these streets in a blazer and ankle boots, carrying law school textbooks instead of a parole document. She would have fit right in.

Instead, she sits stiff and quiet, her posture too upright, her nerves coiled too tight. Even now, even here, she can’t shake the instincts she learned on the inside. 

Don’t slump. 

Don’t close your eyes. 

Don’t show weakness.

The ride is longer than she expects, winding through neighborhoods she’s never seen before. The buildings get smaller and rougher the farther the bus goes. Paint flakes off window sills. Storefront signs hang askew. A laundromat with a busted neon sign flickers like a bad memory.

When the driver calls her stop, she pulls the cord and stands, clutching her bag tightly. She steps down onto the sidewalk and looks up at the sign overhead.

Carter Woodworks.

The name is burned into a wooden slab hanging crooked above the door. The building itself is squat and long, with a rust-colored metal roof and faded siding. A few trucks are parked in the gravel lot. Through the open bay doors, she can see sawdust floating in the air and hear the whine of a table saw.

It smells like wood and oil and something sharp, like sweat baked into canvas.

Spencer adjusts the strap on her shoulder and heads toward the entrance. She squares her shoulders. Breathes in slowly.

She has no idea how to build anything.

But this is what they’ve given her. This is her chance to stay free. 

A might have put her in prison but she got herself out and she has no intention of ever going back. 

Chapter Text

“Our shifts are seven-thirty to five, Monday to Thursday. On Fridays we knock off early at two. Reckon you can handle that?” The owner, Jeff’s voice carries above the whirr of machinery and the dull thump of hammers in the background.

He doesn’t slow his stride as he talks, walking with the kind of grounded authority that comes from decades of hands-on work.

He’s upper middle-aged, broad through the shoulders with the kind of build that says he still lifts more than he should. His hair is a mess of silver and faded brown, tied back into a stubby ponytail at the nape of his neck. He wears heavy work boots, worn jeans stained with sawdust and oil, and a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows. There’s a tape measure clipped to his belt and his knuckles are scarred, calloused, stained from years of work that doesn’t wash off.

Spencer nods quickly, though he doesn’t bother looking back to check.

“You’ll start off working in the shop,” he continues, stepping over a power cable without breaking stride. “Eventually you’ll come to job sites with us, but not until I know you won’t injure yourself or make stupid mistakes.”

The words sting more than they should, but she swallows it down. He doesn’t say it with malice, just flat certainty. It’s a fact to him, not an insult. Still, Spencer feels her throat tighten at the reminder of just how far she’s fallen. Once upon a time, people trusted her to lead academic decathlons and legal debates. Now she has to prove she can be trusted with wood glue and a tape measure.

Jeff stops at a row of hooks by the wall and grabs a high-vis jacket, tossing it over his shoulder without warning. She fumbles the catch, nearly dropping it, and catches the faintest twitch in the corner of his mouth as he moves to grab a hard hat.

“You wear that at all times. In the shop. On site. No exceptions.” He holds the helmet out this time instead of throwing it. His eyes meet hers and she nods quickly, gripping the hat in both hands.

He nods once, satisfied, then gestures toward the main floor where the steady sound of tools echoes off the walls. Three men are working around a large cabinet, fitting pieces together like a puzzle.

Jeff finally stops walking.

“I know where you came from,” he says, voice low enough that only she can hear. “It’s up to you if anyone else finds out. I don’t care that you were in prison. All I care about is how you do your work. Do it well, and we’ll get along just fine.”

There’s no room for misinterpretation in his tone. He doesn’t say it like a warning, or even a kindness. Just policy. She nods again, quietly grateful that it isn’t more complicated than that.

Before she can say anything else, he raises his voice.

“Mitch!”

A young man in his twenties looks up from the workbench, wipes his palms on his jeans, and makes his way over. He places his electric screwdriver carefully on the table before jogging the last few steps.

“Spencer, this is Mitch. Mitch, Spencer,” Jeff says quickly. “She’s yours until I say otherwise. Train her properly. Once you think she’s ready, let me know and we’ll start cutting her loose.”

And that’s it. No handshake. No parting words. Jeff turns and walks off toward the front office, leaving a silence in his wake that settles over them awkwardly.

Spencer stares after him, a little stunned. He’s like a storm: sudden, loud, and already gone.

“He’s not much of a talker,” Mitch says, grinning as he reaches out to shake her hand. His grip is firm, his smile easy. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve worked here for two years and I’ve never seen him ask anyone how their weekend was.”

Spencer gives a tight smile and nods.

“So,” Mitch continues, releasing her hand, “have you done any carpentry before?”

She shakes her head. “No. Not even close.”

He shrugs, clearly unfazed. “Honestly, that’s better. I get to mold you from scratch. No bad habits to unlearn, just all my own terrible ones, straight from the source.”

He laughs at his own joke and gestures for her to follow him across the workshop. She does, clutching the jacket and helmet to her chest as she walks behind him, her boots clicking against the concrete floor.

Mitch talks fast and moves faster, pointing out different tools, benches, safety procedures. He explains how the space is organized, how to clean up, which guy to ask about materials, which saw to stay the hell away from until she knows what she’s doing. He throws out tips, jokes, names she won’t remember, but he never seems to expect her to respond. He just keeps the energy moving, like he’s filling the silence for both of them.

Spencer listens closely, eyes sharp, brain already mapping everything out like a mental blueprint. It’s easier than she thought it would be, easier to slip into this version of herself. The one who follows, observes, takes notes. She might not know carpentry, but she knows how to learn, and this is just another kind of problem to solve.

She watches the other workers out of the corner of her eye. They haven’t looked up yet, too focused on their work. That’s fine by her. The less attention she draws, the better.

When Mitch stops at a workbench and tosses her a pair of safety glasses, she catches them on the first try. He gives her a thumbs up.

“You’ll be shadowing me this week,” he says. “Nothing too intense. Just watch, help where you can, ask questions when you’re ready. We’ll take it from there.”

Spencer nods and finally slides on the high-vis jacket, stiff and slightly too big for her frame. The helmet goes on next. It feels strange, but there’s something comforting about the weight of it, like it’s anchoring her in place.

She squares her shoulders and gets to work.

She gets home at three o’clock on Friday, the air outside still thick with leftover heat from the afternoon sun. It’s only her second full day at the carpentry workshop, and already her body feels like it's been wrung out. Every step up the stairs to her apartment stings somewhere new. Her shoulders ache with a dull, steady throb. Her wrists protest when she flexes her fingers. Even the small muscles beneath her shoulder blades are tight and sore.

She thought the prison laundry shifts and the hours on the gym mats had prepared her. They hadn’t. Not really. Folding sheets or running laps in a controlled environment was nothing like hauling timber, holding drills steady for long stretches, or sanding panels until her hands vibrated with leftover tension.

She drops her keys on the kitchen bench and stands still for a moment, staring at her bed. The thin mattress looks like salvation. All she wants is to fall face first onto it, close her eyes, and not move until tomorrow.

But the smell of her own shirt pulls her back to reality.

She’s been rotating between the same two t-shirts they gave her when she got out: grey, scratchy, and paper-thin from too many washes. She’s already pushing her luck wearing them this long. She can’t risk showing up to work on Monday stinking of sweat and exhaustion. 

Spencer sighs, and counts the money in her wallet again. Thirty dollars. That’s it. She spent fifteen on groceries and she won’t see her first paycheck until Wednesday.

It’ll have to be enough.

She lets out another sigh, and heads back down the stairs. Outside, the light has softened to a warm gold. The street hums quietly, the weekend crowd not quite spilling out yet. Her limbs still ache, but she keeps walking. There’s no point in wasting time.

The thrift store is three blocks away, squeezed between a laundromat and a closed-down café. The sign above the door reads GIVE + TAKE in sun-bleached paint. The glass rattles slightly when she pushes the door open. A little bell jingles overhead.

Inside, it smells like dust, detergent, and the ghosts of other people’s lives. The racks are overstuffed and sorted mostly by color rather than size.  She keeps her head down as she moves between them, sifting through polyester blends and pilled cotton, quietly calculating price tags in her head.

She finds two shirts - one navy, one faded red - and a soft black zip-up jacket with a missing pull tab but otherwise intact. They aren’t stylish. They’re not her. But they’re clean, they’ll hold up for work, and she can get all three for under twenty dollars.

She carries them to the counter, sets them down carefully.

The woman behind the register is older, maybe in her sixties, with short silver curls and bright purple glasses. She glances at Spencer, offers a brief smile, and starts ringing the items up.

“Big plans for the weekend?” the woman asks, sliding the shirts into a paper bag.

“Sleep,” Spencer replies. Her voice comes out hoarse from disuse.

The woman chuckles softly. “Sounds like a good plan.”

Spencer pays with a ten and a five, waiting for her change, then thanks her quietly before slipping back out into the street with the bag tucked under her arm.

She starts walking home, her body dragging now with every step, but she feels better with the weight of clean clothes in her arms. Like she’s checking something off the long, endless list of rebuilding her life.

She turns the corner and pauses at the next intersection. Something in the corner of her eye catches her attention.

Across the street, half hidden by an awning and a line of scooters, is a secondhand bookstore. The windows are cluttered with old hardbacks, some stacked sideways like falling towers, others upright behind a painted sign that reads GRANT’S BOOKS: USED & LOVED .

Spencer stops.

She didn’t plan to spend anything else. She can’t afford to. But her feet stay rooted where they are as she stares through the glass at the worn-out spines and the dim glow inside.

It’s the first place she’s seen since getting out that feels remotely familiar. The first place that feels like a life she used to know.

Her grip tightens on the thrift store bag. The ache in her legs whispers that she should keep walking.

But she doesn't.

She waits for the light to change, then crosses the street.

And when she pulls the door open, the little brass bell above it rings, soft and clear.

The scent hits her first. A mix of old paper, dust, and something woody. It wraps around her like a blanket pulled from an attic trunk, heavy with memory and a little faded at the edges. The inside of the bookstore is narrow, with rows of tall shelves that lean just slightly, the weight of their contents bowing them inward. Books are stacked in uneven piles along the floor, on tables, in crates marked with handwritten signs. The place feels more like someone’s private collection than a business.

Spencer exhales. Her shoulders lower an inch.

Reading had always been something she loved, though it rarely fit into the brutal scheduling of her teenage years. Between AP classes, debate club, field hockey, and the endless expectations of being a Hastings, there wasn’t time to read just for the sake of joy. Then came A. Then came the collapse. By the time she landed in prison, she was too wrecked to even care. But eventually, when the dust settled, and she could breathe again without drowning, she found the prison library. And in it, she found books.

They became something else. Survival. Escape. A way to shut out the noise, the eyes, the walls. She clung to books the way some women clung to cigarettes or letters from home. It helped her forget that time was still passing.

Now, as she walks the narrow aisles of this forgotten little shop, trailing her fingertips along cracked spines and reading first pages at random, it feels like stepping out of her life entirely. Like slipping into someone else’s story for a while. Someone who has options. Someone who hasn’t been reduced to orange jumpsuits, courtrooms, and sleeping on a bare mattress.

She turns a corner, still reading the opening paragraph of a battered copy of The Lincoln Lawyer , when she collides with someone.

Books scatter.

“Sorry,” Spencer says quickly, crouching down to help pick them up. She doesn’t look up right away. Her fingers close around a paperback, then another.

And then she lifts her eyes.

The breath leaves her body as if someone has punched her in the gut.

Aria Montgomery stares back at her.

“Spencer,” Aria whispers, disbelief stretching the syllables thin. Her voice has barely changed, but there's something softer now, more adult. “You're out.”

Aria looks older, but not in a harsh way. Her face is still delicate, her frame petite, but her style is more refined. Simple, clean lines. Expensive. Her dark hair is cut shorter than Spencer remembers, framing her face in a sleek bob. The makeup is subtle, professional. There’s something curated about her, like she’s worked hard to become untouchable.

Spencer straightens, still clutching the book in her hand. She wills her features to harden. She needs the mask - the one she learned to wear so well during the trial, the one she put on every time she had to walk through a yard full of women who wanted a reason to tear her down. But it’s harder now. Out here. Dressed in clothes that don’t fit. Surrounded by books instead of guards. 

The mask doesn’t come as easily when she’s not expecting to need it.

“Yes,” Spencer answers. The word is clipped, but not as sharp as she wants.

Fifteen years since she’s seen Aria face to face, and all the distance she counted on feels suddenly meaningless. It evaporates in the silence between them. Her chest tightens with something bitter and complicated.

“How… how long?” Aria stammers.

“A couple of days,” Spencer replies, her voice tighter now. Her eyes flick away, focusing instead on the dog-eared edges of the book in her hand. Then, forcing the words out, she adds, “Don’t worry. I have no intention of bothering any of you.”

Aria flinches, just slightly, as if the sentence grazes her.

“That’s… that’s not…” Aria hesitates, then shifts course. “Spencer, how are you?”

It’s such a ridiculous question, Spencer almost laughs. She’s not sure if it’s genuine or if it’s just the shock of hearing it. Her throat burns with all the things she can’t say.

How is she?

She’s trying not to drown in a world that moved on without her. She’s trying to figure out how to stretch thirty dollars over four days. She’s trying to learn how to use a power drill without taking off her fingers. She’s trying to sleep without the nightmares that still sneak up on her when the lights are out.

“I’m fine,” she says, but her voice betrays her. It lands hollow. A little raw.

Aria’s eyes don’t leave her. “Spence…”

“Don’t,” Spencer cuts in, sharper now. Her fingers tighten around the book she’s still holding. “You don’t get to say my name like that. Like it still means something.”

Aria’s smile fades. She steps forward, just slightly. “Spencer… I never believed - what they said. Not really. I mean, I didn’t understand it, and you never explained, but - ”

“I did it,” Spencer says. Her voice is steady.

Aria blinks. “What?”

“I killed her,” Spencer repeats. “You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true.”

She says it without flinching. The lie slides out easily now, like a well-rehearsed monologue. Because it is rehearsed. She had years to get it right. Years of keeping everyone out, keeping the truth buried so deep that even she could pretend it didn’t matter anymore.

Aria stares at her, searching her face for something. 

Doubt. 

Regret. 

A crack in the surface. 

Spencer gives her nothing.

“But Spencer, she was …” Aria’s voice falters. “You loved her.”

“Didn’t stop me,” Spencer says, her voice flat. “She was going to ruin my life. I couldn’t let that happen.”

It tastes bitter in her mouth. Even now. But it’s the only way to make this stop. To make Aria walk away and not look back.

Silence stretches between them.

Spencer shifts her weight, tucks the book back onto the shelf, and steps around her. “It’s fine. You don’t have to pretend. Just go.”

“Spence…”

“Don’t call me that,” she says, her tone cold. “I’m not her anymore.”

Aria’s face crumples slightly, not with tears, but with confusion. Like she’s trying to reconcile this version of Spencer with the one she knew. Spencer doesn’t wait for her to make up her mind.

She walks straight to the front of the store. The bell rings again as she pushes the door open. Cool air hits her face.

Outside, the street is still quiet. She doesn’t stop walking.

She doesn’t look back.

And maybe that’s the only way she’ll survive this new life - by pretending the old one never followed her out.

Chapter Text

Spencer walks through the entrance of her apartment complex, the dull fluorescent lights flickering above as she steps off the cracked tile and into the narrow hallway. Her boots leave faint scuffs on the linoleum as she walks, and for once, the ache in her shoulders feels like something earned. 

Not punishment. 

Not weight. 

Accomplishment.

Mitch had finally let her handle a build on her own. Just a basic shelving unit, rough pine, squared edges. Nothing complicated. But it was hers. From start to finish. Her fingers still carry the sting of fresh blisters and there’s a smear of sawdust on the cuff on her jacket, but she doesn’t wipe it off. She doesn’t want to. Looking at the shelves earlier, lined up and level, she had felt something click back into place inside her. A part of herself she thought she left behind years ago. A flicker of pride, clean and bright.

That feeling dims the second she rounds the corner.

Emily is standing outside her door.

Spencer stops in her tracks. The hallway stretches between them like a long, narrow canyon. For a moment, she just stares. Emily hasn’t seen her yet. She’s leaning casually against the wall, phone to her ear, head tilted. She looks completely out of place in the run-down building. Her clothes are neat, effortless, and her makeup is subtle but meticulous. She looks like she’s living the life Spencer had always wanted for her. A life Spencer herself was never going to have.

As if sensing her stare, Emily glances up.

Her face changes the instant their eyes meet. She lowers the phone slowly, eyes locked on Spencer like she’s not entirely convinced she’s real.

“Spencer,” Emily breathes, the name barely more than a whisper. It hangs in the air between them, fragile and heavy all at once.

Spencer swallows, her thoughts slamming into each other in panic. She feels the cold grip of old instincts. 

Hide. 

Deflect. 

Shut down. 

She doesn’t let any of it show.

“Emily.” Her voice is flat, cautious. “How... how did you find me?”

“Caleb,” Emily replies, pushing off the wall. Her tone is casual but her posture is taut. “He’s even better with a computer now than he was in high school.”

“Oh.” Spencer looks down at her feet. She feels the worn seam of her boot pressing against her toe. Anything to avoid the eyes she knows are still watching her.

Emily takes a step closer, and Spencer’s spine stiffens. She doesn’t move, but every part of her is braced. The instinct to flinch is stronger than she wants to admit.

“Relax,” Emily says quietly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

That doesn’t help. Words like that don’t mean anything anymore.

Emily takes another step forward. “Look, we both know you didn’t kill her. I don’t know why you keep saying you did, but please, just don’t insult me by lying to my face.”

“I did,” Spencer says quickly, cutting her off. The words feel dry in her mouth. Dusty. She says them the way she’s practiced saying them. Flat. Certain. Believable.

Emily doesn’t even blink. “So how long have you been out?” she asks instead, her voice sharp now. She’s not playing around. She never was.

Spencer exhales slowly through her nose. She can feel the pressure building behind her ribs, like a balloon threatening to burst.

“Two weeks,” she mutters.

“Two weeks,” Emily echoes, her tone unreadable. She steps back slightly and for a moment Spencer thinks she’s going to walk away. The thought brings a rush of relief, so quick and painful it nearly knocks her over. But at the same time a deep aching sadness that Emily was leaving. A study in contradictions. 

But then Emily nods toward the door.

“So... are you going to let me in?”

Spencer hesitates. She wants to say no. Wants to keep this version of her life hidden. Emily doesn’t belong in it. None of them do. But she also knows Emily. Knows the look in her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw. If Spencer says no, she’ll just come back again. And again. Until she finds a way in.

With a tired sigh, Spencer steps forward, pulls her keys from her pocket, and unlocks the door.

She pushes it open and gestures wordlessly for Emily to enter.

Her apparment does’t look that much better than when she had first got it. She had used her first pay to buy the basics: bedsheets (but no doona or blanket), cutlery, plates, basic tolitires and a towel but nothing else. Everything she owns is visible in one glance.

Emily steps inside and takes it in slowly. Her eyes move over each sparse corner, lingering on the mattress, the chipped mug on the counter, the empty walls. She doesn’t say anything right away. But Spencer can see the sadness creeping into her expression, just under the surface.

Spencer hates it. Hates the pity. Hates that she doesn’t have anything better to show.

“I know it’s not much,” she says quietly, voice low and tight. “But it’s mine.”

Emily turns to face her. “I didn’t come here to judge you.”

Spencer crosses her arms, a tight motion meant to keep herself contained more than anything. Her eyes don’t leave Emily’s. “Good. Because I don’t need your sympathy. Or your help.”

Emily doesn’t flinch. Her voice is soft, almost frustratingly kind. “I don’t think you do. But that doesn’t mean you have to keep doing this alone.”

Spencer’s stomach twists. That’s exactly what it means.

She may not be behind bars anymore, but freedom is a thin veil. The deal she made with ‘A’ still feels like it's etched into her bones, humming like a live wire just beneath her skin. Whoever ‘A’ is, they must know she’s out by now. Spencer’s not naïve enough to think they wouldn’t be watching. And if being close to the girls again puts them back under ‘A’s thumb, then every smile, every conversation, every shared moment becomes a liability.

She can’t let that happen. She won’t be the reason they start looking over their shoulders again.

And yet, as she watches Emily now …. alive, whole, still standing, curiosity slips in through the cracks. A small, sharp longing takes root in her chest.

She looks toward the two mismatched chairs flanking the crooked table by the kitchen and moves to sit, her legs heavy from both the day and the conversation.

“How... how have you been?” she asks, lowering herself slowly onto the chair. Her voice is quieter now, not quite steady.

Emily stays still for a moment, as if weighing the question. Then she walks over and sits opposite her, the legs of the chair scraping lightly against the old floorboards.

“How have I been?” Emily echoes with a raised brow, her mouth curving into something that isn’t quite a smile. “I’ve been wondering why my best friend confessed to murdering our other best friend when we both know it’s a lie.”

The words hit like a slap.

Spencer flinches, visibly this time, her fingers tightening against her arms. The sound of Emily’s voice, louder now in the small space, reverberates inside her chest like a shout in a cave. She can feel her body reacting before her mind catches up. Years of training in survival, in silence, in stillness, rush forward like a tidal wave.

Emily’s eyes soften instantly, guilt flashing across her face. She exhales and leans back slightly, voice gentler now.

“Okay,” she says, more to herself than anything. “Okay. I’ve been... good, considering. I got a job teaching swim lessons to kids. Preschool age mostly. It’s exhausting and chaotic and sometimes they cry because they miss their moms, but... it’s good.”

Spencer blinks, and for the first time in weeks, her lips twitch toward a smile. Not quite there, but close. Emily had always been good with kids. Patient in a way Spencer never was. Steady, calming. The kind of person you instinctively trusted.

“That’s... that’s really good, Em,” she murmurs. Her voice catches slightly, and she clears her throat. “And the others?”

Emily hesitates for a heartbeat, eyes flicking over Spencer’s face. Then she nods.

“Hanna’s working as a junior designer for Sweetie Pie Fashion. She’s been married to Caleb for two years now. They’re... disgustingly happy. Still in the honeymoon phase, and I’m honestly not sure they’ll ever leave it.”

Emily chuckles under her breath

“Caleb works as a white hat hacker for some private security company he can’t even tell us the name of.”

That makes sense.

“And Aria?” Spencer asks. Aria had looked good when she had seen her the other week but it’s as if she needs confirmation from a third party that she’s doing well before she can believe it. 

“She’s good. She’s working as an editor for HarperCollins and I know she’s also working on a book on the side although she’s keeping that pretty close to her chest.”

“Is she... still with Ezra?” she asks.

Emily shakes her head. “No. They broke up before college. They stayed friends, though. Still talk now and then, I think.”

Spencer exhales slowly. “That’s... that’s good.” Her voice is thin. The answer shouldn't matter, but somehow it does.

A pause stretches between them, quiet but not uncomfortable.

“And you?” Spencer asks. “Are you... seeing anyone?”

Her eyes drop automatically to Emily’s hands. No ring. That doesn’t mean anything, though. Emily never needed symbols. She always lived by feeling.

“I’m back with Paige,” Emily says simply. “We broke up for a few years, but... two years ago, we reconnected. And that was that.”

Spencer nods slowly. The words are gentle, but they press against something soft in her chest. She remembers Paige, remembers the way Emily lit up around her, how solid and safe they always seemed together despite everything. It makes sense. Maybe more than anything else.

She lets her gaze fall to the scratched-up surface of the table. Her thumbnail traces a dent in the wood.

“I’m glad,” she says, quietly.

And she is. But beneath the gladness, there’s a sharp edge. A weight pressing behind her ribs. She doesn’t belong in that world anymore. Not in love stories, not in safe jobs or dinner plans or weekend getaways. Her place is here, in the silence. In the gaps between what was and what might have been.

She looks back up at Emily.

“But you can’t stay,” she says, softly. Not cold. Just final.

Emily looks at her, eyes wide, a flicker of hurt crossing her face. “Spence...”

“No,” Spencer says, firmer now. “You have to go.”

Because she is out, but she is not free. And caring about Emily being near her, talking to her like this puts her right back in the line of fire.

And Spencer refuses to pull anyone else into the dark with her.

Emily doesn’t leave.

She just sits there, like the idea of walking out was never even a possibility. Her eyes stay steady on Spencer, calm but determined, like she’s quietly bracing for another storm and refuses to move until it’s passed.

Spencer crosses her arms tightly, trying to suppress the rising heat in her chest. Anger, fear, regret. It all churns together until she can’t tell which is which.

“I said you should go.”

“I heard you,” Emily says, voice level. “But I’m not leaving.”

Spencer turns away, stares at the wall beside the front door. The cheap plaster, the chipped edge of the frame, the way the light hits it wrong. It’s easier than looking at Emily.

“You don’t belong in this anymore,” she says quietly. “Whatever you think this is … it’s not your problem.”

Emily stands slowly, the chair creaking behind her. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to decide what I care about.”

Spencer grits her teeth. “You should.”

Emily moves closer, her voice still calm but firmer now. “You’re not the only one who lost something, Spence. I lost you. We all did. You think I can just ignore that?”

Spencer turns to her finally, trying to keep her expression unreadable. “You’re doing fine. You’ve moved on. That’s what you were supposed to do.”

“That’s what we had to do,” Emily says. “It doesn’t mean we stopped caring.”

Spencer’s mouth tightens. The weight of that care feels suffocating. She’s used to being invisible now. Unimportant. She doesn’t know how to be the version of herself people remember.

“You don’t understand,” she says, voice low. “You can’t.”

“I understand more than you think.” Emily’s eyes sharpen slightly. “I’ve had fifteen years to think about everything that happened. And I’ve never stopped wondering who or what could’ve pushed you into doing what you did.”

Spencer doesn’t respond. She feels her pulse quicken, a flicker of panic dancing under her skin. But she keeps her face still.

Emily watches her. “It was A, wasn’t it?”

The name lands like a thunderclap. Spencer doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, but her fingers curl slightly at her sides.

Emily keeps going, gentle now, coaxing. “I know A didn’t just disappear. Not really. You confessed to something you didn’t do, and you didn’t fight it. That’s not you. It never was.”

Spencer feels her throat go tight. Her nails press into the fabric of her sleeves. She wants to tell her to stop. That it’s dangerous, reckless, stupid. But she can’t say those things without confirming them. So instead, she says nothing.

Emily takes a breath, watching her. “You don’t have to say it. I get it. But if you think keeping us away is going to protect us, you’re wrong.”

Spencer finally speaks, voice quieter than before. “You’re not in danger anymore.”

“That’s not your call.”

“Yes, it is,” Spencer snaps, the words slipping out before she can catch them. She clamps her mouth shut, frustrated with herself.

Emily nods like she expected the slip. “See, that’s the part I don’t get. You act like you’re the only one who knows how to carry guilt. Like it’s your job to shield the rest of us.”

Spencer looks down. Her throat aches. “Because it is.”

“No, it’s not,” Emily says, stepping closer. “Whatever happened back then, it wasn’t all on you. We were all caught in it. All of us.”

Spencer shakes her head, voice brittle. “You should leave.”

Emily pauses. Then, softly, “I’m not going to.”

She moves past her and walks over to the crooked little table again, lowering herself back into the chair with a quiet finality. Like she’s dug in.

Spencer stares at her.

“You’re just going to sit there?”

“Yup.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

Spencer laughs bitterly, scrubbing a hand over her face. “You’re unbelievable.”

Emily just smiles faintly. “You used to think that was a good thing.”

Spencer doesn’t answer. She walks into the kitchen, opens a cupboard, then closes it again without taking anything. She’s not hungry. She’s exhausted. But something in her chest feels less tight now, even if she won’t admit it.

Emily watches her, patient and quiet.

Maybe she can’t stay forever.

But she’s here now.

And Spencer doesn’t tell her to leave again.

Chapter Text

“Emily.” Spencer stops in her tracks, her keys clenched in her hand. Her voice comes out more surprised than she means for it to.

There she is again. Standing outside Spencer’s apartment door like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it hasn’t been fifteen years and an entire lifetime of silence wedged between them.

When Emily had left last night, Spencer had assumed that was it. That Emily had satisfied her curiosity, gotten her closure, and moved on. But here she is again, wearing a quiet determination as she looks at Spencer.

Spencer doesn’t know what to do with it.

She steps around her, carefully avoiding any kind of contact, and slides the key into the lock. “What… what are you doing here?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady, even.

Emily shifts beside her. “Well, I had no way to reach you since you said you didn’t have a phone, so…”

Spencer hears the rustle of her handbag. When she glances back, Emily’s holding out a small white box, hesitant but insistent. Spencer doesn’t take it.

“I got you one.” Emily finishes, lifting the box slightly in offering.

Spencer blinks at it, unsure what to say. “You got me…?”

“A phone,” Emily says more firmly now and, without waiting for permission, pushes the box gently into Spencer’s hands.

Spencer has no choice but to take it. The box feels too new, too bright, too clean in her scarred palms.

Emily brushes past her then, walking into the apartment like she belongs there. She sits down in the same rickety chair as last night, her posture relaxed, eyes watchful.

Spencer closes the door slowly and stares down at the box. The words on the packaging declare it an Apple 16. She barely recognizes it. Sleeker, thinner, and impossibly modern. It feels like a piece of another world. A world she doesn’t belong to anymore.

“This way,” Emily says from the table, “you have a way to reach us. And we can reach you.”

Spencer looks up sharply at that. “‘Us’?”

Emily nods. “The girls,” she says simply, like it should be obvious. “Aria. Hanna. Me.”

Spencer’s stomach twists. Her fingers curl tighter around the box, and the plastic crinkles faintly in her grasp.

It’s too much.

Too soon.

Too kind.

She turns, sets the phone down on the edge of the table like it might explode if she holds onto it too long. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Emily says gently.

Spencer doesn’t sit. She stays standing by the counter, arms crossed. “I don’t need charity.”

“It’s not charity.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s connection,” Emily says after a moment. “It’s not letting you disappear.”

Spencer lets out a breath, sharp and bitter. “Maybe that’s what I want.”

Emily tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Is it really?”

Spencer says nothing. She just stares at the floor, the scuffed linoleum beneath her feet. She wishes Emily would leave, and yet the thought of the door closing behind her again makes something ache in her chest.

Emily shifts in the chair, but she doesn’t leave. “We don’t expect anything from you, Spence. Not explanations. Not apologies. Just… don’t shut us out completely.”

Spencer looks at her, and for a second, something flickers behind her eyes. Longing. Fear. A desperate want for things she cannot have.

She glances at the phone box still resting on the edge of the table. It feels like an invitation to a world she no longer fits in, but part of her wants to try. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s foolish.

She swallows the lump rising in her throat and finally nods. “Okay,” she says, quiet and unsure, the word feeling heavier than it should.

Emily’s face breaks into a smile. It transforms her, lighting her up from the inside. It makes Spencer feel like she’s looking at the version of Emily she used to know, the one who believed in people even when they didn’t deserve it.

“Okay,” Emily echoes, and there’s relief in her tone, the kind that makes Spencer feel guilty for having made her worry.

Emily stands and brushes her hands against her jeans. “I’ve got to go. Paige and I have dinner plans. But I already programmed everyone’s numbers into the phone.” She picks up the box and sets it a little closer to Spencer. “I’ll text you soon. We’ll figure out a time to all catch up.”

Spencer doesn’t know what to say. She watches as Emily crosses the room, walking toward the door like it isn’t hard to leave. As she passes, Emily reaches out and gently squeezes Spencer’s arm.

The contact is light, brief, but it sends a jolt through her system.

It’s been so long since someone touched her without suspicion. Without a search or a command behind it. The last time, she thinks, must have been Ruby, the only friend she had managed to make inside. That was years ago, and Ruby was transferred out before Spencer could even say goodbye.

Now the warmth of Emily’s hand lingers on her skin even after she’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind her, but Spencer doesn’t move. She stands frozen, eyes on the empty space where Emily had just been.

A full minute passes before she lets out a shaky breath and blinks herself back to reality.

Mitch is practically grinning when she tells him she finally has a phone. “About time,” he says, grabbing it from her hands before she can object. Within minutes, he’s added her to two WhatsApp groups. The first is casual, full of memes, after-hours drinks plans, and the kind of in-jokes that come from too many late shifts together. “No bosses allowed,” he assures her, tapping the screen like he’s showing her a sacred place. 

The second is more official. Jeff’s in it, which is how she knows to keep the tone clipped and professional. Shift updates, roster changes, and occasional debates about workplace safety.

It feels like a small step back into normalcy.

But the moment Spencer walks away from the workshop and checks her messages, it all crashes back into something far heavier. Emily has texted again. Just like she did the day after she handed her the phone. Just like she did yesterday. This time it’s not a question.

Saturday. 10 a.m. Lula Bean Café. We’re doing this. All four of us. No excuses.

It came with a smiley face that feels more like a warning than reassurance.

Spencer stares at the screen for a long time. There’s no room to say no. Emily never gives room when she’s decided on something.

Aria’s text had come not long after that. Shorter. Lighter. Just a quiet “Looking forward to seeing you again. Really.” Spencer had replied, awkward and unsure, but she hadn’t shut the door on it either.

Now it’s Saturday, and Spencer is standing in front of Lula Bean, staring at her reflection in the glossy black glass. The café looks expensive. Classy. She can already smell the espresso and fresh croissants drifting through the open door. She tugs at her sleeves self-consciously, wishing for a jacket that wasn’t fraying at the cuffs. Her jeans sit too stiff on her hips. Prison denim is built to last, not to fit. The op-shop flannel shirt isn’t much better, washed out and buttoned too high to be stylish.

Her fingers twitch against her thigh as she does the math in her head. She can afford one coffee. Maybe a small pastry if she skips lunch.

She swallows the knot in her throat and pushes the door open. The bell chimes. Her boots click against the polished concrete. It’s brighter inside than she expects, all sunlight and dangling plants and white brick walls. People laugh softly over laptops and lattes. Everyone looks put-together.

She doesn’t.

Spencer sees them before they see her.

Emily is seated near the back, nursing what looks like a chai latte, and Aria is beside her with a caramel-colored drink and a bright notebook open in front of her. Hanna’s back is to the door, her golden hair catching the morning light like something out of a commercial.

Emily glances up and spots her. Her face lights up and she waves, beckoning her forward.

Spencer walks to them slowly, each step loud in her ears. She feels like she’s walking into a trap, even though her rational mind tells her this isn’t that. Not anymore.

Emily rises to greet her, arms out but cautious, as though remembering that Spencer doesn’t like being touched anymore.

“You came,” Emily says, voice soft with something like pride.

“I said I would.” Spencer glances around. “Didn’t realize it’d be so… curated.”

“That’s Aria’s fault,” Emily says with a smile, stepping back.

“Guilty,” Aria chimes in, standing up and giving Spencer a quick hug. 

It’s brief, barely a brush of contact, but it still sends Spencer’s nerves rattling. When Aria pulls back, she’s smiling, but her eyes are watching carefully, like she’s trying to read between Spencer’s movements.

“Hey, Spencer,” Hanna says from her seat, not standing, just sipping a pink smoothie through a metal straw.and looks at her, really looks at her. 

And for a long beat, Spencer doesn’t know what to make of that expression. There’s no judgment there, but there’s no warmth either. Just calculation. Curiosity, maybe. A thousand questions waiting behind narrowed eyes.

Spencer nods. “Hi.”

“You gonna sit or just hover like you’re casing the place?” Hanna asks.

Spencer rolls her eyes but pulls out the empty chair, careful not to scrape it too loudly. The wood feels too smooth under her palm, too polished. She sits down, heart hammering against her ribs.

Emily passes her a menu. “Don’t worry about it,” she says under her breath. “I’ve got you.”

Spencer bristles. She wants to argue, to insist she can pay her own way, but her stomach chooses that moment to growl softly, and she decides to pick her battles.

“Thanks,” she says, flipping open the menu with fingers that still tremble slightly.

No one says anything right away. Aria sips her coffee, Hanna scrolls through her phone, and Emily just watches her, like she’s waiting for the moment Spencer will bolt.

Spencer looks around at the three of them, girls who once knew everything about her. Girls she once bled for.

“So,” she says, voice dry, “are we pretending this is just a normal Saturday?”

Emily meets her gaze. “No. We’re pretending we’re still friends until it stops feeling like pretending.”

The words land like a blow and a balm at the same time.

They order drinks and soon the table fills with ceramic mugs and a plate of shared pastries dusted in powdered sugar.

Spencer wraps both hands around her cappuccino, letting the warmth soak into her cold fingers. She keeps her eyes on the steam rising from the cup, not quite ready to meet anyone’s gaze.

“So,” Aria says, breaking the silence, “I just finished editing this memoir about a woman who faked her own death. Twice.” She shakes her head, curls bouncing with the motion. “It’s probably the most ethically murky thing I’ve ever worked on, but the writing is surprisingly beautiful.”

Emily laughs. “You always get the weird ones.”

“They give them to me on purpose,” Aria says, shrugging. “Apparently I have a ‘tolerance for eccentricity.’ Whatever that means.”

Spencer lifts her eyes briefly, watching the way Aria talks with her hands, her rings catching the light. She’s grown into herself, in a way. The nervous energy is still there, but it’s muted now, polished. Controlled.

“I wouldn’t last two days in publishing,” Emily says. “I’d either correct every comma or end up yelling at someone for using Comic Sans.”

“You would absolutely yell at someone over Comic Sans,” Aria says, grinning.

Spencer doesn’t say anything, just takes a sip of her coffee. It’s too hot and slightly bitter, but it keeps her anchored in the moment.

“And you?” Aria asks, turning to Emily. “How’s swim club?”

Emily brightens. “It’s actually really great. I’m working with this group of six-year-olds right now, and they’re completely fearless. I had to pull one of them off the diving board last week because he was convinced he could backflip without ever having swum a full lap.”

Spencer glances over and sees the way Emily’s eyes soften when she talks about the kids. Her smile is real, wide and unguarded in a way Spencer hasn’t seen in years. It tugs at something deep in her chest.

“That sounds terrifying,” Aria says, and Emily laughs again.

“It is. But it’s also the only thing that clears my head lately. It’s just... water and movement. No thinking.”

“No thinking sounds pretty good,” Aria murmurs, stirring her drink with a tiny gold spoon.

Hanna hasn’t spoken since they sat down. She’s scrolling through her phone, thumb flicking fast, lips tight. Her untouched smoothie is sweating on the table.

“So what about you, Han?” Emily asks, nudging her lightly with her elbow. “How’s the design world?”

Hanna doesn’t look up. “Fine.”

“Still with Sweetie Pie?”

“Yep.”

Aria frowns gently. “You okay?”

Hanna finally sets the phone down and crosses her arms. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

There’s an edge to her voice, sharp and brittle. Spencer doesn’t flinch, but she feels it like a chill in the air. She watches Hanna’s shoulders, the way they’re drawn tight, like she’s holding in something bigger than irritation.

Emily clears her throat. “Hanna’s being modest. She just got promoted. Lead designer on their summer line.”

“Congrats,” Spencer murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Hanna nods once, not looking at her. “Thanks.”

The silence that follows is heavier than before. Spencer shifts in her seat and stares at the swirl in her coffee foam. She doesn’t know what to say to Hanna, and from the look on Hanna’s face, it doesn’t matter. The tension is real, thick and unresolved.

Emily senses it too. She leans in slightly, trying to redirect. “We’ve been talking about taking a trip. Just us girls. Sort of a post-college, post-mess-of-everything break.”

“Post-mess,” Aria repeats with a dry smile. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

Spencer lifts her gaze, just enough to catch Emily’s eyes. There’s something there, hope, maybe. Or just quiet insistence. Like she’s trying to pull Spencer into a future she doesn’t believe she’s earned.

“It’s nothing big,” Emily continues, “just maybe a weekend somewhere. Somewhere quiet. Lake house, maybe. Remember that place we went sophomore year?”

“Yeah,” Aria says, grinning. “Where we tried to make pancakes on a fire pit?”

“You tried,” Emily corrects, laughing. “I ate cereal.”

Hanna doesn’t join in. She picks up her smoothie finally and takes a long sip. “If we do it, we’re not going back to that same cabin. It’s probably full of mold and dead spiders.”

“Agreed,” Aria says with a laugh.

Spencer watches them all carefully. The way Emily leans forward when she speaks. The way Aria tilts her head when she’s listening. Even Hanna, guarded as she is, keeps her eyes moving, like she’s checking they’re all still real.

She feels outside of it. Not because they’ve pushed her out, but because she left. Because she stayed gone. Because the space between them was once filled with secrets and blood and a choice she made to protect them that they’ll never understand.

Still, she’s here. And for now, they’ve let her be here.

That has to be enough.

She looks down at her phone, the sleek, too-new rectangle Emily gave her days ago. The screen is dark, but she knows their names are in there now. She’s one tap away from all of them.

Spencer lifts her coffee again, lips brushing the rim of the cup, and lets the sound of their voices fill the space where silence used to live.

Aria fills the space easily, talking about her latest manuscript edits and a bizarre author Zoom call where someone’s cat walked across the keyboard mid-pitch. Emily adds a quiet comment here and there about her swim students and their wild energy. Even Hanna speaks, though her words are clipped and careful. Spencer watches her most closely, noting the way she avoids eye contact and keeps fiddling with her bracelet, like she’s restraining herself from saying something sharper.

Spencer doesn’t say much. She sips her lukewarm coffee, listens, watches. There’s something strange about sitting in front of them again. She’s not sure if she belongs here or if she’s just passing through a memory that hasn’t realized it’s over yet.

Aria glances at her phone. “Shoot. I’ve got to head to the office. Manuscript deadline.”

“I’ve got errands,” Emily says, pushing back from the table. “But this was good. Really good.”

Hanna gets up last. “I’m going shopping with Caleb,” she says simply, brushing a crumb off her blouse.

They all gather their things. As Aria passes, she reaches for Spencer’s arm with a gentle touch, but Spencer instinctively jerks back, breath catching in her throat.

Aria pulls her hand away quickly. “Sorry. I just... I’ll text you. Just us, soon.”

Spencer nods, avoiding her eyes. Emily gives her a small smile. Hanna doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head in a silent goodbye and walks out without a glance back.

Once they are gone, Spencer stays frozen in place for a moment. Her coffee is cold. Her hands are shaking again. But there’s a strange lightness in her chest too, like she’s just remembered how to breathe differently.

She steps outside into the morning air and pulls out her phone.

One new message.

Did you really think you were free? 

I’m still watching. 

–A

Chapter Text

November 2011 

Spencer sits cross-legged on her bedroom floor, textbooks open but ignored, highlighters uncapped and drying out. The pages of her AP History exam prep are a blur in her peripheral vision as she stares instead at the glowing laptop screen, her eyes darting between social media profiles with sharp, restless intensity.

Photos from that day by the lake fill her desktop. Dozens of them. Group shots, selfies, candids. Alison in the center of most of them, like a queen on her throne, lips parted mid-insult in some, frozen in a knowing smirk in others. Spencer clicks through them, each image pulling at her nerves like a fraying thread. She’s been at this for days, certain she’s circling something, something important, something real. She can feel it in her bones, the weight of a revelation just out of reach.

A stack of printed screenshots sits beside her, curling slightly at the edges. A few are highlighted. Her own scribbled notes crowd the margins. She picks one up, holding it close to the lamplight. The corner of Ali’s smile looks different in this picture. Or maybe Spencer’s just losing it.

The real obsession, though, is the notebook. Alison’s old, beat-up notebook, discovered tucked behind a false drawer in her bedroom vanity. Spencer had spent hours flipping through it, translating Ali’s strange shorthand, piecing together the breadcrumb trail of someone she had been seeing. Someone secret. Someone dangerous, maybe. Spencer had memorized every hint and clue scrawled in the margins.

Her phone buzzes against the floor, startling her. At first, she considers ignoring it. Her head is too full. But a sharp pang of dread spikes in her chest. She reaches for it. It might be the girls. 

She can’t miss a S.O.S. 

She thinks of Emily first. Emily, pale and shaken, still recovering from the ambush just three nights ago. With Pam out of town and Wayne still stationed overseas, Emily’s been alone in the house, insisting she’s fine. Spencer doesn’t believe her for a second.

She flips the phone over.

Wanna make a deal? 

–A

The blood drains from her face. Her hands turn to ice.

She reads the message again. And again.

Then she locks her phone, sets it on the floor, and stares at it like it might explode.

The phone sits silent for a long moment, like it’s waiting for her to breathe again.

She doesn’t.

Spencer keeps her knees tucked tightly to her chest, jaw clenched, every muscle in her body stiff as stone. Her eyes remain fixed on the phone, as if by sheer will she can make it go away, undo what she just read. But it buzzes again, the vibration loud in the quiet of her room, a sharp reminder that ignoring it won’t help.

With a hand that feels like it belongs to someone else, she reaches out and picks it up.

Your freedom for the girls. 

Tell the pigs you killed Ali, and I’ll leave them alone.  

–A

Her stomach lurches.

It’s not the words so much as the certainty behind them. The way the threat is delivered without flourish, cold and clinical. Like a contract already signed, like she’s already out of time.

Another buzz. Her fingers are still on the screen when it comes through.

You have 5 hours.

 –A

Spencer doesn’t move.

She reads it. Then reads it again.

The clock beside her ticks louder. Five hours.

A laugh builds in her throat and dies before it can escape. Of course A has a timer. Of course A would put a countdown on her life and dress it up like a favor.

She lowers the phone slowly, her arms folding again as her body begins to curl inward. Her room, once so familiar, feels suddenly unfamiliar, hostile. The posters on the wall, the photographs, the textbooks scattered on the desk. It all looks like it belongs to someone else. Someone who still had time. Someone who still believed there might be a version of this life that could make sense again.

Tell them you killed Ali.

Her mind stumbles over the words. Over the clarity of the choice A has handed her. Sacrifice herself. Save the girls. If she confesses, it’s over. Her name will be plastered across every headline. Her family will collapse under the weight of it. But Hanna will stop waking up in tears. Aria will stop second-guessing every noise in the dark. Emily might finally stop looking over her shoulder.

She thinks of Emily’s bruised shoulder, of the bandages still wrapped tight. She thinks of Aria’s nervous hands, the way they flutter like she’s always on the verge of flight. She thinks of Hanna, angry and hurt and so guarded she can barely speak without a shield in her voice.

Spencer doesn’t cry. She just stares at the screen until the time on it burns into her vision.

She doesn’t wonder how long A’s been watching her sift through social media, drawing her conclusions, pinning her hopes to a threadbare theory. 

A always knows. 

That is the rule.

She sets the phone down on the floor, then stands.

Her knees feel like they might give out, but she steadies herself against the bedpost.

Five hours.

That’s all the time she has to decide if she’s willing to let the world hate her so her friends can finally be safe.

Or if she dares to gamble that A is bluffing.

The silence presses in around her as Spencer moves toward the window. She looks out into the dark street below, empty and quiet. No headlights. No pedestrians. No one to tell her what to do.

No one but A.

The street is damp beneath her feet, the kind of early morning moisture that clings to the soles of her shoes and soaks through the hem of her jeans. Spencer walks fast, hands deep in her jacket pockets, her breath sharp and uneven as it spills into the cold air. The silence of the early hour makes her feel exposed. Every footstep echoes louder than it should, like the world is watching. 

Like A is watching.

She does not bring the phone at first. She tells herself she doesn’t need it, that she’s already made her decision. But halfway down the driveway, she turns around and jogs back into the house. It’s waiting for her on the floor beside her bed. 

Still dark. 

Still still.

Spencer slips it into her coat pocket, then leaves again without turning on a single light.

The streets of Rosewood are empty at this hour, the sky just starting to pale. Her car is parked a few blocks over. She does not trust it parked too close to the house anymore. Not with how easily A seems to move. She unlocks the door with trembling fingers, slides in behind the wheel, and sits for a moment with her hands on the steering wheel, trying to stop the shaking.

Her mind races.

What if this is a trap? What if she walks in there, confesses to something she did not do, and A breaks their word anyway? What if she ruins everything and the girls get hurt regardless?

But the image of Aria’s terrified face after the latest threat from A slams into her again, and it’s enough.

She turns the key. The engine growls to life.

The drive is short, too short, and her grip on the wheel grows tighter with every passing block. Her heart beats like a drum in her ears, loud and wild and desperate.

As she pulls into the parking lot behind the police station, her phone buzzes again.

Her breath catches.

She parks, cuts the engine, and takes the phone from her pocket with numb fingers.

Tell them you argued with Alison.

Tell them she threatened to ruin you.

Say you grabbed the shovel to scare her.

Say it got out of control.

Say you were scared.

Say you grabbed the shovel.

Say you hit her. Once. Then again.

She stopped moving.

Say you panicked.

Say you buried her in the backyard because you knew the gazebo was going up.

Say it was an accident.

Say it all.

It’s what you deserve.

–A

Spencer reads it once. Then again.

Her throat tightens.

How would A know that? How could they be so specific? Unless they were there. Unless they saw it. Or did it.

Unless they are the one who killed her.

She lets the phone drop to her lap, her mind spinning. The line between threat and confession blurs in her vision, like A is not just orchestrating the lie, but reliving the memory. A memory only the killer would know.

And yet she still reaches for the door handle.

The cold air bites at her face as she steps outside. She crosses the parking lot, her legs stiff and slow now, as if her body is fighting against her decision. Her fingers brush the edge of the phone in her pocket, the weight of it anchoring her, a reminder that there’s no turning back.

The police station looms in front of her. Stark concrete and dull glass. 

Impersonal. 

Unforgiving.

She walks through the doors.

The interior smells like stale coffee and floor polish. The fluorescent lights are too bright. The front desk officer glances up, half-interested, and straightens slightly when he sees her pale face and haunted eyes.

Spencer approaches the counter, swallows hard, and meets his gaze.

Her voice comes out thin, but steady.

“I need to make a confession.”

Chapter Text

April 2027 

By the time Spencer turns the key in her apartment door Monday evening, her body feels like it is running on fumes. Her shoulders ache from the repetitive motion of lifting and holding heavy wood panels, and there is a fresh bruise on her hip from where a beam slipped and clipped her. Mitch had laughed it off, slapped her on the back, and said she was earning her stripes. She had forced a smile, even joked with him, but her insides felt like glass grinding against itself.

It is not just the physical exhaustion. Her nerves have been shredded since Saturday. Every time her phone buzzed in her pocket, her breath caught in her throat. Her shoulder jerked in reflex, heart lurching in her chest. It was the same every time. Her hand would slowly inch toward the phone, her thumb hovering over the screen, stomach churning with dread. 

But it was never A. 

A had gone silent again after that first text. 

On Saturday afternoon, after walking back from the coffee shop, she had locked the door behind her and drawn every curtain closed. She had not stepped foot outside until this morning, and even then, her usual route to work had changed. 

Twice. 

Three times. 

She kept checking over her shoulder, certain that behind every parked car, every shifting shadow, someone in a black hoodie was watching.

No one was ever there. But the feeling never left.

Now, back from her first day out in the world since then, her legs feel too heavy. She kicks her boots off at the door, shrugs off her jacket, and lets it fall to the floor. Her hands shake as she gathers up her clothes, still speckled with sawdust, and heads straight for the shower.

The hot water is the only thing that cuts through the fog. It pours down over her, scalding and steady, and for a while she just stands there, arms braced against the tile, letting it soak her hair, her skin, everything. It does not wash away the dread curling in her belly, but it dulls it just enough to breathe again.

Afterward, she dresses in her newest thrift store find: a pair of worn plaid pajama pants and a cotton t-shirt that says “I Woke Up Like This” in faded pink letters. The shirt is two sizes too big, but it makes her feel safe somehow, like she’s wrapped in someone else’s life.

She’s halfway to the kitchen when her phone buzzes on the coffee table.

She freezes.

It’s probably Aria. They had been texting earlier about a book Spencer had never heard of but pretended she might read. Maybe it’s Emily, checking in again, kind in that gentle, stubborn way of hers.

She reaches for the phone.

The message flashes across the screen in bold white letters.

Good luck. –A

The floor drops out beneath her. Her heart skips and then slams into motion, thudding loud in her ears.

Good luck?

Her fingers tighten around the phone. What does that mean?

She’s still staring at the screen when a sharp knock makes her jump. The sound echoes through the small space like a gunshot.

Her feet move automatically to the door, her breath locked in her throat. She peers through the peephole.

Laura Reeves. Her parole officer. Hair pulled into a tight bun. Neat navy blazer. Clipboard in hand. Neutral expression.

Panic flares like a match inside her chest.

The text. The knock. The timing.

There’s only one conclusion Spencer can draw.

A knows. 

A is doing something. Something inside this apartment - something she hasn’t even thought of - might be enough to send her back behind bars.

Her fingers hover over the doorknob, her entire body buzzing with adrenaline.

She swallows hard.

Her hands are shaking so badly she nearly fumbles the deadbolt. She inhales slowly, then opens the door, voice hoarse as she tries to summon calm.

"Hi," she says, forcing the word out past the rising tide of panic.

“Evening, Spencer,” Laura says with a polite but unreadable smile.. “Just a general check-in. Routine. I like to stop by unannounced now and then. Mind if I come in?”

Spencer’s stomach lurches. Every instinct tells her to slam the door, to run, to do something, but she steps aside and forces her lips into something that feels like a smile.

“Of course. Come in.”

Laura walks in briskly, heels clicking softly on the scuffed floorboards. She glances around the living room, her eyes scanning with quiet efficiency. Spencer follows her, hands clasped tightly in front of her to hide the tremble.

The apartment is clean. She had spent most of Sunday scrubbing it from top to bottom in a futile attempt to distract herself. But now she wonders what she missed. What could A have left? What if there’s something under the couch, behind the toilet, taped beneath a drawer?

“How are things going?” Laura asks, writing something on her clipboard without looking up.

Spencer swallows. “Good. Work’s been steady. I started helping out on bigger builds. Mitch said I’m doing well.”

Laura nods and makes another note. “And your hours? Staying consistent?”

“Yes. I’ve been on time every day. I take the bus now.”

“Any trouble with your coworkers? Or anyone else?”

“No. Everyone’s been kind. It’s been fine.”

It is not a lie, but it feels like one under the weight of what she is holding inside.

Laura steps further into the apartment. She pauses by the kitchen and opens a few cupboards at random. Spencer’s heart thunders in her chest.

Please, she thinks. Please do not find anything.

She stands rooted in place, her fingers digging into the hem of her shirt, her nails pressing into her skin. She tries to breathe evenly.

“Any contact with anyone from your past who could be considered a bad influence?”

The question is like a slap. Names flicker through Spencer’s mind. Mona. Jenna. Melissa. Even now, she does not know who counts anymore.

She nods once. “No. I’ve kept to myself.”

Laura studies her face for a moment before giving another tight nod. She walks toward the hallway.

“I need to check the bedroom.”

Spencer forces her feet to move, following her. Her skin feels too tight. The air in the apartment has turned thin.

In the bedroom, Laura opens drawers, checks under the bed, lifts the mattress. Spencer watches each movement with wide eyes, her body still on the outside but her mind screaming.

What if A hid something here just to ruin her?

She pictures a stash of pills under the mattress, a weapon in the closet, anything that could end everything. Her throat burns. Her palms sweat.

But there is nothing.

Laura finishes the check, closes the last drawer, and turns to her.

“Looks good,” she says. “I’ll file the report tomorrow. Keep up the good work.”

Spencer nods. “Thank you.”

Laura’s expression softens just a little. “I know it’s hard. But you’re doing fine. Just keep your head down, stay consistent.”

She walks to the door, and Spencer follows her. The second the door clicks shut behind her parole officer, Spencer leans back against it and exhales shakily.

A doesn’t make empty threats. 

Spencer knows this in her bones, the way a deer knows when the snapping twig means danger is too close. A always follows through. There is no mercy. No forgiveness. Just punishment dressed in games and threats. Which means somewhere inside this apartment, there is something. Something Laura missed. Something that, if found, would have sent Spencer back to the cold cement and steel she only barely escaped from.

She presses her hands to her face, tries to steady her breathing. Her skin is cold and clammy, her fingers trembling. There’s no time to be still. No time to think. She has to find it. Whatever it is. Before A wins. Before the next surprise visit is not so lucky.

Spencer takes one more breath, shaky and shallow, then pushes herself off the door.

First the kitchen. Every drawer is yanked open. She dumps utensils, flour dust rising into the air like smoke as she upends canisters and peers into shadows. She feels along the undersides of cabinets, checks the seams of every drawer. She throws open her fridge, checking behind the few items she keeps there. Then the pantry. She’s barely breathing. The panic in her chest pulses like a second heartbeat.

Spencer knows how to find hidden things. She’s hidden enough herself.

Her mattress is stripped. The closet ransacked. Every box emptied. The thin rug is pulled back. She opens her few books and flips through each page, shaking them out like they might spit out secrets. She unscrews an outlet cover with the tiny screwdriver she hides in the drawer of her nightstand. Nothing. She checks under the sink, inside the toilet tank, behind the medicine cabinet.

Still nothing.

Then her eyes lift to the ceiling.

The light fixture.

Her stomach churns. The last place left.

She grabs the old wooden chair from the kitchen. It groans beneath her as she climbs up, wobbling slightly. She ignores the way her knees tremble and reaches up, fingers twisting the cover loose. It sticks for a moment, then gives way with a plastic creak.

Something falls.

It lands on the floor with a light, soft thud.

Spencer freezes.

She climbs down slowly, her breath catching in her throat. On the floor is a small plastic bag. The contents are faintly amber, like powdered rust.

She stares at it.

No. No, it can’t be. She crouches beside it, heart pounding hard enough she can feel it in her teeth.

Heroin.

She doesn’t move. Her eyes are locked on it, like it might vanish if she blinks. A sick weight presses into her stomach.

No one knows. Not even the girls. Not her parents. Not even the prison guards, who thought the bruises on her arms were from fights. Not even the counselor who sat across from her with empty empathy and a clipboard. She made sure no one knew. It had been a secret she buried in silence and shame. Just a few times. When everything had become too loud, too tight, too much.

And now it’s here. In her apartment. On her floor. Calling to her.

She reaches for it without thinking, her fingers brushing the plastic. The touch sends a jolt through her, something dangerously close to comfort. The weight of it is too familiar. Her vision narrows. The room begins to dissolve around her. All she can see is this one small escape. 

This one small mercy.

She could. Just a little. Just enough to make it stop. The fear. The tension in her chest. The voices that tell her she is always one step from ruin. She could float again. She could go back to the silence where nothing hurt.

She stands there, trembling. The longing claws at her insides, whispering that one time wouldn’t undo everything. That no one would know. That she could sleep without seeing blood or Alison’s dead eyes. That she could eat without feeling like she was going to vomit. That she could breathe.

Her knees nearly give out.

Spencer swallows hard and clamps her eyes shut.

No.

She forces her feet to move. One step. Then another. She doesn’t look down at the bag in her hand. She walks to the bathroom like she’s moving through water, her breath catching on every inhale. The bag feels heavier now. Like it knows it’s about to die.

She kneels by the toilet, her hands shaking so hard the plastic rustles.

This isn’t her anymore. This can’t be her.

She tears the bag open. The powder inside glows faintly against the porcelain.

Spencer dumps it in.

The moment the heroin hits the water, it curls and swirls like fog. Beautiful. Terrible.

She stares at it for a long, agonizing second.

Then she flushes.

The water churns and it is gone.

She sinks to the cold tile floor, knees to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. Her forehead presses to her knees. She is shaking. Sobbing without sound.

A didn’t need to say anything this time. Spencer understands the message.

You are never safe.

I own you.

Chapter Text

The morning air is cool as Spencer steps onto the worksite, shoulders tense from a night of shallow sleep. But then she sees Mitch bounding toward her like a golden retriever in steel-toe boots, grinning like it’s Christmas morning.

Hey,” he greets, tapping her shoulder lightly in passing.

She doesn’t flinch this time.

It’s strange to notice the absence of a reflex, but she does. The quick jolt in her spine, the involuntary tightening of her shoulders … it’s not there. For a moment she wonders if Mitch has always known. If he noticed the way she used to tense every time someone touched her, and decided to work through it with casual taps and shoulder nudges, never acknowledging them out loud.

It would be like him. Kind. Goodness soaked to the bone.

“You’re coming with us today,” Mitch says over his shoulder, heading for the exit. “Time to see where the magic happens.”

“I don’t have a car,” Spencer replies automatically, calculating in her head how many bus changes it might take to reach the suburb where the crew is currently renovating a house.

Mitch laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Pfft, please. I am your personal Uber today. You ride shotgun. Hope you like Bruce Springsteen and black coffee.”

He slings an arm over her shoulder as they head toward his truck. His energy is so loud, so unrelentingly upbeat, it should be exhausting but somehow, it isn't. Somehow, it lifts her, just enough.

The truck is loud and smells faintly of motor oil and something citrusy. There’s a half-eaten protein bar in the cupholder and a cracked bobblehead glued to the dash that nods in sync with every pothole.

Spencer presses her palms to her knees, staring out the window as the houses get bigger and cleaner the farther they drive. When they turn into the neighborhood, she tenses. These homes are polished and cold, the kind that announce generational wealth with subtle landscaping and polished brass fixtures. Spencer knows these homes. 

She grew up in them.

She doesn’t belong in one now. Not in her secondhand clothes that don’t quite fit right. Not with her history stitched into every step she takes.

But Mitch doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care.

“Wait till you see the kitchen,” he says as they unload the gear. “It’s got one of those walk-in pantries you could get lost in. Like, full Narnia potential.”

The house is quiet and half-renovated. Tools lie neatly on folded tarps, and fresh paint still gleams on the walls. Spencer exhales, comforted by the rawness of it. It’s not finished, and somehow that makes it feel safer.

“Hey, newbie!” Josh’s voice cuts through the quiet. She glances over to see him standing in the kitchen, surrounded by open boxes and scattered tools. “Come give me a hand.”

Mitch gives her a gentle nudge in that direction. Not a push, just enough to say go on, you’re one of us. That’s all the permission she needs. She jogs lightly over, her boots thudding against the tarp-covered floor.

Josh is laying out his tools on the granite counter like a surgeon prepping for an operation. The sun shines through the wide windows, making the dust motes dance in the air like glitter.

“Let’s get those training wheels off you, newbie,” he says with a grin, tossing her a screwdriver. “You’re officially promoted from fetch-and-carry to actually useful.”

Spencer snorts, catching the tool with both hands. “Finally. I was starting to think I’d be hauling scrap wood forever.”

Josh walks her through the task - installing cabinet hinges, measuring angles, double-checking the alignment. She listens carefully, nodding, asking questions when she needs to, and soon enough her hands are moving on their own. Confident. Steady. She lines up the hardware with precision, feeling the quiet satisfaction that comes from getting something right with her own two hands.

Her hands. Free, unshackled, steady.

There’s something sacred about this kind of work. The way it’s all muscle and math, trust in angles and torque. No second-guessing. No parsing double meanings. No whispered threats. Just her and the tools. Her and the walls.

And they trust her. Not with secrets, not with lives, but with drills and nails and real things that matter in a smaller, purer way. It’s enough to make her chest ache.

She glances at Josh, who is watching her with a smirk, a spark of something like approval in his eyes.

“Not bad, Hastings,” he says. “You’ve got a good eye.”

“Don’t let that get around,” she mutters, but she’s smiling as she says it.

Mitch offers to drop her home as they’re packing up for the day, tossing the question out casually while slinging toolbags into the back of his truck.

“I can swing by your place, no problem. It’s on the way, probably. I mean, everything’s kinda on the way when you drive like I do,” he says with a grin, nudging her playfully with his elbow.

Spencer forces a smile, masking the tension that immediately clamps down on her spine. “Actually, can you just drop me at the workshop?”

Mitch pauses, mid-reach for a coiled extension cord. “You sure? It's no trouble.”

“I’ve gotta grab something there anyway,” she lies smoothly, voice calm but too fast. 

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looks away, pretending to scan the street.

He shrugs, accepting her answer, and the two climb into the truck.

She hates how easy it is to lie about things like this. Hates even more that she’s still lying to protect something as useless as her pride. But the thought of Mitch - sunny, easygoing, wide-open Mitch - pulling up in front of her building makes her stomach knot. He’d see the cracked stairwell. The broken security light. The peeling paint and shattered glass wedged in the sidewalk like old teeth.

He’d see where she actually lives. And maybe he wouldn’t say anything, but he would see it.

She is still a Hastings. 

That need to preserve the illusion lingers, stitched into her like muscle memory. Pride is just a cage she never figured out how to unlock.

When Mitch’s truck pulls up to the dusty lot outside the workshop, Spencer already has her hand on the door handle, ready to bolt. But he stops her.

“Hey,” he says, voice lighter than usual, but there’s something tentative behind it. “We’re having a barbecue Friday night. At Josh’s place. Whole crew’ll be there. You should come.”

She freezes for half a second, her fingers tightening around the door handle. The words catch in her throat before she can decide whether to answer honestly or politely.

Mitch notices, because of course he does.

“Just think about it,” he says with a casual wave of his hand, like the invitation isn’t loaded, like it doesn’t mean anything.

But it does. She can feel it hanging there, the possibility of something normal. Something warm. Something that doesn’t end in buried secrets or blood on her hands.

She nods once, a barely-there motion that he accepts as a maybe. Then she climbs out of the truck and shuts the door behind her, not trusting herself to say more.

The sun is starting to dip below the buildings, casting long golden beams across the lot. She watches Mitch drive off, his truck disappearing down the street in a cloud of dust and late afternoon haze.

She exhales and checks the time on her phone. Her bus is due in ten minutes. She worked out the route last night, carefully timing it so she could get across town without stopping home. She’s meeting Aria for dinner and there's no chance of going back to her apartment first.

The invitation had come through a few days ago, a casual text from Aria that Spencer read over and over again. There had been just the right amount of guilt laced into it, a soft kind of pressure Aria had always known how to wield. Spencer could practically hear her voice through the screen, lilting and sweet and impossible to refuse.

Aria Montgomery has never needed much to get her way. A tilt of the head. Those wide, earnest eyes. Spencer had folded like she always does, typing back a quick “sure” before she could talk herself out of it. But who could say no to Aria’s big doe eyes anyway? 

The place Aria picked is tucked between a laundromat and a closed-down video rental store, its red signage faded and flickering. A battered golden dragon curls around the name in chipped paint. The windows are slightly fogged, the kind of place that smells like soy sauce and warm oil before you even open the door.

Spencer hovers on the sidewalk for a moment, peering in. Inside, the crowd is relaxed, chatting over cheap wine and steaming dumplings. Most of them are dressed in jeans or hoodies, a few in leggings and work shirts. No one cares what they look like.

Still, she can’t ignore the state of her own clothes. Her pants are streaked with dust, her boots scuffed from crawling around floorboards all morning. The sleeves of her jacket are spotted with sawdust and something sticky she couldn’t identify during lunch. She brushes herself off, quick, jerky movements, then shrugs the jacket off entirely. The shirt beneath is only a little wrinkled, a little stained. It will have to do.

She takes a breath and pushes open the door, the bell overhead jangling softly. The smell hits her immediately, garlic, chili, something sweet like plum sauce. It clings to the air, comforting in a strange way.

Aria is already seated at a corner table, her phone in her hand but her eyes scanning the room. The moment she sees Spencer, her face lights up. It’s not subtle. Her whole body seems to brighten, like someone flipped a switch.

Spencer can’t help it, her lips tug into a smile, the expression feeling foreign and warm at the same time. She crosses the room, weaving past tables and waitstaff, and takes the seat across from Aria. She chooses the one facing the door. Instinct. Always watch the exits.

“You made it,” Aria says, beaming, sliding her phone away like it never mattered.

“Of course I did,” Spencer says, smoothing her shirt like she can will it to look clean.

Aria picks up the laminated menu from the center of the table and hands it across to Spencer with a grin that’s almost too big for her face.

“I already know what I’m getting,” she says at Spencer’s questioning look. “They have good vegetarian options here, but don’t worry, they also cater to your carnivorous needs.”

She smirks as she says it, light teasing dancing in her eyes.

Spencer lets out a soft laugh before she can stop herself. It slips out without permission, and she hates how unfamiliar it sounds in her own ears. But it feels good, too. Warm. Like something from a different version of her life, one where laughter was normal and not a foreign reflex she had to relearn.

She drops her gaze to the menu, skimming the glossy pages quickly. It’s not a long list, but every number next to every dish feels like it might as well be triple digits. Her fingers hesitate over the sweet and sour pork before she finds something cheaper: vegetable lo mein. A few dollars less, and filling enough to last the night. Her pay wasn’t that great before factoring in the 50% deduction for the victims support fund. 

She sets the menu aside with a quiet clatter and looks up to find Aria already watching her.

Aria doesn’t say anything, just lifts her glass of water and takes a slow sip, her eyes soft with something like understanding. Spencer wonders, not for the first time, if Aria’s been picking up on more than she lets on.

“So,” Spencer says, her voice careful, like stepping onto ice she’s not sure will hold. 

She sits a little straighter, willing herself to appear composed. She used to be good at this, at conversation, at gliding effortlessly through the social intricacies of Hastings dinner parties and debate tournaments. But prison stripped that muscle clean. Now every word feels like it has to fight its way out of her throat.

“How have you been?” she asks, fingers folding around her napkin.

Aria’s expression brightens, the question so normal it seems to comfort her. “Good, actually. I had a busy day of wrangling manuscripts and rejecting mediocre thrillers.”

Spencer lifts an eyebrow. “Is that your official title at HarperCollins?”

“Senior Editor of Crushing Dreams,” Aria says, placing her napkin in her lap. “But I’m lobbying for Empress of the Slush Pile.”

Spencer laughs, the sound slipping out raw and real. “I’d vote for you.”

Conversation drifts into something easy. Aria talks about the latest book she’s fighting for, a genre-defying debut about grief and outer space. Spencer tells her about almost cutting her thumb off with a circular saw and how Mitch acted like she’d broken a sacred rule.

It feels good. Relaxed. Almost like nothing’s changed.

But of course everything has.

They’re halfway through their meal before Spencer speaks again, her fork pushing noodles in lazy circles across her plate. Her voice is casual when it comes, but her heart kicks like it’s racing to beat her to the punch.

“So… what happened with Ezra?”

Aria freezes, just for a second. Her smile falters at the edges but doesn’t vanish. She wipes her mouth delicately with her napkin before setting it down beside her plate. 

“I figured you’d ask eventually.”

Spencer meets her eyes, steady and soft. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know,” Aria says. She pauses, gathering the words like they’re fragile. “It just stopped feeling right. I think it had for a while, but I didn’t want to admit it.”

Spencer nods slowly, waiting.

Aria looks down at her plate. “We were good at pretending things were fine. But at a certain point it felt like he missed the version of me I was when we met and not the person I was so…” 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer says, and she means it.

“Don’t be,” Aria replies, softer now. “I don’t miss being with him. I miss who I thought we were. But not enough to go back. Plus we are still friends so…”

Spencer studies her for a long moment. Aria looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with work. But she also looks free.

“I’m glad you’re out,” Spencer says quietly.

Aria’s eyes flick up, wide with surprise.

“Of that relationship, I mean,” Spencer clarifies, cheeks warming. “Not that you … I didn’t mean it like - ”

Aria’s already laughing. “Relax. I got it.” Her smile softens again. “Thanks. That actually means a lot.”

Spencer feels something uncoil in her chest. The knot of nerves she’s been holding since she sat down loosens just a little. They’re still them, somehow, bruised, different, but still them.

They finish eating and are waiting for the cheque when Spencer's phone buzzes against the table. The sound is sharp and sudden in her ears.

She flinches.

It’s small, barely a twitch of her shoulders, but Aria notices. Of course she notices. Spencer’s stomach drops as the laughter drains from Aria’s face, replaced by something quieter and more focused. Concern, maybe. Suspicion.

Spencer forces her hand to move casually, fingers brushing the phone screen as she glances down.

It’s just Emily. A simple, well-meaning check-in. Nothing threatening about it.

Still, her pulse skips the way it always does when she sees an unknown number or a message that arrives too suddenly. Like a switch flipping inside her, trained to brace for the worst.

“Everything okay?” Aria’s voice is light, but Spencer hears the tension beneath it.

“It’s just Em,” she says, sliding the phone away like that proves it. She tries to smile, tries to steer things back to neutral ground. “She’s just making sure I haven’t accidentally sawed off a finger.”

But Aria doesn’t take the bait.

“You flinched,” she says simply.

Spencer shrugs, already feeling her defenses rise. “The sound startled me.”

“No,” Aria says, her voice firmer now. “You flinched. Not like someone who got startled. Like someone expecting something.”

Spencer goes still. Her jaw tightens.

“I didn’t think it was anyone,” she replies, but her voice is too quick, too practiced.

Aria leans in a little. She isn’t accusing. She’s just… looking at her. Really looking. “Don’t lie to me, Spence.”

“I’m not.” Her voice drops into something flatter, quieter. “It was no one.”

Aria doesn’t blink. “Did you think it was A?”

The name slices through the air, quiet but undeniable.

Spencer’s spine stiffens. Her hand curls around her water glass, just to have something to do.

She shakes her head once.

“A’s been gone for years,” Aria says, not like a question but like she’s reminding herself. Her brows furrow. “Unless… unless they’re still messaging you?”

Spencer looks away, her eyes fixing on the red paper lantern swaying gently above the entrance. Its glow throws shadows across the walls, soft and flickering.

She doesn’t say anything.

Her silence stretches just a second too long.

Aria’s voice is barely audible now, almost afraid to push. “Are they?”

Spencer turns back to her slowly, meeting her gaze. Her face is unreadable. Cool. Controlled. But her hands are still too tight around the glass.

“No,” she says finally. The word is even, deliberate. “They’re gone.”

Aria watches her for a moment longer, like she’s trying to decide whether to believe her. Then she nods, just once, and sits back in her seat as the waiter appears with the bill.

Spencer forces herself to relax her grip, pretending not to see the way her friend’s eyes linger on her face.

The moment passes, but the tension doesn’t.

Chapter Text

Spencer slips her key into the lock and eases the apartment door shut behind her. The deadbolt slides into place with a soft click. It is 10:45 p.m., fifteen minutes before curfew. She leans against the door, letting her head fall back until it rests against the peeling paint, and exhales slowly. Her body feels like it is still in motion, like the night hasn’t quite let her go.

That was far too close.

Josh’s barbecue had run late. She hadn’t planned on staying past nine, but the warmth of the porch lights and the low hum of conversation kept her anchored. She had lingered at the edge of a circle of lawn chairs while Mitch told a story about drywall disasters, hands flying in the air, his laugh loud and infectious. She had laughed too, almost forgetting herself. For once, the ache in her chest hadn’t been so sharp. For once, she had felt like maybe she belonged.

She kicks off one sneaker, then the other, her hands moving to unzip her jacket. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. The sound snaps the moment in half.

Her breath catches. She freezes, one hand still gripping the edge of her jacket. The buzz echoes in her ribs. Slowly, she pulls the phone free and wakes the screen with the press of her thumb.

Tick tock. What would Laura say if she saw you walking in this late? You’re not special. Just sloppy. You will slip again. I’ll be watching. -  A

Her fingers tighten around the phone until her knuckles go white. She stares at the message. The words swim in front of her eyes for a second, the way ink bleeds on paper after rain. Her breath is no longer caught. It is gone. Taken.

Tick tock.

She looks at the time on her lock screen again. Ten forty-five. She made it home. She is not late. She is not in violation.

But that is not the point.

A never cared about the rules. A only ever cared about control. About slipping into her life in the quietest moments and twisting them until she questioned her own grip on reality.

The fury builds in her chest before she even realizes it. Her mouth goes dry. Her eyes burn.

She had a good night. That is what stings the most. She had spent the evening feeling almost normal. Mitch had let her ride shotgun and talked the whole way about the barbecue like it was something worth looking forward to. Someone had handed her a paper plate stacked with grilled vegetables and macaroni salad. She had helped set up folding chairs. She had laughed when Josh dropped a bun and tried to play it off like it was on purpose. She had stood on a back porch surrounded by people who looked at her like a coworker, not a criminal.

And now this.

A was waiting for her the entire time. Waiting for the moment she felt safe enough to forget. Ready to remind her that the freedom she thought she had was only borrowed.

She stands there, breathing hard, the glow of her phone screen lighting up her face. Her reflection stares back at her in the dark window across the room. She looks tired. She looks furious.

For once, there is no fear beneath the surface. Just the simmer of something heavier. Anger. Defiance.

A will not win.

Spencer lowers the phone and locks the screen. She does not throw it, though the urge to hear it shatter is strong. Instead, she places it facedown on the coffee table, her hand lingering on it for a second longer than necessary.

She is not going back. Not to the cell. Not to the helplessness. Not to the girl who jumped every time someone said her name too sharply.

A can watch all they want. Let them wait. Let them take notes.

But Spencer was going to find out who they were and then and then she was going to come for them. 

Spencer wakes at exactly 6:00 a.m., her body rigid before her mind even catches up. For a few seconds she lies still, staring at the ceiling, blinking slowly as the weight of the day settles on her chest.

Her bravado from the night before feels far away now, like a voice she barely remembers being her own.

She has no idea where to start.

She throws off the covers and swings her legs over the side of the bed, pressing her feet against the cold floor like it might ground her. Her apartment is quiet. No creaking pipes or rattling neighbors this early. Just her own breathing and the dull buzz of anxiety crawling beneath her skin.

Fifteen years ago, she had notebooks full of theories, printed texts, red strings taped across her bedroom wall, timelines mapped down to the minute. And even then, she couldn’t figure it out. 

She couldn’t outthink A. 

So what exactly is supposed to be different now?

She is older. Slower. She has fewer resources. No more access to old messages, no burner phones, no endless nights on her laptop drinking coffee until her hands shook. All of that was gone. 

Maybe even destroyed.

What does she have now? A parole officer, a job that pays just enough to keep her fed, and a phone A can reach at any time.

She exhales and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes until she sees bursts of color behind her lids. Then she lets herself fall backward onto the mattress, landing with a soft thud, her arms splayed out like she is waiting to be dissected.

She needs to know what happened after she went away. Aria had said A disappeared, but Spencer knows better than to take that at face value. Aria believes A left them alone, but belief is not proof. Did A really keep their word? Did the torment stop the moment Spencer was sentenced?

Or did A stick around, testing boundaries with someone else until the game grew stale?

She hopes not. She hopes the silence that followed her conviction was enough for A. Because if it wasn’t … if A kept going, if someone else got hurt… then everything she did was pointless. The deal she made, the years she served, the life she lost. 

All of it would mean nothing.

Spencer lifts her head just long enough to glance at her phone charging on the nightstand. No new messages. No new threats. 

Yet.

Her gaze shifts to the ceiling again, then to the water-stained corner near the window. She hates this place. The flickering hallway light outside her door, the hum of the fridge that never stops, the neighbors who scream at each other through the walls. But it is better than prison. She reminds herself of that as often as she needs to.

Still, the thought of going back to Rosewood makes her stomach twist. Her parents. That house. The eyes that still follow her when she visits the grocery store near the highway. The judgment in their silence. She would need to go back if she wanted access to her old files. To the boxes her mother probably locked away and labeled as "trash." She cannot do this without them.

But that means facing her father’s cold polite anger. Her mother’s disappointment. The town that never really forgave her, even before the handcuffs.

Her chest tightens. She squeezes her eyes shut.

The urge comes sharp and sudden. Not even a craving. More like a ghost brushing against her skin. That old familiar whisper.

Just take the edge off. Just one thing. One time.

She clenches her fists and forces herself to sit up. Her legs dangle off the side of the bed again, toes brushing the wood floor. She curls her fingers into the sheets to keep herself anchored.

No. She made a choice.

She is not going back. Not to that either.

The buzz in her head quiets eventually, dulled by the growing noise of traffic outside and the slow swell of morning light filling the room. She takes one breath, then another, then another. Each one sharper than the last.

Spencer sits upright, spine rigid against the thin mattress, and pulls in a long breath through her nose. Her lungs ache with it. She holds the air a second longer than necessary, like it might fortify her somehow, then lets it out slow. Her eyes flick toward the phone still lying on the edge of the nightstand, its screen dark, the weight of decision waiting just beneath it.

Get it over with. That’s what she tells herself.

She leans forward and grabs the phone, tapping it awake with her thumb. The screen flashes to life, too bright in the soft gray morning, and she quickly types in a search: how to get to Rosewood without a car. 

The plan starts to take shape with the rough precision of someone used to piecing together scraps. A bus from her neighborhood to the regional station downtown. From there, a train to Rosewood. She memorizes the transfer point, triple-checks the times, runs it through again just to be sure. The entire trip will take just over two hours, give or take. 

It feels longer.

Her thumb hovers over the back button, but she forces herself to lock the phone and set it aside.

She rises from the bed slowly, legs stiff, muscles sore from a week of physical work. Her body feels stronger than it used to. 

Her mind, maybe not so much.

Crossing the room, she opens her closet and surveys the narrow options inside. Most of her clothes are hand-me-downs from secondhand stores or her three pieces of prison issued clothes. There is nothing Hastings-approved in here, but she finds the best of what she owns: the cleaner of her two pairs of jeans and a pale blue button-up that doesn’t cling too tightly. It smells faintly of lavender detergent. She smooths it out with her palms and pulls it on over her tank top, buttoning it slowly, fingers shaking just a little.

In prison, appearance meant control. Clean lines, proper posture. A shirt tucked in just right could mean the difference between being approached or ignored. That instinct - ontop of the Hastings motto of always being perfect - never left. She tucks in the shirt and glances at herself in the mirror propped against the wall. Her hair is tied back, her face scrubbed clean. She looks older, but maybe she always did.

This will have to do.

She slips on her scuffed boots, checks her bag for her ID, a water bottle, the emergency cash folded tight in the inner pocket. Her fingers hesitate there for a second, pressing down on the cash like it might evaporate.

Her stomach knots as she leaves the apartment. Lock clicks behind her. Her neighbors are still asleep. She walks quickly, head down, past the cracked tiles and flickering lights, out into the sunlit morning.

The bus ride is uneventful. Spencer watches the city slide past the window with half-lidded eyes, her fingers curled loosely in her lap. At the train station, she buys her ticket at the machine, the paper thin and warm from the printer. She waits on the platform with her hood pulled low, hands in her jacket pockets, trying not to look like she’s waiting for something bigger than a train.

The ride to Rosewood is quiet. Too quiet.

The landscape begins to change the further she gets from the city. High-rises give way to long stretches of field, and the cluttered skyline softens into open air. By the time the train begins to slow for Rosewood station, Spencer feels her chest tightening with every mile. Trees she used to recognize flick past the window. A gas station where she and Emily once bought slushies at midnight. A dented mailbox that used to be painted bright red.

It’s like stepping into a memory that still breathes.

She disembarks in a daze. The platform looks smaller than she remembers, the town quieter. Her boots crunch against gravel as she walks toward the sidewalk. The air smells like cut grass and something faintly sweet. She passes a row of houses with perfect lawns and picket fences that look exactly the same as they did fifteen years ago.

It’s all here. Frozen in time.

Her heart pounds as she turns down Main Street. The café with the outdoor chairs where Hanna used to gossip. The bookstore Aria loved. The alley where they once found a threatening note from A, scribbled in red ink and pinned with a rusted nail.

It rushes her all at once. Every hallway whisper, every stolen glance, every scream in the dark. Her palms start to sweat. She wipes them against her jeans.

She pauses before the corner where her childhood street begins, standing still like her legs forgot how to move.

She isn’t ready to see the house. Not yet.

Her parents. The facade. The expectation. It waits at the end of that street like a judgment she can already feel.

Spencer turns away from the corner and crosses into the park instead, where the trees still cast long shadows and the benches are still painted green.

She sits down, facing the duck pond. The ripples break the surface like a heartbeat.

She needs a minute.

Then maybe she will go home.

Chapter Text

“Spencer?”

The voice cuts through the quiet like a snap of cold air. Too familiar. Too precise.

She looks up, her body tensing before her mind catches up. Ezra Fitz stands in front of her, immaculate as ever in a vest and tie, the sleeves of his button-down rolled neatly to the elbows. His pants are pressed. His shoes shine. He looks like a department store mannequin come to life, one posed specifically to teach sophomore literature.

For a moment, all she can do is stare.

“Mr Fitz,” she says, the words dry in her mouth. 

She wipes her palms on her jeans, damp from nerves or heat or just the memory of too many conversations like this. She stands, because sitting while he looks down at her feels like losing ground.

“You’re out,” he says, stepping closer. 

The phrase makes her stomach twist. Like she escaped, like she slipped through some crack in the justice system.

She takes a subtle step back. Not much. Just enough to keep her spine from locking up. His cologne hits her then something heavy and pretentious, probably expensive. It clings to him like the years haven’t moved forward at all.

“I am,” she answers simply.

He watches her too closely, head tilting with that same faux-concerned expression she used to see in the school hallways. “Aria was destroyed when you left.”

The phrasing needles her. Spencer’s jaw tenses. She laughs, but it comes out flat and humorless.

“I didn’t leave,” she says. “I went to prison.”

Ezra nods, slowly, like he’s trying to measure how much truth she’s willing to speak aloud. “You did.”

Her breath hitches. That familiar weight presses against her ribcage again, the one she’s carried every day for years. She knows what she’s supposed to say. The script A would want her to stick to. But the lie clogs in her throat. There’s too much sun. Too much Rosewood. Too much of him.

She says nothing.

He studies her like he’s waiting for her to confess or break or maybe thank him. The silence draws out long and uncomfortable.

“I don’t understand how you could do that to her,” Ezra finally says, voice tight.

Spencer lifts her chin, steel sliding into her spine. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business anymore.”

His jaw ticks.

“I heard you’re broken up,” she adds, keeping her tone light but edged.

“We’re still friends,” he replies quickly. Too quickly. She catches the flicker of irritation in his eyes before he adds, “And I was the one who picked up the pieces when you went away. So forgive me if I believe I have the authority to lecture you on this.”

Authority. The word sits wrong in her chest. Like sour milk.

Spencer crosses her arms. “Aria’s an adult. If she wants to talk to me, she will. She doesn’t need a translator.”

He stares at her, and for a moment something slips through his polished exterior, a tightness in his mouth, a bitterness that feels more personal than protective. Spencer wonders how much of this is really about Aria at all.

“Well,” she says, brushing past him, her voice clipped, “I’m sure you’ve got a faculty meeting or a student’s poem to critique. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr Fitz.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She walks away with her shoulders squared and her hands clenched in her pockets, trying to forget the way his words scraped something raw inside her. But the chill stays with her, long after the sun has moved behind the clouds.

She doesn’t look back.

She walks with her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her jeans, down the familiar streets. Rosewood hasn't changed much. The sidewalks still crack in the same places, the houses still sit with their too-perfect shutters and well-tended lawns, like a town that refuses to admit time has passed. 

As she turns onto her old street, her gaze catches on the next door house, the blue one with the large front porch. 

Alison’s house. 

The hydrangeas out front are overgrown now, and the curtains are different. The DiLaurentis name doesn’t belong there anymore. They moved out of Rosewood permanently.

Spencer’s chest tightens. She remembers the way Alison’s parents stared her down across the courtroom, faces blank with grief and disgust, like she was something rotted that had crawled in from the edge of town. They hadn’t spoken. They hadn’t needed to. Their silence had been sharp enough.

Spencer forces her eyes forward again, her shoes crunching softly over a patch of gravel on the sidewalk. Her childhood home rises in front of her, stately and still, every brick in place. It looks exactly the same. She hates how familiar it is. The front steps feel longer than she remembers. The door looms taller. She pauses in front of it and takes one breath, then another, then a third, trying to make them steady. Her fist curls, hesitates, then lifts and knocks. The sound echoes into the quiet. 

There’s no turning back now.

The door opens just as Spencer starts to step back, already rehearsing how she might justify loitering on the porch to a passing neighbor. The creak of the hinges makes her freeze. Melissa stands in the doorway, framed by the dark wood and familiar trim, wearing pressed slacks and a pale blouse. Her hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, not a strand out of place. Her face is harder than Spencer remembers, more tired around the eyes, but the look she gives is still the same one Spencer has spent a lifetime bracing herself for.

They stare at each other, silent and motionless, the years stretching between them like taut thread.

“Spencer,” Melissa says finally, her voice measured. She doesn’t move. Her expression is unreadable.

Spencer lifts her hand in a small, stiff wave before immediately regretting it. The gesture feels childish, misplaced. “Hi, Melissa.”

Melissa’s eyes flick down to Spencer’s hand, then back up. “What are you doing here?” The question lands with less bite than Spencer expects. The tone is cautious, not sharp. Curious, even.

Spencer shifts her weight, the wood of the porch warm under her shoes. “I, um, I was hoping to get some of my old stuff. If it hasn’t been... you know. Thrown out.”

Melissa doesn't answer right away. She just looks at her, eyes narrowed slightly as if she’s trying to solve a problem. Or maybe a puzzle she doesn’t want to be bothered with. Spencer holds her breath. She can practically hear the gears turning behind Melissa’s eyes. Then, after a beat, Melissa steps back.

“You should come in.”

Spencer’s breath catches. She nods once and steps over the threshold.

The house smells the same. Lemon cleaner and the faint hint of eucalyptus, like time hasn’t moved at all since the last time she stood in this entryway. The tile floor gleams. Everything is in its place. Her fingers twitch by her side. She half expects to hear her mother’s heels clicking down the hallway or to see her father frowning over the newspaper at the kitchen table. The weight of memory hits her all at once, like walking into a too-warm room. Her chest tightens.

Melissa leads the way through the front hall without looking back. “Mom’s at the firm. Dad’s in D.C. until next week.”

Spencer trails behind, her eyes catching on details she didn’t know she remembered. The framed photos on the wall. The umbrella stand still cracked at the base. The same cold order to everything. She wonders if the house missed her at all. 

She doubts it.

They stop at the base of the stairs. Melissa turns, crossing her arms lightly over her chest. She studies Spencer again, that familiar analyzing gaze that always felt like being dissected.

“You look different,” she says. Not unkindly. Not exactly warmly either.

Spencer gives a hollow smile. “Prison will do that.”

Melissa’s expression flickers, just for a moment. “Mom kept some of your things,” she says after a pause. “They’re in the spare room. In boxes.”

Spencer nods, her throat tight. She doesn’t ask what kind of things. She’s not sure she wants to know yet. The silence stretches between them, fragile and full of things neither of them is willing to say.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, and starts up the stairs.

Spencer moves slowly, her fingers trail along the wall as she passes picture frames she doesn’t need to look at to remember. She pauses in front of her old bedroom door, the air catching in her throat.

She hesitates, hand hovering over the knob.

Then, slowly, she turns it.

The room is cold, the blinds half-closed and the light sterile. The pale carpet is spotless. The walls are a soft dove gray. A queen-sized bed with a neutral quilted coverlet sits centered against the far wall, flanked by two generic nightstands with matching lamps. There’s a watercolor painting above the bed. No desk. No bookshelf. No photos. No posters. Nothing familiar. Nothing hers.

It is like Spencer Hastings never lived here.

A cold tightness coils in her chest. The absence of her presence feels louder than any argument she ever had in this house. Louder than the nights she screamed into pillows or studied until dawn or cried quietly after Alison died. There’s not even a hint of her left. Not a notebook. Not a scratch on the doorframe. Not a single thread.

She shuts the door before she lets herself feel it too deeply. It closes with a soft click.

The spare room is only a few steps further, and when she opens that door, she braces herself for dust and forgotten Christmas decorations. But instead, the room is surprisingly orderly. The blinds are drawn but sunlight slips in through the edges, casting clean lines of light across the carpet. There is a twin bed pushed to one wall, and a small desk with an unused lamp on it. 

In the corner, stacked neatly on top of one another, are four medium-sized boxes.

She walks over, her heart thudding quietly beneath her ribs. On each box, her name is written in bold black marker: SPENCER.

Four boxes. Four.

Her entire life before everything collapsed, seventeen years of perfection and pressure and pretending, reduced to four labeled containers. She kneels down beside them, her fingers brushing over the top box. The cardboard is smooth, newish, unweathered. Someone packed them carefully. Probably her mother.

She swallows down the sting in her throat.

She wants to believe there’s something meaningful in them. Some part of her they couldn’t erase or ignore. But she knows better. The Hastings never kept what didn’t serve a purpose. And Spencer, after everything, had stopped being useful a long time ago.

She lets her hand rest on the top of the box, then exhales and sits cross-legged beside it, unsure what she’ll find, unsure what she wants to. The silence of the room wraps around her like a blanket just a little too tight. Melissa is somewhere downstairs, probably listening, probably waiting to see what she’ll do next.

Spencer isn’t even sure herself.

She lets out a slow, shaky breath and drags the top box toward her. Her fingers trace the thick line of black marker that spells out her name, slightly smudged from time or maybe touch. The tape along the top is still sealed. Neat. Clean. Purposeful. Of course it is.

With a sigh, she pushes to her feet and walks over to the desk by the window. The drawers slide open with a soft hush and inside, she finds a pair of scissors. Silver. Sharp. Still aligned with the edges of the drawer like everything else in this house.

Back on the floor, she cuts the tape carefully. The ripping sound echoes louder than it should.

Inside, a neat arrangement of fabric. Folded shirts, jackets, jeans. Sweaters she remembers pulling over her head on chilly mornings before AP exams. A skirt she wore to a debate competition she still dreams about sometimes. Not all of her clothes. But her favorites. The ones she wore until the threads began to fray.

Her throat tightens.

She presses a hand to one of the jackets. A navy blazer. Structured. Precise. A little too formal for high school but exactly right for Spencer Hastings. Her fingers curl into the lapel. It still smells faintly like her old perfume, buried beneath the scent of storage. She knows most of it probably won’t fit right anymore, but prison didn’t give her enough calories to grow or change much. She still feels like a girl trapped in amber, preserved but not whole.

She wipes at her cheek before the tear has time to fall and pulls the next box down beside her.

Books. A full row of them, some with worn spines and scribbled margin notes. Her copy of The Bell Jar . Anna Karenina . A few mystery novels tucked in the back, their pages dog-eared and secret. Nestled between the books are trophies. Debate. Academic Decathlon. Field hockey. She stares at them for a long moment, then lifts one out.

The gold is dulled, the plaque still reads her name, etched in stiff, proud letters. It feels heavy in her hand. Heavier still in her chest. This version of Spencer Hastings - the girl who collected medals like armor- she is gone. Maybe she never really existed outside of ambition and fear. She sets the trophy aside.

The third box is what she’s been hoping for, though she doesn’t let herself name it until the lid is open. Her breath hitches.

Notebooks. Her handwriting across the covers, looping and severe. Tabs poking out like impatient flags. Her old laptop rests beneath them, wrapped carefully in bubble wrap. She pulls it out gently, half-expecting it to crumble to dust in her hands. It doesn’t. It’s light and cold and real.

She digs further. The charger is coiled neatly next to it. Somehow, impossibly, the Rosewood PD hadn’t confiscated any of these items. Maybe they hadn’t cared to look further once she confessed. 

Typical.

She presses the notebook stack against her chest, holding them like something sacred. These she will take. These matter. These will help her figure out who A is and hopefully help her get her life back. What little of it there still is to salvage..

The fourth box is almost too much.

Photographs. Trinkets. A mix of the frivolous and the unforgettable. A picture of her, Aria, Alison, Emily, and Hanna, laughing in matching pajamas at a long-ago slumber party. A stack of letters from Aria written during her writers camp in Vermont, full of book quotes and melodrama and secrets. A small framed painting she found at a secondhand shop with her mom one spring, a muted landscape she claimed reminded her of somewhere she’d never been. And finally, at the very bottom, wrapped in tissue paper like a relic, her childhood bear.

Rosalind.

Named after Rosalind Franklin because Spencer was always the kind of girl who loved scientists more than fairy tales. Her hand trembles as she touches the bear’s worn ear. One of the button eyes is slightly loose. She draws the bear to her chest and closes her eyes.

It is too much. All of it.

Because every item is clean and preserved and gently packed. Nothing thrown in carelessly. Every corner tucked down, every memory saved. Someone had done this with intention. With love.

It is hard to reconcile this tenderness with the memory of her mother abandoning her after her confession. Of her not showing up to the sentencing. 

Of the silence that followed for years. 

No letters. 

No visits. 

Just cold absence.

And yet the boxes tell a different story. A quiet one. One packed away in cardboard and grief. A mother who could not bear to stand beside her daughter, but could not throw her away either.

Spencer lets her fingers brush over the bear’s stitched paw again and rests her chin on her knee.

She does not know how to make sense of any of it.

“Spencer.”

Melissa’s voice drifts in softly from the doorway, and Spencer startles like she’s been caught doing something private. She wipes at her face quickly with the sleeve of her shirt, pressing away the dampness clinging to her cheeks. The last thing she needs is Melissa seeing her cry. 

Again.

She looks up and meets her sister’s eyes. Melissa stands with one hand loosely gripping the doorframe, her other arm folded across her middle. There is something unreadable in her face. Concern, maybe. Or maybe just curiosity dressed in something gentler.

“You doing okay?” Melissa asks.

It sounds tentative. Almost like she means it. Almost.

Spencer nods quickly and scrapes her palms against her jeans like she’s trying to scrub the emotion off her skin. She stands and forces a lightness into her voice that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m done. Just figuring out what I can take with me.”

Melissa’s gaze drops to the boxes, to the notebook and laptop Spencer has already separated from the rest. It’s obvious she can’t take it all, not on foot, not alone.

“Where are you staying?”

“Philly,” Spencer answers, barely glancing at her. 

Her eyes flick back to the open box, trying to calculate weight and shape and balance. The laptop and notebooks are already stretching the limit. She can’t imagine dragging the others through the train station, much less all the way to the bus stop.

Melissa’s next question is soft but too pointed. “How did you get here? I didn’t see a car.”

Spencer huffs through her nose, not quite a laugh. A car? Seriously?

“I took the train,” she says flatly.

She bends at the knees, reaching for the box, fingers curling beneath the cardboard edges. She is halfway into the motion when Melissa’s next words freeze her.

“Mom kept your car.”

Spencer’s head snaps up. She stares at her sister like she’s hearing things. Like the language around her has shifted and she’s suddenly not fluent.

“What?”

“Dad wanted to sell it,” Melissa continues. “But Mom kept it. She said you’d want it when you got out.”

Spencer can’t move. Can’t think. For a second, she genuinely forgets how to breathe.

“She… did?”

Melissa nods once. Her tone is steady, not gentle, not cruel. Just matter-of-fact. As if this should not surprise Spencer as much as it does. As if love could live in the same house as abandonment and silence and courtroom absences.

“She kept it in the garage. Said she’d have it serviced once a year so it’d be ready.”

The tears threaten again and Spencer clenches her jaw to hold them back. None of this makes any sense. Her mother had not spoken to her once in the years she was locked away. Hadn’t written. Hadn’t called. Hadn’t even come to court.

And yet… she had saved Spencer’s clothes. Her notebooks. Her childhood bear. Her car.

Spencer swallows hard and nods slowly, her voice a rasp. “Okay.”

“I’ll go get the keys for you,” Melissa offers. 

She doesn’t wait for a response before turning, her heels echoing down the hall.

Spencer stays rooted in place, one hand still lightly resting on the lid of the box. She hears the footsteps fade and lets herself finally exhale. Her fingers curl slightly against the cardboard. The idea of driving feels foreign, almost laughably distant, like something that belonged to another life. 

Because it did.

She had not even planned for this. The prison counselor, Kathy, had offered to help her renew her license before she was released. Spencer had hesitated at first. Why bother? she had thought. She had nowhere to go, no car to drive even if she did. But she had known better than to refuse a favor from someone like Kathy, not when she only had a few weeks left and no room for mistakes. Prison had a way of teaching you who not to cross. Who to say yes to.

And now here she is. In Rosewood. In her childhood home. About to drive her old car like nothing ever happened.

The rhythm of heels returns. Melissa walks back into the room holding a small set of keys on the familiar leather fob Spencer used to carry in high school. Without a word, she holds them out.

Spencer’s hand moves slowly. Her fingers brush Melissa’s as she takes them, the touch awkward, brittle. She drops the keys into the pocket of her jacket like they burn.

“Thanks,” she says quietly.

She bends to pick up the box with her laptop and notebooks, shifting her weight to hoist it against her chest. It is heavier than she expects, but manageable.

“You should stay,” Melissa says suddenly.

Spencer pauses, blinking up at her sister.

“Mom would like to see you.”

The words hang in the air like fog, heavy and hard to breathe through.

Spencer looks down at the box in her arms. She can feel her chest tightening. Guilt tangling with anger. Longing clashing with old pain. 

“No… I have curfew,” she replies, her voice soft but firm.

It is a lie. 

Curfew is not until eleven, and the sun is still slanting low in the sky. But the thought of seeing her mother today, in this moment, with all of this still raw, is too much. Her pulse thrums hard behind her ribs and she doesn’t trust herself not to say something she would regret.

Melissa’s expression falters. “Oh,” she says, and there’s a flicker of disappointment. Maybe even understanding.

She steps forward, reaching for another box. “I’ll help you take these to your car.”

Spencer doesn’t argue. The silence between them stretches as they carry the boxes down the hall and out to the garage. It is the kind of silence that used to hum with tension, but now it just feels hollow.

The garage door groans as it rises. Light floods in and there it is. Her car. Clean. Exactly as she left it, like time simply paused in this corner of her life while everything else fell apart.

They load the boxes into the trunk. Melissa closes it with a soft thud.

Spencer looks at her sister. Melissa is watching her, arms folded, lips parted like she wants to say something else but doesn’t.

“Thanks,” Spencer says again, quieter this time.

Melissa nods. “Drive safe.”

Spencer climbs into the driver’s seat. The engine hums to life beneath her hands. She sits there for a second, gripping the wheel, breathing in the scent of vinyl and time and faint Vanilla. Her fingers twitch on the leather, her throat tight.

As she backs out of the driveway, she sees Melissa still standing there, watching from the edge of the garage, arms folded, eyes shadowed with something she cannot name.

Spencer doesn’t look back again.

She pulls away from the curb and turns down the street. Past Alison’s old house, now dark and empty, the windows blank and hollow. A new name is on the mailbox, but Spencer can still see the flicker of light from teenage sleepovers, hear the echoes of laughter that no longer belongs to anyone.

Her hands tighten around the wheel. Too many ghosts in this town. Too many people who looked at her like a villain, or worse, a stranger.

She doesn’t stop. She just drives, the past chasing her in the rearview.

Chapter Text

Spencer wakes to the sharp buzz of her phone on the nightstand. Her eyes are barely open before the screen glares up at her, the notification slicing through the early morning quiet like a blade.

Four boxes and a car. That’s all you’re worth now. Don’t worry, I remember everything else you lost. – A

She stares at the message for a beat too long, heart kicking hard against her ribs. Her fingers curl instinctively, nails biting into the flesh of her palm. The temptation to hurl the phone across the room seizes her like a jolt. But instead, she swallows it. 

Like always. 

She lets the rage simmer and take shape, lets it sit like ash on her tongue.

A deep breath. Then another.

It doesn’t help. 

The anger claws at her insides, looking for somewhere to go. She pushes the blanket off and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, the hardwood floor cold beneath her feet. Her body feels electric with leftover adrenaline. Like she needs to move or she will implode.

She crouches by the box of clothes she brought back from Rosewood, yanking the flaps open until her hands find worn mesh and faded blue laces. Her old running shoes. Her fingers tremble as she pulls them on. They’re snug but they still fit, and something about that - about having one thing that hasn’t changed - sends a sharp ache through her chest.

Outside, the Philadelphia morning is pale and half-asleep. The sun has only begun to bleed into the horizon, casting the buildings in a dull gold glow. Few cars move along the streets, and the sidewalks are still damp from last night’s rain.

Spencer runs.

At first, it’s clumsy. Her legs don’t stretch like they used to. Her lungs protest, tight and unwilling. But she pushes through it, teeth grit and jaw locked. Each footfall on the pavement echoes like punctuation. Like a drumbeat to something boiling beneath the surface. She runs until her breath comes ragged, until her heart starts pounding loud enough to drown out her thoughts.

But not the memories.

They come anyway. The slamming of a cell door. The scratchy fabric of prison-issued clothing. The smell of bleach and metal and too many bodies. Her name whispered in the dark. Her hands trembling after a visit from her lawyer. The judge’s voice as he read the sentence. Her mother’s absence from the courtroom. The sound of the gavel falling. Aria’s face twisted with confusion. Emily crying. Hanna looking away.

Spencer pushes harder, faster. Her shoes slap wet concrete. Her knees burn. Her throat stings. But the memories do not stop. They just run with her.

By the time she gets back to her apartment, her skin is slick with sweat and her hair sticks to the sides of her face. Her limbs feel heavy, her lungs hollow. The run didn’t give her peace, but it stole the sharp edges off the panic. For now, that’s enough.

She showers quickly, standing under water that is a few degrees too hot, hoping it will sear something clean. It doesn’t. But it helps her breathe.

Wrapped in a threadbare towel, she pours cereal into a chipped bowl and leans against the kitchen counter, spoon in one hand, her phone face down beside her. The cheap cereal tastes like cardboard, but she eats it anyway, chewing mechanically, eyes fixed on the blank wall across from her.

She will spend the rest of the day digging. The old laptop. Her notebooks. Somewhere in those pages - those frantic scrawlings and half-formed theories - there has to be something she missed. Something about A. Someone who knew too much. Someone who made her confess.

Her phone buzzes again. She nearly ignores it. Her heart lurches at the idea of seeing another message from A. Another taunt. Another knife twisted just right.

But it isn’t A.

Hanna.

Just her name on the screen is enough to knock the air from Spencer’s lungs. She hasn’t heard from her since the coffee she had with all the girls. She stares at the message, blinking fast, suddenly overwhelmed by the kind of longing she thought she had buried years ago.

Can we talk? – Hanna

Her response comes before she can even think.

Yes. When? – Spencer

The reply is almost immediate. An address. A note: Anytime this morning.

Spencer rereads it twice, then sets the bowl down, her appetite vanished. Her heart beats faster for reasons that have nothing to do with running. 

She doesn’t know what Hanna wants.

But she knows she’s going.

Spencer pulls up slowly to the curb, her car idling in front of the sleek glass facade of Hanna’s building. Her fingers stay wrapped tight around the steering wheel even after she shifts into park. The place is towering and modern, all clean lines and polished steel. A doorman stands at the entrance in a crisp uniform, perfectly still except for the flick of his eyes toward her.

It feels like arriving somewhere she doesn’t belong.

Her chest tightens. She’s aware of how old her car looks next to the sleek black SUV parked ahead of her. Of the way her jacket smells faintly like old cardboard from the boxes. Of the weight of too many months in a space where time did not move. She swallows, hard, and climbs out of the car.

The doorman steps forward as she approaches.

"Ms Hastings?" he asks, his tone formal but kind.

Spencer blinks, startled that he knows her name. “Yes,” she says, voice thin.

"Ms Marin and Mr Rivers are expecting you,” he says with a polite smile and gestures toward the gold-trimmed elevators.

Of course Hanna would keep her name. Spencer feels a small flicker of warmth in her chest despite herself. Back in high school, she had argued with her father at the dinner table, insisting that giving up your name should never be a requirement of marriage. He’d told her not to be dramatic. Hanna had agreed with her completely, nodding over lunch the next day and calling Peter Hastings old-fashioned in a tone that was part ammusment, part disdain.

That had been a lifetime ago.

“Thank you,” Spencer murmurs, stepping inside the building and toward the elevator.

She watches the numbers climb as the car glides up. Penthouse suite. She tries not to let that rattle her, but it does. Just how successful had Hanna and Caleb become? She can’t picture it. Hanna, with her endless magazines and messy room, living in a place with marble floors and security codes.

The elevator doors open directly into a small private foyer. A single, sleek black door sits ahead. She knocks before she can second guess herself.

The door swings open, and there stands Caleb.

He looks... older, but in a good way. Sharper. The haircut suits him, neat but not too styled. He’s got a day of stubble across his jaw that gives him the kind of rugged charm that used to be accidental but now looks deliberate. His plain t-shirt and jeans are simple, but they fit just right, like they cost more than anything Spencer owns. He’s come a long way from the teenager who didn’t know how to wash the expensive sweater his mum had bought him.

“Spence,” Caleb says, his voice warm and familiar. 

He steps forward and pulls her into a hug. It’s gentle, cautious, like he isn’t sure if she’ll allow it.

To her surprise, she doesn’t flinch. Her body doesn’t tense. She lets him hold her for a second longer than she expects before stepping back.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

Spencer doesn’t know what to say to that, so she gives him a tight smile.

He steps aside and gestures for her to come in. “She’s in the living room,” he adds, voice quieter now.

The apartment is beautiful. Spacious and bright, all soft neutral tones and sharp accents. The furniture is a mix of sleek and vintage, like someone cared enough to balance aesthetic and comfort. It’s Hanna’s touch, she can tell instantly. But there are little signs of Caleb too - a framed photo from a camping trip, a gaming console in the corner, wires tucked neatly beside the television.

Spencer lingers in the entryway, letting her eyes absorb it all until Caleb leans closer and lowers his voice.

“She really missed you,” he murmurs. “Don’t let her push you away.”

Before Spencer can answer, a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Spencer.”

She turns to see Hanna standing just beyond the couch. Her blonde hair is pulled back, her makeup subtle but flawless. She’s in leggings and a long cardigan, casual and perfect all at once.

Caleb touches Hanna’s arm briefly, says something under his breath, and then disappears into another room, the door closing softly behind him.

Spencer shifts on her feet, not quite stepping forward. Her eyes linger on Hanna, trying to read her expression. But Hanna gives nothing away. Her face is set. Her arms are crossed.

Spencer’s voice comes out thinner than she’d like. “You... you wanted to see me?”

Hanna lets out a sigh that sounds halfway between exasperation and disbelief.

“God, Spence. Don’t sound so terrified.”

“I’m not - ” Spencer cuts herself off and tries again. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Hanna scoffs and raises an eyebrow. “Who even are you now?”

The words hit harder than she expects. Spencer stiffens. Her eyes drop for a second to the pale wood flooring, then back up.

A beat of silence stretches between them.

Spencer wonders if this was a mistake. If she should have turned around the second she saw the penthouse suite. But she is here now. And Hanna had asked her to come.

She sits when Hanna doesn’t move to invite her, lowering herself slowly onto the couch. The silence between them is full of ghosts. Spencer presses her hands flat to her knees, grounding herself.

Across from her, Hanna leans back in the armchair, arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t look angry. But she doesn’t look soft, either.

Then, out of nowhere, Hanna speaks. Her voice is too casual, too practiced. “Did you know I got really into crime novels after you went to prison?”

Spencer blinks, startled. “No,” she says softly, shaking her head.

“Yeah,” Hanna goes on, like she’s telling a story about something mundane. “Especially those Scandinavian ones. They’re really dark and twisty. The best ones always are.” She pauses, eyes narrowing slightly, like she’s waiting for Spencer to follow the thread before she yanks it taut. “And do you know what I realized?”

Spencer doesn’t answer. Not fast enough. Not that it matters.

“That it’s no coincidence,” Hanna says, her tone flattening, sharp as a blade. “You went to prison... and A just vanished.”

The words land like a slap. Spencer jerks back, almost imperceptibly, but she feels it deep in her spine. The implication coils in her gut and sits there, thick and sour. It feels like an accusation, and for a breathless second, it hurts.

Badly.

Her face must give her away, because Hanna is already backtracking, voice softer now. “I’m not saying you’re A,” she adds quickly, eyes flicking toward her.

Spencer looks down at the floor, relief rushing in, cold and unwelcome. She doesn’t speak. She can’t yet.

“So…” Hanna says, drawing the word out. “What did A have on you?”

Spencer’s eyes lift. Hanna is studying her with something that might almost be concern. Or curiosity. Or both. Hanna leans forward slightly, fingers drumming against her knee.

“Or what did A promise you?” she adds, brow raised.

Spencer’s throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Spence,” Hanna says, exasperated. “I’m not an idiot. We all know you didn’t kill Ali. So there had to be a reason. A real reason you confessed.”

“I… I did, though,” Spencer lies, her voice barely above a whisper.

But Hanna just shakes her head, not even pretending to believe it. “No, you didn’t.”

Spencer opens her mouth to protest, to repeat the lie, but nothing comes out. Her tongue feels heavy. Her teeth press against the inside of her cheek.

“Fine,” Hanna mutters, folding her arms tighter across her chest. “Don’t tell me. But can you at least admit you aren’t A?”

Spencer’s gaze snaps to her face. “Of course I’m not A,” she says, too quickly. “I never even said I was.”

Hanna doesn’t blink. “Then why did A just stop after you confessed? If you’re not A, then what changed?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer breathes. “Maybe… maybe they were just after me. Maybe when I confessed, they got what they wanted.”

“So they made you confess?”

“That’s not what I said,” Spencer answers too fast, flinching inward.

“That’s what it sounded like.”

Hanna’s voice is level, not accusing, but not forgiving either. Just factual. Analytical. A part of Spencer can’t help but notice how sharp she’s gotten. All those years spent reading thrillers, piecing together motives and lies it shows. Hanna is nothing like the scattered, impulsive girl she once was. There is steel in her now.

And Spencer knows that look. Knows what it means to be dissected.

She exhales slowly, reaching for something more solid than denial.

“Or maybe,” she says quietly, “we came too close to figuring out who they were. So they stopped.”

The moment the words are out, they settle into the air like truth.

Spencer hadn’t meant to say it. But now that she has, she feels it in her bones. The possibility she hadn’t let herself name until now. Maybe she had been getting close. Maybe someone - whoever A was - knew she wouldn’t stop digging. Maybe that was why they needed her gone.

The silence that follows is different. Heavier.

Hanna doesn’t speak. She just stares.

Spencer stares back, heart pounding. Her hands have curled into fists on her knees again, and her nails dig into her skin.

Then Hanna speaks, her voice flat. “So… you’re not going to admit you didn’t kill Ali?”

Spencer swallows hard. Her throat feels like sandpaper. She shakes her head. It is not quite a no. Not quite a lie either. She just… cannot say it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Hanna keeps staring at her, but the fight drains out of her face, softening the hard edges. Her voice lowers, quieter now. Less angry. Just tired. “Will you at least accept that none of us believe you did it?” She pauses, and there is something vulnerable in her eyes. “That if you ever want to admit the truth, you can trust us? Me?”

Spencer feels the words pierce something deep and protected. She opens her mouth, and for a moment she almost lies again. Almost retreats to the safety of the story she has told a hundred times, the one that kept everyone out, the one that kept her alone.

But then she sees the way Hanna’s shoulders sag, like she is bracing for another wall to go up between them. She sees the bruised hope in her expression, fragile and unsure.

And Spencer cannot do it. She cannot lie again. Not to Hanna.

So she just exhales, a shaky breath that leaves her chest aching, and after a moment, she nods.

That is all.

But Hanna’s lips twitch into a smile anyway. Not triumphant. Just… warm. “Good,” she says. Then, in the same breath, she adds, “Prison was hell on your complexion, by the way. We need to fix that.”

Spencer blinks. The pivot is so fast, so Hanna, that it stuns a laugh out of her.

“I’ll admit,” Spencer says, smiling now too, “there wasn’t much time in there for your ten-step skincare routine.”

Hanna gives her a dramatic gasp.

“And,” Spencer continues, her grin growing, “all we had was this horrifying three-in-one thing. Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. In one bottle.”

The horror on Hanna’s face is instant and so sincere Spencer can’t help but laugh again, this time louder.

“That is the worst thing I have ever heard,” Hanna says with genuine revulsion, her hands clutched to her chest like Spencer has just confessed to bathing in sewage.

“Really?” Spencer teases. “That’s the worst thing? Not the jumpsuits, not the food, not the strip searches. But the three-in-one?”

“Yes,” Hanna says fiercely, nodding like she’s dead serious. “Three-in-one is worse than two-in-one. It’s basically chemical warfare. I cannot believe you lived like that.”

Spencer laughs until her eyes sting.

And just like that, the tension in the room starts to crack. Slowly. Not all the way, but enough for them to breathe. Enough for Spencer to lean back into the couch a little and feel something almost like peace. Something that has not existed in her life for a very long time.

They fall into easier conversation after that. Nothing too heavy. Hanna keeps things light, steering them into safe waters. She asks about the books Spencer read, the things she missed. Spencer answers honestly where she can and vaguely where she cannot. Hanna doesn’t press. She just listens.

The afternoon stretches out, and before Spencer even notices, the light has changed. The sky outside the penthouse windows is tinged with gold, then violet, and finally, it slips into blue.

They have been talking for hours.

Eventually, Spencer stands. Hanna walks her to the elevator, and neither of them says anything about what has shifted between them. They don’t need to.

As the doors slide closed, Spencer catches a glimpse of Hanna’s face one last time, soft with something like forgiveness. Or maybe something simpler than that.

She gets into the car where she parked it and her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out without thinking.

Hanna smiled at you. Sweet. Almost made me forget how she voted guilty in her heart years ago. - A 

Chapter Text

Spencer’s phone buzzes against the side of her leg, jolting her out of the half-hearted lunch break conversation she is having with two of the guys from the crew. She pulls the phone from her pocket, glancing down at the screen, and freezes when she sees Aria’s name.

Without a word, she steps away from the group and walks around the side of the half-renovated house. The sun beats down on the back of her neck, and the distant sound of power tools fades into the background as she presses the phone to her ear.

“Hey -” she starts, but Aria cuts her off immediately.

“You went to Rosewood?”

Spencer blinks. Her fingers curl tighter around the phone. “I did,” she says slowly, cautious now. “Why?”

“Ezra called me,” Aria says, her voice clipped and tight. “He was pretty upset. Did you do something?”

Spencer tilts her head back, staring up at the cloudless blue sky. The heat presses against her skin, but it is nothing compared to the flicker of anger rising in her chest. She breathes through it, but it stays.

Of course. Of course it’s about Ezra.

“I thought you two were broken up,” she says, sharper than she means to.

“We are,” Aria snaps back without missing a beat. “But we’re still friends. We still talk. I told you that.”

Spencer closes her eyes for a second. She did know that. Aria had mentioned it, more than once. But hearing it again, like this, with Ezra already in the middle of their business - it makes something bitter lodge in her throat.

She opens her eyes and focuses on a nail sticking out of the wood siding beside her, anything to avoid the frustration threatening to bubble over. “Well, I didn’t do anything,” she says, her voice flat. “What exactly did he say I did?”

There is a pause on the other end, the quiet stretch of Aria choosing her words. “He didn’t say,” she finally admits. “Just that he ran into you and that you were… rude. He didn’t understand why.”

Spencer exhales, a short huff of disbelief. “He tried to tell me to stay away from you,” she says, her voice tight. “I told him no. That’s probably what upset him.”

There is a beat of silence.

“Oh,” Aria says, small and startled, like she hadn’t considered that possibility.

Spencer can hear her breath shifting on the line. The space between them grows tense and uncertain, like the air right before a storm.

“I’m sorry, Spence,” Aria says eventually. Her voice is quieter now. Softer. “He doesn’t really like when people don’t listen to him. He was probably just trying to protect me. He… he saw how bad things got after what happened.”

Spencer hears the apology in the words, but also the same old defense, the same old instinct to smooth things over for Ezra. She loved Aria. Still did, despite everything. But this - this part of her, the part that always bent herself around Ezra’s edges - it still stung. Even after all these years. Even after she realised the truth of their relationship in prison after hearing too many similar stories from her fellow inmates.

Spencer swallows back the thoughts she wants to say. The ones about manipulation and control and how being “protected” never really felt like safety at all. Instead, she just exhales, letting it go. For now.

“It’s okay,” she says, the words only half true. “I should get back. Lunch is almost over.”

She is about to hang up when Aria’s voice stops her.

“Wait, Spence… can we have dinner?”

The question lands gently, unexpected. Spencer pauses, her eyes drifting back toward the crew as they file through the front door again, laughing about something she is no longer part of.

She nods, then remembers Aria cannot see her. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’ll text you,” Aria says, her voice already lighter.

Spencer pulls the phone away and stares at the screen for a beat before slipping it back into her pocket. The warm air presses against her face as she walks toward the house again.

Her phone buzzes and she pulls it out expecting it to be Aria who has texted her lighting fast. 

It’s not.

History lesson, Spencer: when it’s you or Ezra, Aria doesn’t hesitate. She never has. - A 

Spencer slides into the driver’s seat, slamming the car door shut with more force than she means to. Her phone buzzes against the console, and she reaches for it, expecting an address for a restaurant or a quiet little café. Something neutral. Public. Safe.

Instead, the message from Aria is a street name and house number.

No location tag. No “see you there.” Just an address.

Spencer blinks at it, reading it twice. Then a third time. Definitely residential.

Come as you are, Aria sent in a follow up text and then another. No need to change or anything.

Spencer glances down at herself. Her jeans are dusted with drywall, her T-shirt speckled with faint patches of white paint and a smudge of something she never identified. Her hair is twisted up in a messy knot at the back of her head, strands already falling loose. She feels like she belongs more in a tool shed than anyone’s living room.

But Aria had asked. And Spencer had said yes.

The drive takes just under twenty minutes, winding out toward the quieter edge of the city. It is far enough from downtown to be peaceful, but close enough that a commute is still manageable. The kind of area where artists and musicians rent tiny homes with peeling porches and garden beds gone wild.

Aria’s address leads Spencer to a low-rise building, a squat little complex of small units arranged around a narrow courtyard lined with cracked concrete and a few determined weeds. She pulls up at the curb and cuts the engine. For a long moment, she just sits there, staring through the windshield.

There is something vulnerable about showing up at someone’s home like this, unpolished and unsure. She gives her jeans one last swipe with her hands, brushing at the dust that refuses to budge, then pats down her shirt like it might make any difference.

It doesn’t.

Still, she climbs out of the car and makes her way to the front door of Unit 3, her boots scuffing quietly against the path. She hesitates for half a second at the step, then raises her hand and knocks.

A few seconds pass. Then the door swings open.

Aria stands on the threshold, barefoot and radiant in the strange, effortlessly curated way only she can manage. Her hair is up in a loose bun, dark strands curling in every direction, and she wears an oversized T-shirt cinched at the waist with a patterned scarf, paired with soft, wide-leg pants in a shade of green that should not work but somehow does.

Spencer blinks.

“Hey,” Aria says, smiling like their last conversation hadn’t been their lowkey argument about Ezra on the phone.

Spencer’s heart stumbles. “Hey.”

“You came,” Aria adds, stepping aside to let her in.

“I said I would,” Spencer murmurs, and moves through the doorway.

The air inside smells like coffee grounds and lavender, with something faintly citrus beneath it. The unit is small, just one open living space with a kitchenette along one wall, but every inch of it feels like Aria. Mismatched cushions crowd the couch. A record player sits in the corner beside a stack of vinyl. Books are everywhere - on shelves, on the coffee table, stacked in columns against the walls like someone started building a fortress and got distracted halfway through.

Art covers every bit of vertical space. Some pieces look like gallery prints. Others are clearly handmade. There is even a sculpture on the windowsill made entirely out of driftwood and wire.

Spencer stops just inside the doorway, her eyes sweeping over it all.

“It’s a bit much, I know,” Aria says, closing the door behind her and tucking a curl behind her ear. “The landlord says it’s like living in a curated mess. But I kind of love it.”

“It’s very you,” Spencer says quietly. She means it. There is warmth here, and color. It feels lived in, personal. 

Aria tilts her head, watching her. “You look like you came straight from work.”

Spencer glances down at her clothes, then shrugs. “I did. You said come as I was.”

“I did,” Aria agrees, her voice soft. “And I’m glad you did.”

Spencer meets her eyes for a moment, then looks away, unsure of what to do with the weight of everything unsaid between them.

“Want something to drink?” Aria asks, already walking toward the kitchen nook.

Spencer exhales, just a little. She follows her in, weaving carefully around the towers of books like they might topple if she breathes too hard.

“Water’s fine,” she says, and when Aria hands her a glass, their fingers brush for a second longer than necessary.

They move to the couch, sitting close but not too close. The quiet is comfortable in a way Spencer hadn’t expected.

“I’m sorry,” Aria says suddenly.

Spencer turns to look at her, brows pulling together. “What?”

“I shouldn’t have called you the way I did. About Ezra. I believe you didn’t do anything.” Aria’s voice is soft, and her eyes flick down to the cushion between them like she is ashamed of herself.

Spencer hesitates, her fingers curling against the fabric of the couch. She wants to be gracious. She wants to move past it. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Aria says with a quick shake of her head, then sighs. “But thanks for saying it is.”

Silence again, this time heavier, filled with things unspoken. Spencer looks around the room, at the stacks of books crowding every corner, at the mess of color and brushstroke on the walls. It’s exactly the kind of space she imagined Aria living in. Every detail so her.

She watches Aria for a moment, then risks it. The question has been sitting just beneath her tongue since their last phone call. “Why would Ezra have called you to tell you that?”

Aria tenses slightly. “We’re still friends,” she says, her voice careful.

“I know.” Spencer nods, but the words keep pulling at her. “But… he came up to me, not the other way around. He must have known I wasn’t going to just disappear because he asked. So what did he think calling you would do?”

Aria bites her bottom lip, not answering right away. She looks toward the window, as if searching for the right words in the streetlight outside.

“I don’t know,” she admits finally. “He can be... protective. Overbearing, sometimes. He saw how bad I was after you went to prison.”

Spencer’s heart twists, unexpectedly, at the vulnerability in Aria’s voice. She watches as Aria pulls at a loose thread on her sweater.

“I was a wreck,” Aria continues. “I didn’t eat. I barely slept. I was crying all the time. My parents didn’t know what to do with me. I felt like the world was cracking open and everyone just kept walking past like nothing happened.” She lets out a breath, shaky and uneven. “Ezra was the only person other than the girls who stuck around. He didn’t ask me to be okay. He didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed.”

Spencer nods slowly, swallowing hard. There is a part of her that wants to reach out, to wrap her arms around Aria and tell her she is here now. But another part of her, the sharper part, knows there is something darker buried beneath Aria’s words. A dependency that sounds less like love and more like survival.

“He always knew what to say,” Aria says with a soft smile, though it flickers around the edges. “Even when I didn’t want to talk. He just… let me fall apart.”

Spencer shifts, leaning forward slightly. “But that doesn’t mean he gets to decide who you see. Or who cares about you.”

“I know.” Aria’s smile falters completely now, and for a moment she looks very young. “He didn’t like how often I talked about you, after. He said it wasn’t healthy. That I was clinging to the past.”

The silence that follows is thick. Spencer’s hands rest in her lap, clenched lightly, her fingers threading together.

“I think,” Aria says slowly, “I was so broken then, I didn’t see what he was doing. I told myself he was protecting me, but maybe he was just... keeping me where he wanted me. Close enough to need him. Not close enough to question him.”

Spencer’s throat is dry. “You don’t owe him your loyalty just because he stayed when things were hard.”

Aria nods, almost too quickly, but Spencer sees the flicker of guilt in her eyes anyway. “He was all I had.”

“You had the others, Hanna and Emily” Spencer says, quieter than she meant to. Her voice almost cracks. “You still do. And… and you have me if you want me.”

Aria looks at her, really looks, and something shifts in her face. The mask of politeness, of gentle explanation, falls away. There is grief behind it. And something like hope.

“I missed you so much,” Aria says. “I felt like I lost a limb.”

Spencer swallows the lump in her throat. “Me too.”

They sit like that for a long time. Eventually, the sky outside deepens into indigo, and the quiet turns warm again. They talk about small things. Books Aria has read. The house Spencer is working on with the crew. They laugh, sometimes. It’s not quite the same as before, but it’s something.

Eventually Aria stands up and Spencer expects to be sent home but instead Aria moves toward the tiny kitchen that spills out into the rest of the living space. The open plan makes it feel cozy rather than cramped.

Aria pulls her hair back with a loose tie from her wrist and opens the fridge. "I'm starving," she says lightly, looking over her shoulder. "I was going to just order something, but I think I’ve got enough stuff for a pasta thing. You hungry?"

Spencer hesitates. She is, now that she thinks about it, but it feels like she’s imposing on too much of Aria’s time. Still, she nods. "Yeah. I can help, if you want."

Aria grins, warm and lopsided, and tosses her a bag of spinach from the fridge. "You can start with this."

Spencer doesn’t know where the chopping boards are but she eventually finds one after opening two wrong drawers, and by then Aria has put water on the stove and is pulling out garlic and a lemon. They move around each other easily, like muscle memory kicking in. Like no time has passed at all.

Spencer takes comfort in the rhythm of it. The clean, crisp sound of chopping, the sizzle of garlic in a pan, the bright scent of lemon zest hanging in the air. Aria hums under her breath as she stirs something on the stove, a tune Spencer half-recognizes from years ago, something they used to play while getting ready for school dances or sneaking wine from Ella’s fridge.

“I forgot how nice it is,” Aria says, after a moment. “Cooking with someone.”

Spencer looks over, catching her profile in the warm kitchen light. 

“Remember that time we tried to cook dinner for Ali’s birthday?” Aria asks, her voice turning fond and sad at the same time.

Spencer smiles faintly. “You mean when Emily almost burned down the Hastings’ kitchen trying to flambé bananas?”

“Yes,” Aria laughs. “And Hanna forgot the pasta was boiling until all the water was gone and it was just… glue.”

Spencer snorts. “Alison pretended to be gracious about it, but she couldn’t stop texting someone under the table the entire night. Probably mocking us.”

“Probably.” Aria quiets for a second, stirring the pasta, the spoon scraping gently against the pot. “But that night still felt special, you know? Even if it was a disaster. We were trying so hard to do something nice for her.”

Spencer’s chest tightens. The memory is so vivid it aches. The way they all orbited around Alison back then, convinced she was their sun.

“She made us feel like we were part of something important,” Aria adds softly. “Even if we weren’t.”

Spencer lowers her eyes to the spinach on the board, the way her hands keep moving even when her mind wants to stall. She remembers how that night ended, too. How Alison whispered something biting to each of them when the others weren’t looking. How Spencer had gone to bed feeling hollow despite the laughter.

“She could make you feel like the most loved person in the world,” Spencer murmurs. “And then like you didn’t exist five minutes later.”

“Yeah,” Aria says. “Exactly.”

The pasta is nearly done. Aria sets out two mismatched bowls and starts grating parmesan over them while Spencer plates the pasta.

They sit side by side at the small kitchen bench, knees bumping lightly beneath it. The window behind them shows the fading blue of the evening sky, streaked with violet. The soft hum of the fridge is the only sound between them for a beat.

And then Spencer speaks. The question is out before she can stop herself, tumbling into the quiet like a stone in a still lake. She does not mean for it to come out so suddenly, but she has never been good at sitting with doubt.

"You really don’t believe that I killed Ali?"

She regrets it the second the words hang in the air. She braces herself for hesitation, for the long pause that would say more than any spoken answer.

But it does not come.

Aria's fork stops halfway to her mouth. She turns toward Spencer and shakes her head, simple and certain. “No.”

Just that. No. Spencer feels the air shift in her lungs.

She swallows. “Did you, did you ever?”

Again, Aria says it without hesitation. “No.”

There is no dramatic pause, no wavering in her voice. Just that same quiet certainty. Like the sun rising. Like gravity.

“Why?” Spencer asks. Her voice is quieter now, almost timid. She hates how small it sounds.

Aria sets her fork down and shifts to face her fully. Her eyes are soft but steady, and there is something ancient in the way she looks at her, something made of time and history and childhood sleepovers that turned into lifelong loyalty.

“Cause I know you, Spence.” Her voice is low and sure. “I know you better than I know myself. Even this new hardened you is still the same Spencer Hastings. I knew who you were when you were a tall preteen in pigtails and I know you now. I know who you are in your bones, Spence. You are a protector but you are not a killer.”

Spencer stares at her, heart thudding unevenly in her chest. The words land like something she did not know she had been waiting for, something she thought she had long since given up hoping to hear.

She lowers her eyes, blinking fast. The lump rising in her throat catches her off guard.

She wants to speak, to say something, but all she can do is nod as she twirls pasta around her fork with hands that shake slightly.

“I don’t know why you confessed,” Aria adds, “but I know it was probably some great act of self sacrifice. I know you didn’t kill her. I know.” 

Chapter Text

Mitch is unloading more supplies from the truck as they pack up for the day when Spencer’s phone buzzes in her pocket. She wipes a streak of dust off her palm and pulls it out, expecting another text from Hanna. All day it’s been photos of fabric swatches and rough sketches, as if Spencer has any business offering design opinions. She’s halfway to dismissing the notification when she sees it isn’t from Hanna.

Tonight on WGAL at 7pm — the news story you won’t want to miss. Hope you have popcorn, killer. – A

Her stomach twists. Her breath catches like she’s forgotten how to breathe.

She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. Just locks the screen and shoves the phone back into her pocket like it’s a hot coal.

Whatever it is, it can wait. She tells herself that, but her hands are shaking as she helps Mitch haul the last buckets into the bed of the truck. She can’t concentrate on the inventory. She can barely remember if she already loaded the paint thinner.

Every minute until 7pm drags like her brain is trying to stretch time. When the day finally ends, Spencer doesn’t say goodbye. She just waves vaguely and climbs into her car, the door shutting with a hollow thud. She stares through the windshield for a long time before she turns the key.

Twenty silent minutes later, she’s back in her apartment. The front door clicks shut behind her with too much force, and the place greets her in dim, indifferent quiet. There’s no TV. 

But her phone is still in her pocket, warm and heavy like it knows something she doesn’t.

She sinks onto her bed, hands trembling as she opens the news app and finds the livestream from WGAL. It takes less than a second for the anchor’s smooth voice to fill the room.

“Good evening. Tonight’s top story: shocking new footage from inside Mill Creek Correctional Facility raises fresh questions about one of Pennsylvania’s most controversial parolees - Spencer Hastings.”

A sleek graphic appears across the screen. Her mugshot. Her prison ID number. The headline in bold white text against red:

“PAROLED BUT GUILTY? New Leaks Cast Doubt on Spencer Hastings’ Release.”

Spencer’s blood turns to ice.

The segment cuts to video footage. Grainy, grey-tinted surveillance from the prison hallway. She’s in it. Back arched, screaming, two guards wrestling her to the floor. Another clip — she’s curled in the corner of her cell, arms clamped around her head, muttering something unintelligible. The voiceover returns.

“Leaked footage obtained by WGAL appears to show Hastings exhibiting signs of extreme mental instability. The former Rosewood High student, convicted for the murder of Alison DiLaurentis, was released on parole earlier this year under controversial circumstances. Officials have declined to comment on how this footage may impact her case.”

A legal analyst comes on screen, calm and composed in a navy suit.“While parolees like Hastings are technically free, they remain under strict supervision. This kind of footage could potentially be used in a parole violation hearing, especially if it raises concerns about violent behavior or mental fitness.”

Spencer’s throat feels raw. Her pulse pounds in her ears.

They show more footage. Her pacing like a caged animal. Shouting. A medical report flashes for half a second, blurred but familiar enough that she knows exactly what it is: her psychiatric eval, the one she fought so hard to keep sealed. A diagnosis she never agreed with, scrawled across the top.

PTSD with psychotic features.

The camera cuts to a statement from the DA’s office.  “We cannot confirm the authenticity of the footage at this time, but we are actively reviewing the material and its potential impact on Ms Hastings’ release status.”

Spencer closes the phone. Her hands are numb. Her chest is too tight to breathe. She’s not even aware she’s crying until the tears drip down onto her knuckles, smearing dust and paint from earlier.

She slides off the bed and onto the floor, curling her knees to her chest, her back against the frame. The quiet in her apartment feels suffocating now, like a vacuum. She gasps for air, but it does not come.

They’re painting her as dangerous. Unstable. Like they let a monster out by mistake. The rational part of her brain tries to fight back - that was years ago, I was under medication, I was not violent - but it is a whisper against the blaring noise in her head.

She should call Aria. Or Emily, even Hanna. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she presses her forehead to her knees and lets the sobs come, jagged and breathless and sharp. Not the kind of crying you can pull yourself out of, not something you can stop with a deep breath. This is everything spilling out. Rage. Humiliation. Grief. Fear.

She is not free.

Spencer wakes up on the floor, stiff and cold, the morning light slicing through the blinds in sharp, judgmental lines. Her mouth tastes like rust, and her eyes ache from crying. For a second she forgets why she feels hollow, but then she sees her phone on the floor beside her, the screen dark and lifeless.

She forces herself to sit up, every muscle in her back aching. She blinks blearily at the clock on the wall.

4:52 a.m.

She picks up the phone, the screen lighting up the moment her thumb brushes it. One notification waits. A text from her parole officer.

 Please come into the office after your shift. We need to discuss the broadcast.

The words make her stomach turn. No greeting. No platitudes. Just calm professionalism that feels heavier than any threat.

She stares at the message for a long time before locking the screen and setting the phone down on the kitchen counter. She does not reply.

In the shower, she scrubs harder than usual, like she can wash last night off her skin. Her palms are pink and raw by the time she turns the water off, her breaths shallow. She gets dressed in silence. No music. No distractions. Just the sound of her heartbeat echoing in her chest.

When she gets to the job site, it is obvious the second she steps out of her car.

Conversation stalls as she walks past the crew. Not dramatically. Not in a movie-scene way. But in the quiet, awkward kind of way where everyone knows something and no one knows what to say.

One of the younger guys, Marcus, mutters something to the guy next to him. The other one elbows him. Spencer pretends she doesn’t notice.

She heads straight for the tool shed and starts prepping for the morning, trying to look busy, like she does not feel the heat of every pair of eyes on her. Her fingers tremble as she untangles a power cord, and she silently counts each breath just to keep it steady.

Mitch finds her ten minutes later. He walks up like he always does, hands in his pockets, a pencil tucked behind his ear, clipboard under one arm.

“You good?” he asks, like he’s asking if she slept okay or if she wants coffee.

Spencer looks up, startled. For a split second she braces for something worse. For the other shoe to drop.

“Yeah,” she says, too quickly. Her voice is thin. She clears her throat and tries again. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He gives her a look like he doesn’t believe her, but he nods anyway. “You want to take the living room today? Just drywall and corner beads.”

“Sure,” she says. Anything. Anything to stay moving.

Mitch hesitates. His eyes flicker across her face, like he’s searching for the right thing to say.

“People talk,” he says finally. “But talking doesn’t mean they know anything worth a damn.”

She swallows hard. Her throat feels too tight.

“Thanks,” she whispers. She cannot say more than that without breaking.

He just shrugs and walks off like it is nothing, like he didn’t just throw her a life raft.

She exhales shakily and leans back against the frame of the half-finished wall. Relief floods through her, so sharp and undeserved it makes her feel dizzy. Mitch still trusts her. Maybe not entirely. Maybe not forever. But enough for today.

She doesn’t deserve it. Not after last night. Not after what they all saw. Not after what she let herself become in prison.

But she will take it.

She grips the bucket of compound and heads inside. She works like the weight in her chest can be smoothed over with each swipe of the trowel. Like maybe, just maybe, keeping her hands busy can keep her from falling apart.

But every time her phone buzzes in her pocket, she flinches. Every time someone glances her way, her stomach flips.

She cannot forget what comes after work.

She cannot forget the meeting.

She cannot forget the truth: A is watching her.

And they are not finished.

Spencer scrapes the last line of caulk into place just as the sun begins to slide low across the horizon, washing the construction site in amber light. Her arms ache, her back is tight, and the fabric of her shirt is stiff with dust and sweat. She feels the weight of the day in every limb, but it is nothing compared to the heaviness pressing down on her chest.

She packs her tools in silence, the chatter of the crew now distant and filtered, like she is underwater. Mitch gives her a parting nod. She nods back, grateful again in that deep, unspeakable way for his quiet loyalty.

Then she’s in her car, pulling away from the site with hands that won’t stop gripping the wheel too tightly.

Her stomach is sour by the time she reaches the parole office. She parks, checks her reflection in the mirror - there is a smear of drywall dust on her cheek she hadn’t noticed - and wipes it away with the back of her hand.

Inside, the air is stale and fluorescent. The front desk clerk doesn't look up as she signs in. Her pen stutters against the paper. Her heart won’t slow down.

A door clicks open and there she is. Laura.

“Spencer,” she says, voice clipped. “Come in.”

Spencer follows her down the hallway into her office and sits down in the same chair as last time.

Laura doesn't waste time.

“We saw the broadcast,” she says, lacing her fingers together on the desk. “You know why you're here.”

Spencer nods slowly. Her mouth is too dry to speak.

Laura continues. “First, let me be clear. None of what was aired last night was new to us. Your case history, the details of your conviction, even the interrogation footage. None of it was a surprise. We have had access to all of it since day one.”

Spencer’s throat tightens. Of course they had. It didn’t change the way it had felt to watch it on the screen, to hear the anchor dissect her life like she was already buried.

“But,” Laura adds, the word landing like a gavel, “the way the story was packaged, the way it was broadcast, is causing public outcry. We’ve received phone calls. Emails. More than a few complaints.”

Spencer presses her hands against her thighs, nails biting into the fabric of her jeans. She keeps her gaze fixed on a small chip in the corner of the desk.

“So what does that mean for me?” she asks quietly.

Laura leans back in her chair. “It means your supervision is going to be tighter from here on out. Check-ins will be more frequent. We will be documenting everything even more closely than before. Your job, your movements, your associations. This is not punitive, Spencer. This is reactive. You are still under state supervision. That means we have to act in accordance with public safety perception.”

Spencer’s head dips slightly. The humiliation burns behind her eyes.

Laura exhales. “We’re also looking into how the footage ended up on the news. That interrogation video was not supposed to be made public. It may have leaked from within law enforcement or the D.A.'s office, but that is still under review.”

Spencer lifts her eyes. “You think someone leaked it on purpose?” 

It was A.

It had to be A.

Laura doesn’t answer right away. “We’re not ruling anything out. But for now, our focus is on how you respond. And you are going to respond by following the conditions of your parole exactly. Understand?”

Spencer nods, the motion stiff and slow. “Yes.”

Laura softens, if only slightly. “I know this isn’t easy. I’m not here to punish you. But I do need you to be smart. You don’t get the benefit of the doubt right now, Spencer. That’s just reality.”

She nods again, slower this time, more grounded in the weight of it.

“I’ll expect you here Thursday morning for a follow-up,” Laura adds, standing.

Spencer stands too, numb and unsteady.

Outside, the sky has dimmed to slate gray. The world feels quieter than it should. Her car smells like warm plastic and old coffee. She sits in the driver’s seat for a long time without turning the key.

People think she is a killer. They always have.

Spencer doesn’t see Emily at first. Not until she looks up from her keys and catches the figure leaning against the wall beside her apartment door. Her heart skips. Emily straightens as their eyes meet.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” Spencer says, and the words come out lighter than she expects. 

A dry smile tugs at her lips, surprising her. She hadn’t known she was capable of joking anymore. But seeing Emily - steady, familiar, warm - shifts something inside her chest, like the coil of tension that’s lived there is loosening for just a second.

Emily steps forward, the corners of her mouth lifting. “I’m having a barbecue,” she says, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her tone is casual, but there’s purpose in her eyes. “This weekend. With the other girls. And Paige, and Caleb. You’re coming.”

Spencer blinks. “I am?”

“Yes.” Emily’s voice is firm, her gaze unwavering. She closes the space between them and stops just a few feet away. “I came in person so you couldn’t back out.”

“Oh.” Spencer swallows, caught off guard. 

There’s no space for excuses with Emily. There never was.

“So,” Emily continues, pulling her phone from her pocket as she talks, “my place. Saturday. Five o’clock. I’ll text you the address. Okay?”

Spencer hesitates. The idea of being around everyone again feels like standing on a high ledge, but Emily’s expression doesn’t waver. She waits, steady and sure. After a moment, Spencer nods.

“Okay,” she says quietly.

Emily smiles, the warmth in it washing over Spencer like sunlight after a long gray stretch. She steps in close but gives Spencer a beat to move away. Spencer doesn’t. She doesn’t want to.

When Emily’s arms wrap gently around her, Spencer lets herself lean into it. The hug is soft and careful, but it undoes her. She squeezes her eyes shut and blinks against the heat rising behind her lashes. She hadn’t realized how starved she was for kindness, for the simple comfort of being held.

Emily pulls back slowly, her hands giving Spencer’s shoulders a soft squeeze before dropping. “I’ve got to run,” she says, already backing away. “We’ll see you Saturday.”

Spencer nods again, her voice caught somewhere between her heart and her throat. “Yeah. Okay.”

She watches as Emily walks down the path and disappears around the corner. The stillness that follows is heavier somehow, but not in a bad way. It’s just full. Full of the emotion Emily left behind.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket as she closes the apartment door behind her. She doesn’t check it until she’s safely inside. The moment she sees the name, her stomach tightens.

Come by the workshop tomorrow morning before heading to the worksite - Jeff 

Her chest tightens. That’s it. He’s going to fire her. She should’ve known.

Before she can spiral further, another message buzzes in.

I’m not firing you - Jeff 

She stares at the screen, breath caught, and lets out a small, sharp laugh. It’s the kind that hurts on the way out. It’s like he read her mind.

She presses her phone to her chest and closes her eyes, just for a moment.

Not everyone leaves. Not everyone gives up on her.

Not this time.

Chapter Text

Spencer steps into the office, shutting the door gently behind her. The scent of old coffee, sawdust, and motor oil hangs in the air. Jeff is seated behind his cluttered desk, head bent over a roll of blueprints, a pencil tucked behind one ear. The only light comes from the narrow window behind him, catching the silver in his tied-back hair.

He looks up at her entrance. “So,” he says, voice gravel-thick, “I’m guessing you know what this is about.”

There’s no accusation in his tone, but it still lands heavily in her chest. She nods, stepping forward toward the desk, where paperwork and pencil-smudged sketches of framing layouts are spread out like a controlled mess.

“I told you when you started,” Jeff says, pushing the blueprints aside and leaning forward, forearms resting on the desk, “your story was yours to tell.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He never has. Jeff’s the kind of man who doesn’t waste words unless they matter.

“That ship’s sailed now.” He shakes his head slowly, his mouth a grim line. “I don’t know what those assholes on the news thought they were doing, plastering your face across half the state, but it wasn’t justice. You served your time. Far as I’m concerned, that means something.”

Spencer doesn’t know what to say to that. Her throat tightens as she shrugs, the motion stiff. She’s still surprised by how much hearing words like that can rattle her.

Jeff’s eyes lift, pinning her. “I can’t do anything about the media, but I can deal with my crew. If any of the guys start treating you different, if someone gets cute, or starts asking questions that aren’t theirs to ask, you tell me.”

She meets his gaze, and there’s no softness there, just something steady. Solid. She nods once, but he doesn’t look away.

“I mean it,” he says. “I know what it’s like inside. I know how the rules work in there. But this ain’t prison. This is my job site. You’re under my roof now, and that means you don’t have to handle this shit alone.”

Spencer swallows hard. The words settle deep, too big to speak around. Other than Marcus and Aaron the first morning after the news broke, no one’s treated her like anything other than just another pair of hands. And Jeff... she’s never heard him talk this much at once.

Jeff leans back slightly, then stands, stretching his broad shoulders before walking around the desk. He perches on the edge, arms folded over his flannel. His face is unreadable, but something in his posture shifts, like what he’s about to say matters more than usual.

“I don’t talk about it,” he begins, glancing toward the office door to make sure it’s still closed. “But when I was younger, I made some bad choices. Got locked up. I was barely older than you are now.”

Spencer’s breath catches. She hadn’t expected that.

“Did four years. That was enough.” He looks at her directly. “You know what it’s like in there. But what nobody tells you is that getting out is harder. You don’t come back out the same person. You come out haunted, half feral, waiting for someone to come for you again.”

She nods, eyes stinging unexpectedly. Yeah. She knows exactly what that feels like.

Jeff nods slowly, like he sees it too. “No one had a camera on me when I got out. No news crew. No one knocking on doors, digging through old wounds. You got dealt a rougher hand. But listen to me, kid. That time, those mistakes, they don’t get to have the final say. You don’t have to carry them forever.”

Spencer doesn’t trust her voice, so she just meets his gaze and nods.

He gives a short grunt, like that’s good enough for him. “Alright. Head to the site. Mitch knows you’re coming in late.”

He stands, already reaching for a fresh sheet of paper on the desk. The moment’s over. Conversation closed.

Spencer turns, her boots scraping softly against the concrete floor, and pulls open the office door.

The apartment is quiet when Spencer gets home. Not just silent, but hollow. The kind of quiet that settles behind your ribs and makes the air feel thin. She drops her keys on the bench and shrugs off her jacket, stiff from the day’s heat and the weight of everything else.

There’s drywall dust on her shirt and a dull ache in her shoulders, but she doesn’t bother showering. Not yet. Her mind has been buzzing since lunch, ever since Jeff’s quiet words about second chances and the way he’d looked her in the eye like he meant every word.

It should’ve grounded her. Instead, it stirred something up.

She opens her laptop on the kitchen table and plugs it in. The screen flickers to life, the hum of the fan kicking in soft and familiar. Beside it, she spreads out a small stack of old notebooks. Some are creased, others warped slightly from time. She brushes her fingers over the cover and exhales, sinking into the chair.

She starts with the most obvious - her notes from before her confession. Names, patterns, texts from A, the days they were sent. She flips through scrawled timelines and half-legible charts, pages filled with connections she once believed would mean something.

She reads until the handwriting shifts - until it becomes messier, more frantic. The dates lining up just before the day she walked into the police station and told the world she was a murderer.

She presses her palm flat over the ink. She doesn’t want to read that part again.

Instead, she opens a new tab on her laptop and starts looking up old articles. News reports from the time Alison was presumed dead. Obituaries. Police statements. Interviews. She searches each of their names, one by one.

Aria Montgomery.

Emily Fields.

Hanna Marin.

Even her own.

There are dozens of articles. Pages of speculation. Some archived blogs. Old threads from message boards that are long abandoned but still somehow indexed on the internet like digital ghosts. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone thought they knew what happened.

She writes the names out again in her notebook, this time circling them. Then adds the others.

Mona Vanderwaal. CeCe Drake. Jenna Marshall. Melissa.

She pauses, tapping the pen to her lip.

There are too many pieces. Still.

She writes Ezra Fitz and stares at the name. She underlines it twice, not out of certainty but out of instinct. Then she adds Lucas Gottesman , Wren Kingston , and Noel Kahn in a loose triangle beside the rest. Somewhere in her gut, she still feels like they were all part of something. Even if not A. Even if not directly. They circled the chaos. Hovered too close for it to be coincidence.

Next she tries to pull up phone records. Her old burner is long gone but there are fragments online, screenshots the girls had saved in group chats. She opens her messages with Hanna, scrolls back through the photos she’d sent this past week. They’re all design mockups and fabric swatches and selfies of Hanna looking annoyed at Caleb for stealing her charger.

It’s normal. Comforting.

Too normal.

Spencer flips to a clean page and starts sketching a timeline. A rough outline from the day Alison disappeared to the day her body was found. She starts adding events.

The Jenna Thing.

The night of the barn.

The first text.

Hanna getting hit by a car.

Mona.

Maya.

The lodge.

Her confession.

Each memory scratches itself fresh into her mind as she writes, but she can’t stop. Hours pass unnoticed. Her coffee goes cold beside her. The sun dips lower until the only light in the apartment is from her screen and the single floor lamp buzzing in the corner.

She stares at the pattern. At the names. At the gaping holes in her knowledge.

A isn’t random. Never was. Everything A ever did was planned down to the second. Calculated. Strategic.

Spencer leans back, stretching her neck until it cracks. Her eyes are burning from the strain. Her notes look like the ramblings of someone unwell, but for the first time since her release, she feels clear. Purposeful.

She hasn’t figured it out yet.

But she’s going to.

Her spine aches from how long she’s been hunched forward, but her brain won’t let her stop.

I must have been close.

That thought returns again, heavier this time. More like a certainty than a theory.

She flips back through her old journal, stopping on a page where the writing grows jagged and furious. The ink bleeds where the pen pressed too hard.

Melissa knows more than she’s saying. She always has.

Spencer stares at the words. At the little arrow she had drawn beside it pointing to a half-legible sentence: Saw her talking to Jenna the week before Ali died.

Her breath catches. That had felt important at the time. But everything had felt important then. Everything was tinted with paranoia and exhaustion.

She grabs another page. Lucas. She had pages on him. Sightings. Quotes. A list of times he had mysteriously vanished from social events only to reappear with some convenient excuse. A column titled Motive? where she had scrawled Alison bullied him. Humiliated him in public. Revenge?

There was a time when she was convinced Lucas could have done it. He had the access, the resentment, the brain for planning. But he had always looked too fragile under pressure. Not calculating enough. Not cold enough to keep a secret for this long.

She flips again.

Ezra.

Her pen hovers in her hand. She scrawls the name across a blank corner of the page. Stares at it.

She had always written him off before. Too obvious. Too close to Aria. Too risky. But that had been her mistake, hadn’t it? A had always been someone hiding in plain sight. Someone who could stand in front of them, smiling, pretending to care.

Her memory flashes - Ezra in the school hallway. Ezra in the woods. Ezra showing up again and again like a ghost wearing a teacher’s face. Like he was always right behind the glass.

He was dating Aria. An actual high schooler. And no one said anything. Not even Spencer. Not even when the unease in her stomach twisted every time she saw them together. It had always felt wrong. But so much of their lives had been wrong back then, and somehow it had all just blurred together into something they learned to live with.

But what if it wasn’t just wrong?

What if it had been strategic?

Her pen taps against the edge of the notebook. Power. Control. Access.

Everything A ever had.

She exhales hard and flips to a blank page. Starts listing names again. This time she adds a new column beside each one.

Had access to the girls?
Knew their secrets?
Held a grudge against Alison?
Could manipulate technology?

She fills it in, crosses some names out, then rewrites others.

Melissa. Lucas. Wren. Jenna. Ezra.

She taps Ezra’s name again. Her stomach twists. She writes another name in the corner, one that feels heavier than the rest.

Unknown Boyfriend.

Ali had been seeing someone before she died. That much Spencer remembers - half-rumors and whispered conversations. The way Alison would vanish for hours with a smug look on her face. The way she had clutched her phone like a lifeline. There had been someone. Someone other than Ian. And they had never found out who.

No name. No face. Just speculation. Older, probably. Smart. Manipulative, maybe.

She writes A? beside it, then circles the whole thing.

Her hands are trembling slightly now, not from fear but from the spiraling energy she thought she had buried years ago. That hunger to know . The same one that had once gotten her arrested.

She should stop.

She doesn’t stop.

Instead, she opens her laptop again and starts digging into old news footage. Pauses on images of Alison’s funeral. Zooms in on the background. Scans the faces. Looks for someone familiar. Someone hiding in the open.

She doesn’t find anything. But she keeps going.

By the time her eyes blur from staring too long, the sky has started to brighten outside her window. The city hums to life below, soft and unaware.

Spencer leans back in her chair, exhaustion catching up to her all at once.

She hasn’t solved it. Not yet.

But she is getting closer.

Chapter Text

By Saturday afternoon, Spencer can barely see straight. Her eyes are ringed with bruised shadows, skin pale and drawn, and her hands tremble as she flips another page of her notebook. The paper crinkles loudly in the stillness of her apartment, the sound jarring against the low hum of the refrigerator.

She’s been awake for almost forty hours. The last proper sleep she had was Thursday night. Since then it’s been a blur of drywall dust, hammer drills, and this notebook that has become a kind of fever dream. Names circled and crossed out. Timelines that don’t add up. Maps of connections she’s drawn and redrawn until the ink has started bleeding through the pages.

None of it makes sense.

She swipes a hand across her forehead, sticky with sweat despite the stagnant chill in the air. Her mind spins, dull and sluggish, but her body aches for something sharp and fast. Something that cuts through the noise and quiets everything down.

Heroin.

The thought creeps in quiet and slow, like it always does. Familiar. Seductive. That heavy, warm stillness that melts the edges of the world and makes the ache in her spine and chest vanish. Just a whisper of it and she can feel it on her tongue, the way her veins used to bloom under its touch.

Her stomach twists with the want.

She claws her fingers into her scalp, digging blunt nails into her skin like pain can drown it out. She knows better. She knows exactly what that craving is. It is the hunger of desperation, of exhaustion, of trying too hard to hold it all together. She breathes through her teeth and rocks forward slightly on her knees, pressed up against the edge of the couch, her notebook spread out in front of her like a confession.

Her phone buzzes again.

She snatches it up, heart thudding. Another text from A.

Still think you’re the smartest one in the room? Try again. You missed something. You always miss something. - A

She almost screams. Instead, she throws her phone onto the cushion and clamps both hands over her mouth. She can feel the frustration like acid in her chest. She slams the notebook shut and presses her forehead to it, trying to breathe, trying not to cry, trying not to scream, trying not to use.

What the hell do they even want? What is the endgame here?

The apartment is stifling. Her body itches with grime. She hasn’t showered since stumbling in from work Friday afternoon and collapsing directly onto the floor, too tired even to undress.

Spencer lifts her head, eyes blurry. She catches sight of the time glowing dimly on the microwave.

3:08 p.m.

The barbecue.

Emily’s barbecue.

Spencer groans low in her throat and forces herself to stand. Her legs shake. She stumbles toward the bathroom, yanking off her shirt as she goes. She’s not going to show up like this. Not like a shell of herself. Not like a junkie circling the drain again.

She’s going to shower. She’s going to get dressed. And she’s going to show up.

Even if every part of her wants to stay in the dark and keep digging.

Even if the craving is still singing in her veins.

Because the one thing Spencer Hastings does, the one thing she always does, is keep going.

Even when she’s breaking.

Emily and Paige’s house is tucked away on the quiet end of a street lined with eucalyptus trees and cracked pavement. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the narrow driveway, catching in the glint of the mailbox’s peeling paint. It’s modest, like most of the homes out here, single-story with a faded yellow trim, but Spencer finds herself oddly comforted by its lack of pretense.

Through the slats of the wooden side gate, she catches a glimpse of the backyard. The pool glistens in the fading light, faint ripples breaking the stillness. She hears voices on the other side - familiar and warm, and unmistakably Hanna’s laugh among them.

She checks her phone. Two minutes early. Her stomach clenches anyway, as if arriving early might somehow be the wrong move.

Her reflection stares back at her from the dark screen. The makeup she applied earlier is holding, for the most part. She had been meticulous - concealer under her eyes, a little mascara, some tinted lip balm. The effort felt foreign, stiff. Like dressing up a stranger.

Her outfit is the best she could pull together. Skinny black jeans that had cost her twelve dollars from a secondhand store on her third week out. A pale blue button-up shirt with faint stripes, something her mother had folded neatly into one of the boxes, as though pressed fabric could make up for years of silence. Her boots are scuffed but solid. Presentable. She had stood in front of her mirror for a full five minutes trying to decide whether she looked like herself or like someone pretending to be her.

She raises a hand and knocks.

A pause, then the sound of footsteps on hardwood. The door opens.

Paige.

She has aged, but in the best way. Her face softer, more open. There’s a steadiness in her now that wasn’t always there before. Her hair’s a little shorter, jaw more defined, but it’s the relaxed posture that hits Spencer first. Like Paige has finally made peace with herself.

“Hastings,” Paige says, offering a small smile and dipping her head in greeting.

“McCullers,” Spencer returns, and even manages a real smile.

Paige steps back and pulls the door wider. “Come in. They’re all out back.”

Spencer crosses the threshold. The inside of the house is cool, a mix of lemon-scented cleaner and the vague warmth of something baking. Hardwood floors stretch through the entry and into an open-plan living room with mismatched furniture that somehow still works together. A coat is slung over the arm of the couch. Books are stacked along the windowsill. A dog toy lies forgotten near the hallway.

Home. That’s what it feels like.

Spencer swallows down the lump in her throat and steps inside, her fingers tightening slightly around the strap of her bag. She’s here. She made it. No heroin. No turning back. Just one foot in front of the other.

From the backyard, she hears Hanna again - something loud and half-sarcastic. Aria’s voice follows, sharper, teasing. The distant sound of laughter bubbles up and seeps through the open back door.

She follows Paige through the hallway, past a series of framed photographs - sunsets, hiking trails, candid shots of Emily and Paige beaming with wind-whipped hair and sunglasses. There’s a warmth to the house that Spencer hadn’t expected. A life built slowly, carefully. Earned.

They reach the back door, and Paige slides it open.

The scent of grilled vegetables and barbecue smoke drifts through the air, mingling with the unmistakable smell of chlorine. The backyard is small but cozy, strung with hanging lights that aren’t lit yet but sway gently in the breeze. There’s a patio table to one side, a couple of folding chairs pulled around it, and a battered cooler resting beside the grill. Caleb is manning it, tongs in hand, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Hanna’s perched on the edge of a lounge chair with a lemonade in hand, oversized sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Aria sits cross-legged near the pool, her ankle bracelet glinting in the sun, fingers drumming against a closed book on her lap.

Spencer hesitates for just a moment in the doorway, her fingers curling around the edge of the frame like she might need to hold herself upright. Then she steps out into the sun.

And is immediately tackled by a dog.

Or at least, it feels that way. A golden retriever, huge and absurdly fluffy, barrels across the lawn and nearly crashes into her knees before pressing its full weight against her side. Spencer staggers slightly, letting out a surprised laugh as she catches herself.

“Oh, right,” Paige says, amused. “That’s Sunny. She likes to choose people.”

Sunny. Of course her name is Sunny.

The dog nuzzles insistently at Spencer’s hip, tail wagging like a windmill, tongue lolling with the kind of unbothered joy that only dogs seem to possess. Spencer drops a hand automatically, fingers sinking into soft golden fur.

“Well,” she says dryly, “at least someone’s happy to see me.”

Hanna turns at the sound of her voice. “Spence!” she calls, hopping to her feet and crossing the lawn in two quick strides. She throws her arms around Spencer without hesitation. “You made it. You actually came.”

“I said I would.”

“Yeah, but you saying you’ll show up and you actually showing up are two very different things,” Hanna teases, pulling back but not letting go entirely. “You look… decent.”

Spencer snorts. “Thanks. It’s secondhand couture.”

“You wear it better than half the people I see in real designer clothes,” Hanna says, waving her off with a grin.

Spencer lets herself smile and follows her toward the others. Sunny trots at her side like they’ve been best friends forever. Aria looks up as she approaches and offers her a small but genuine smile.

“Hey,” Aria says. “You want a drink?”

“Lemonade’s fine.”

“I spiked mine,” Hanna mutters under her breath.

“I heard that,” Caleb calls from the grill without turning.

Spencer settles into one of the folding chairs, legs crossing automatically, her fingers still in Sunny’s fur as the dog leans heavily against her leg like a living anchor.

They talk for a while. About work. About traffic. About how Emily is trying to teach Paige how to bake and how Paige nearly set the oven mitts on fire last weekend. It’s light, it’s easy. Spencer feels the tension in her shoulders start to ebb, slowly, like it’s being kneaded loose by the warmth of the late sun and the noise of old friends.

Then Aria speaks.

“Did you see the news story?”

The words drop like a stone into the center of the conversation. Spencer feels her spine stiffen, her fingers go still against Sunny’s back. The dog doesn’t notice. Hanna goes quiet. Caleb flips a veggie skewer with a little too much force.

Spencer’s voice is low when she responds. “Yeah. I saw it.”

“I didn’t know they had that footage,” Aria says carefully. “Or that they were going to air it.”

“They shouldn’t have,” Hanna cuts in, sharper than usual. “It was disgusting. You’re on parole, not the cover of some damn exposé.”

Spencer swallows. “It’s fine. It’s not like they said anything new.”

“They said enough,” Aria replies softly. “It made you look like a monster.”

Spencer looks down at her hands. “That’s what most people already think.”

“But we don’t,” Emily says, appearing with a fresh tray of grilled corn and setting it down. She doesn’t make a show of her entrance, doesn’t say anything else, but her presence feels like a steady hand at Spencer’s back.

Spencer forces herself to nod, to breathe through the heaviness in her chest.

Next to her, Aria shifts slightly in her seat. “Ezra tried to convince me you were bad news again,” she says, voice low and threaded with something weary. “He never really believed you were innocent. And now... he seems to think you’re dangerous.”

The word lingers in the air like smoke.

Spencer blinks, unsure what to say. The lemonade turns bitter in her mouth. She sets the glass down before her hands start to shake.

“All due respect to the good high school teacher,” Hanna says after a moment, lightness in her tone but something careful in her eyes, “he doesn’t exactly get a vote.”

Aria lets out a small, strained laugh and looks down at her hands. “He thinks he does. Or maybe he just wants to.” She draws in a slow breath, twisting the hem of her sleeve between her fingers. “He was there, after. When you were gone. I didn’t know how to function. He helped. He kept me upright.”

Spencer looks at her, her chest aching. She hadn’t known any of that. Of course she hadn’t. That part of Aria’s life had gone on without her.

“I get it,” Aria adds, a little softer. “He doesn’t always say things the right way. But back then, it felt like I had no one else.”

“He’s always had a very... strong opinion,” Caleb offers from where he’s leaning against the railing, his tone neutral, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Especially when it comes to you.”

Aria’s smile is small. “Yeah. He’s protective.”

“Just be sure it’s not the kind of protective that puts you in a cage,” Paige says lightly as she returns from tossing a towel over a wet patch near the pool. Her tone is even, casual, but Spencer catches the faint edge of something there.

“He means well,” Aria says quickly.

No one argues.

Instead, Emily reaches out and brushes a speck of lint from Paige’s shoulder. “Hey, when do you start tryouts?”

Paige lights up a little. “Next week. I met a few of the girls early, just to get a sense of where they’re at.”

“They still in high school?” Hanna asks, reaching for a chip.

“Yeah, mostly juniors and seniors. But still... when I look at them, it hits me how young we were.” Paige shakes her head, her mouth twisting with something close to disbelief. “They’re so small. So trusting.”

No one says anything, but Spencer feels Aria’s silence beside her like a tide pulling back.

Spencer keeps her gaze on the dog sprawled out at her feet, her hand running gently along Sunny’s back. Right now, the quiet weight of the dog against her leg is the only thing keeping her from floating away.

Aria breaks the silence a moment later, voice low again. “I know you’re not dangerous.”

Spencer looks up, startled.

“I don’t care what the news says,” Aria continues. “I don’t care what Ezra thinks. I saw you. I know you. Even after everything. You weren’t angry. You were... terrified. And resigned.”

Spencer swallows hard. The back of her throat stings, but she manages a small nod.

“I don’t know why you confessed,” Aria adds, her voice soft, “but I never believed it was because you were guilty.”

Hanna leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “None of us did,” she says, like it’s just a fact. “Even when you wouldn’t talk to us. Even when you shut us out.”

Sunny lets out a huff of breath against Spencer’s leg, and Spencer closes her eyes for half a second. When she opens them again, everything feels softer. Still uncertain, still haunted but a little less lonely.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, and for once, the word doesn’t feel empty.

The sky shifts into a warm gold as the sun begins its slow descent, casting long shadows across the backyard. The grill is turned off, the last of the charred vegetables and burger remnants scraped into a bowl, and laughter drifts easily between the girls as they settle into a loose circle of chairs near the pool. Paige tosses a ball for Sunny, who bounds after it with unrelenting enthusiasm before returning to flop again at Spencer’s feet, tail wagging lazily.

Spencer sits cross-legged in one of the cushioned chairs, her half-empty drink resting on the arm. Her fingers drift slowly through Sunny’s soft fur, grounding her as the conversation around her floats from music to work to the latest Netflix documentary Hanna insists is overrated. No one brings up the news, or prison, or the ghosts that used to haunt their every text message. 

It’s just them.

Spencer finds herself smiling more than she expected. Not a polite smile, not one meant to smooth tension or cover discomfort - an actual, quiet kind of joy. There’s no tightness in her chest. No echo of clanging cell doors or the taunting texts from A. Just Aria laughing at something Caleb said under his breath, Emily leaning against Paige with a small grin, Hanna curled up barefoot on a patio chair, already on her second round of dessert.

And somehow, in the middle of it, Spencer feels okay.

For a while, she forgets. About the headlines. The texts. The tension in her jaw that’s been constant since that very first text all those years ago. She forgets the sleepless nights and the notebooks full of spiraling theories. The knot of fear that lives just beneath her skin is still there, but it quiets. The backyard is filled with warmth and familiar voices, and for the first time in years, she feels almost... normal.

Almost free.

She watches the way Hanna throws her head back when she laughs. The way Aria keeps reaching out to nudge her knee against Spencer’s like she needs the reassurance of touch. The way Emily is calm in her own space, Paige beside her, content and rooted. They’re okay. Somehow, they’re okay. Happy, even.

And the thought lodges in Spencer’s chest like a splinter of light: she would do it again. If this is the outcome. 

If this peace was the result.

She would stand in that courtroom again and say those same damning words. She would carry the weight. Take the blame. Shoulder the consequences. Because if it means that A never touched them again, if it means they got to grow up and grow into themselves without that constant dread, then it’s worth it.

She can handle the punishment. She’s always been the strong one. The one who breaks quietly but keeps standing.

Someone hands her a cookie. She doesn’t catch who, but she murmurs a thank you, and bites into it, letting the sweetness anchor her further.

Eventually, the conversation fades into sleepy murmurs. The sun disappears, replaced by a cooler breeze and the sound of a few late-summer cicadas. Hanna gathers plates. Caleb and Paige help haul things inside. Aria insists Spencer stay seated and relax.

Spencer leans back in her chair, eyes lifted to the darkening sky, her pulse calm. Her body aches in the way that says she’s tired but not broken. She listens to her friends - her family- laughing in the kitchen.

The moment will pass. She knows that. The texts will return. The world won’t forget. But for now, for tonight, she lets herself rest. 

And it’s enough.

Chapter Text

Spencer is bone-tired when she steps off the bus. Her shoulders ache from hours spent lifting drywall, and her hands are still flecked with paint and plaster she hadn’t had the energy to scrub off in the tiny bathroom sink at work. She trudges down the cracked sidewalk, past the peeling paint of the apartment building’s exterior, and fishes in her coat pocket for her keys.

The air smells like damp concrete and car exhaust. Her boots scrape across the landing as she approaches the front door, the chipped metal frame cold beneath her fingers as she slides the key into the lock.

Then…. her name.

“Spencer Hastings?”

She turns before she can think, heart leaping into her throat, only to be hit with a flash of blinding white light. Her eyes squeeze shut. She stumbles a step back, blinking spots from her vision.

A camera lens is aimed right at her face, far too close.

The man behind it is early-thirties, probably freelance, holding his phone like a weapon. His expression is eager, predatory, like he’s already written the headline in his head.

“Do your neighbors know they’re living next to a murderer?”

Spencer freezes for a second, caught between instinct and fury. The sting of that word - murderer - lands sharp, even now. But then something cuts through the fog of shock, something brittle and cold and dry in her chest.

She squares her shoulders.

“Considering this is a halfway house for parolees, I doubt they’d be that surprised,” she says, voice flat, clipped. She finally manages to shove the key the rest of the way into the lock, her fingers fumbling. The door groans open. She ducks inside and slams it shut behind her, the bang echoing through the narrow hallway like a shot.

Silence.

She leans against the door for a second, breathing hard. Her pulse is still racing. A beat later, her phone buzzes in her pocket.

She already knows.

She pulls it out and stares at the screen.

Did you like your present? – A

Her hand tightens around the phone, knuckles going white.

So A had leaked her address. Of course they had. She swallows back the rise of panic that climbs into her throat. She has spent years learning not to let people see her fall apart. She will not do it now. Not in this hallway. Not because of them.

She drags herself up the creaky stairs to the second floor, pushes open the chipped door to her apartment, and locks it behind her. The air inside is stale and quiet. The blinds are still drawn from the morning, casting the small space in a soft gray light.

She drops her bag onto the floor and shrugs off her coat, tossing it over the back of the worn armchair. Her journal is still spread out on the coffee table, covered in notes and scratched-out names. Her laptop sits beside it, plugged in and humming softly.

She sinks down onto the couch and opens the journal. Her handwriting has grown messier over the past few days, more desperate. Names looped over and over. Timelines drawn and redrawn. Melissa. Lucas. Ezra. Mona. Wren.

She starts reading again, flipping back through the entries from the days leading up to her arrest. Something had been close then. She remembers the feeling clearly, like a weight just out of reach, like she was on the edge of something sharp and dangerous and true.

Who had she been zeroing in on?

She scribbles a note: Ali was dating someone. The identity had always been a question mark. Spencer stares at the name Alison, circled three times in red. What if that relationship had something to do with A?

A noise breaks her focus.

A knock at the door.

She freezes.

It’s soft, but firm. Not the aggressive pounding of a stranger. But still. Her body goes still, tense with dread. Her mind races with possibilities. A reporter who got through the lock? Someone worse?

She walks toward the door slowly, staying silent as she peers through the peephole.

Aria.

Spencer exhales all at once, her shoulders dropping. She unlocks the door and opens it.

Spencer opens the door without hesitation. Aria stands there in a long rust-colored coat over a vintage-style sweater, black leggings, and boots. Her makeup is minimal but artful, her eyeliner winged to perfection even though her expression is tight with unease. 

“I brought pie,” Aria says, lifting a bakery box in one hand. Her voice is quiet, measured, as if she’s not sure how she’ll be received.

Spencer steps aside to let her in, wordlessly. Aria’s perfume trails behind her, something citrusy and light that doesn’t quite fit the heaviness in the air.

“I didn’t know if you’d be home,” Aria says, setting the box down on the small kitchen counter. “But I figured you might not be up for going out.”

Spencer arches an eyebrow. “You figured right.”

Aria smiles faintly but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She unbuttons her coat slowly, then hesitates before speaking again.

“There were reporters out front when I got here,” she says, carefully. “One of them tried to follow me in..”

Spencer’s stomach twists. She doesn’t answer at first. She moves to the counter, pulls down two chipped plates from the cabinet, and busies herself opening the pie box with shaking fingers.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” she says at last, her voice quieter than she means it to be.

Aria shrugs off her coat and drapes it over the back of the chair, then watches Spencer closely as she cuts two uneven slices of pie. “I’m not the one they’re hounding.”

“No,” Spencer says softly, “you’re just getting caught in the crossfire.”

“I don’t care about that,” Aria replies, stepping closer. “I care about you.”

Spencer freezes. That tenderness - it makes her want to crawl into herself and disappear.

She forces herself to look away, to reach for control.

"I’ll be okay." The lie tastes bitter in her mouth.

"It’s okay not to be," Aria replies, and takes the plate Spencer hands her with a gentleness that nearly breaks her.

Spencer nods, but her body is stiff. The words do not land, not really. She watches as Aria starts walking toward the table. Her breath catches in her throat as she realizes her mistake.

The notebook is still there. Open.

"No, wait," Spencer blurts out, rushing forward, but she is too late.

Aria stops mid-step, staring down at the pages spread across the table. Her brows furrow as she sets her plate aside and reaches for the notebook.

"Don't…" Spencer's voice falters.

Aria is already flipping through it, slowly, her fingers pausing now and then on certain phrases, names, notes. Spencer hovers beside her, unsure whether to snatch the book away or just disappear into the floor.

"You’re still investigating it," Aria says slowly, lifting her gaze to meet Spencer’s. Her voice holds no judgment, just dawning realization.

Spencer nods, tight and guilty. She tries to reach for the notebook but Aria pulls it back instinctively, continuing to skim through the pages. Then, abruptly, she stops.

Her head jerks up.

"A is still texting you?" Her voice sharpens with disbelief, her eyes wide.

Spencer opens her mouth, the reflexive lie already forming. "No -"

"Spence." Aria cuts her off, her tone steely. She holds up a page, one filled with neatly transcribed messages. "These are new. These dates are from this week."

Spencer looks down at the floor. Her jaw tightens. Her chest burns with the weight of being found out.

"Don’t lie to me," Aria says, quiet now. But not gentle.

The fight drains out of Spencer. She lowers herself into the nearest chair like her body has given up.

"This isn’t your problem anymore," she says, staring at the table. "None of this is. I took the fall so it wouldn’t be."

"If A is still - " Aria’s voice rises, but she cuts herself off, pressing a hand to her forehead. Her next words are measured and deliberate. "I’m calling the others."

"No, please, Aria -" Spencer stands, alarmed, reaching for her, but Aria is already moving across the room toward her bag.

Spencer doesn’t stop her.

There’s nothing she can say that would make it okay. Nothing that could fix the way this poison keeps leaking back into their lives. She sits back down, her fingers pressing hard against her temples, trying to stave off the headache that’s been building all week. She hears Aria speaking lowly into her phone across the room, her voice calm but urgent. Spencer closes her eyes.

Minutes pass in thick silence once Aria returns. They both sit at the table now, Spencer slumped over her cold pie and Aria beside her, phone face-down between them. Neither of them speaks.

For a few long stretches, it feels almost like old times, sitting side by side in a moment too heavy for words. Spencer lets the silence settle around them like a blanket, not warm but not unwelcome either.

Then the knock comes.

Spencer startles slightly. Aria moves to answer it.

It’s Hanna first. Her heels click against the floor as she strides in, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, arms already open wide.

"You look like shit," Hanna says, eyes scanning Spencer before she wraps her in a tight, grounding hug. "But still the best-dressed ex-con I know."

Spencer exhales something like a laugh, though it scratches in her throat. Her voice is rough. “I’m the only ex-con you know.”

“She’s got you there,” Aria says, her expression more serious than her tone.

Emily enters last, her shoulders tense, a large canvas tote bag slung over one arm. Spencer closes the door behind them, suddenly aware of how small and dim her apartment is under the weight of their presence.

“I don’t have enough chairs,” she says, and immediately regrets how stupid that sounds.

“It’s fine,” Emily says with a small smile, settling against the edge of the table. “We’ve all been through worse.”

Aria, still standing, crosses her arms over her chest and stares at Spencer, unblinking. “It’s time for you to tell the truth. All of it.”

Spencer’s body tenses. “Seriously, this isn’t your problem.”

“No,” Hanna says flatly. “You don’t get to pull that card again. We let you shut us out last time, and it nearly destroyed all of us. You don’t get to do that now. Not when it’s clearly not over.”

They are all watching her now. Waiting. No pressure in their voices, not really, but the weight of their concern sits heavy on her shoulders.

She breathes in slowly and lowers herself into the nearest chair. Her hands rest on her thighs, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of her jeans.

“You want the truth?” Her voice cracks, but none of them move.

She nods to herself, then lifts her eyes. “I didn’t kill Alison.”

No one looks surprised.

“But what you don’t know,” she continues, voice quieter now, like peeling off old skin, “is that A made me confess. That was the deal. My confession in exchange for your safety.”

Aria sucks in a breath. Hanna’s lips press together. Emily doesn’t speak, but her eyes shine with something that looks like disbelief.

“I had no choice,” Spencer says, forcing the words out even though they scrape at her throat. “It wasn’t just threats. A told me that if I confessed, if I took the fall for Ali, then all of you would be left alone. No more stalking, no more messages. No more games. Just peace. Safety.”

Emily’s face pales. “Oh my god.”

“I thought it was the only way,” Spencer says, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “You were all being watched, tormented. And I was so tired. So tired of always being one step behind. I thought if I could make it stop, maybe it would be worth it.”

There is a long, stretching silence.

“You went to prison for us,” Aria finally says, her voice small.

Spencer nods. “Yeah. I did.”

“And now?” Hanna asks, voice tight. “Is A still…?”

“Yes,” Spencer says. “The texts started again not long after I got out. Same patterns. Same threats. I don’t know if it’s the same person or a new one. But they’re watching me again.”

She opens the notebook on the table beside her and flips it toward them. Her writing sprawls across the pages in tense, sleepless scrawl - dates, observations, message transcripts, theory webs that loop back in on themselves.

“I’ve been trying to figure it out,” she says, her voice cracking. “I’ve been going back over everything. Every name, every clue. But I’m not any closer. I’m just tired. And angry. And I still don’t know why they’re doing this.”

“You shouldn’t be doing it alone,” Emily says gently.

“I don’t want you dragged into it again,” Spencer replies, her voice trembling with something she cannot quite suppress. “That was the whole point. I made the choice so you wouldn’t have to. So you could have normal lives.”

Aria leans forward, her expression soft but firm. “Spence, we never had normal lives. Not after Alison. Not after A. We survived because we had each other. You gave that up for us. But it’s not just your burden to carry anymore.”

Spencer stares at her, the words catching in her chest. She wants to argue, to tell them they’re better off without this weight, without her dragging it back into their lives. But she does not. She just nods.

Just once.

And they stay like that, the four of them in the quiet of Spencer’s small apartment, the night growing darker outside as the shadows lengthen across the walls.

Chapter Text

Spencer’s shoulders ache from the day’s work, her palms sore and splintered from hauling boards and hammering for hours beneath the relentless sun. The scent of sawdust and sweat clings to her skin as she trudges up the narrow stairwell to her apartment, her work boots thudding heavily on each step.

It’s only when she reaches her floor and sees the familiar figures lingering outside her door that something in her chest eases. Emily leans casually against the wall, holding a plastic bag that Spencer would bet contains food. Aria is cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a paperback. Hanna stands with one hand on her hip, tapping something out on her phone, her sunglasses perched on her head.

“I thought we said seven,” Spencer says, unlocking the door with a tired half-smile. “It’s barely six.”

“We got impatient,” Hanna says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Also, you’re never late. So we figured you’d be home early.”

“I brought dumplings,” Emily adds, holding up the bag as she passes.

Aria stands brushing off her jeans. “We thought we’d start going over everything. While it’s still fresh.”

Spencer kicks off her boots by the door and moves toward the table, where her notebook still lies open from last night. She had not written anything new this morning. There had not been time.

As they settle into the space, Spencer trades her work clothes for something looser, scrubbing the dirt from under her nails in the bathroom before joining them. Emily already has containers of food spread across the table. Aria is flipping through Spencer’s notes. Hanna has set aside her phone and pulled out a sleek black notebook of her own.

“You brought a journal?” Spencer asks, eyeing it.

“Of course I did,” Hanna says, her tone clipped like it should be obvious. “I’ve read every single Jo Nesbø, Stieg Larsson, and Tana French novel ever printed. You think I haven’t been keeping track of this stuff?”

Spencer lifts her brows. “You actually kept notes?”

Hanna opens the notebook and turns it around to show her. The pages are surprisingly neat - rows of names, timelines, coded theories in different colored inks.

“During your trial and after... I didn’t really sleep,” Hanna says. “It felt like if I just paid close enough attention, I’d see something everyone else missed.”

Spencer swallows, caught off-guard by the emotion that wells up. “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t exactly leave a lot of room for us to talk,” Hanna says, but her voice isn’t accusing. Just honest.

Aria sits beside them, resting her elbow on the table and leaning forward. “So we thought we’d start mapping out what we all know. From the beginning. Maybe we’ll spot something.”

Spencer pulls her chair in and nods slowly. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”

They spread everything out - Spencer’s notebook, Hanna’s journal, some old photos that Aria printed and brought with her. Emily pulls out a folded sheet of paper from her wallet and sets it down carefully.

“What’s this?” Spencer asks, reaching for it.

“Something Paige found,” Emily says. “An email Alison sent to someone she never named. Right before she died. We never figured out who it was for.”

Spencer smooths the creased paper. The language is vague, full of veiled language and coded warnings. Classic Alison.

“She says something about ‘going too far’,” Spencer murmurs. “And about someone ‘knowing more than they’re letting on’.”

Spencer tries to focus, but her eyes keep dragging back to the email. Something itches at the base of her skull.

“Did you ever work out who Alison was seeing in secret?” she asks after a minute.

Emily shakes her head. “We never figured out who. But she definitely was. She was sneaking out. Getting texts from a blocked number. It felt familiar, honestly. Like the early days of A.”

“We could build a timeline,” Hanna says, flipping through her journal again. “Compare the start of A’s messages to when Alison’s behavior changed. When she started hiding things.”

Spencer finds a pen and a clean page in her own notebook. “Let’s do that. If we can figure out what triggered A back then... maybe we can find what they’re circling now.”

The girls fall into a rhythm, cross-referencing dates, scribbling names and arrows. Aria mentions a moment from Junior year she had not thought important until now. Emily remembers a voicemail Alison left the night before she disappeared that had never been recovered.

The walls of Spencer’s apartment begin to fill with notes taped up from the girls’ journals. Their voices tangle together, sometimes bickering, sometimes laughing softly, the edges of old friendships reforging in the hum of low conversation and determined energy.

For the first time in a long time, Spencer does not feel like she is screaming into the void alone. And as she watches Hanna cross-check a timeline while mumbling about plot twists that “even Nesbø wouldn’t have touched,” something inside her settles.

This is what they always did best. Together.

And if A is still watching, Spencer wants them to see this. Wants them to feel it.

The apartment is quieter than it should be with four people inside. Paperwork is scattered across the table, notebooks open to scrawled timelines, old photos spread out beneath coffee mugs and elbows. Spencer sits cross-legged on the floor, flipping through one of her prison-worn journals, a highlighter clutched loosely in her hand. The cap is lost somewhere under the couch, but she has not noticed.

Emily is by the window using a whiteboard marker to map names and dates. Aria is curled in the armchair, typing something into her phone. Hanna’s pacing, a pen tapping against her palm.

“I’ve been thinking,” Hanna says, spinning mid-step. “In that Danish crime novel series I read - don’t make that face, Spencer - whenever the case goes cold, the killer reappears in some way. Not to confess, but to redirect. They push someone else toward the edge just enough to stay in control. It’s a narrative thing. They can’t handle not being the center of the story.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “I’m not making a face.”

“You’re always making a face,” Aria mutters, not looking up from her phone.

“I think Hanna’s right,” Emily says. “It’s not about just hiding anymore. A is still here because they want us looking. They need to be part of it. It’s about control.”

“But control over what?” Spencer’s voice is hoarse. She stands slowly and moves toward the table. “Ali’s already dead. I already confessed. They won.”

“Unless that wasn’t the endgame,” Hanna offers. “Maybe it was about erasing her. Fully. Not just killing her, but rewriting how we remember her. And us.”

Her fingers trail absently across the pages, but her mind is turning over Hanna’s words, the ones that refuse to dislodge from her thoughts.

Maybe it was about erasing her. Fully.

The idea simmers under her skin. Spencer doesn’t want to admit how much sense it makes. It hadn’t just been about Alison’s disappearance, her murder. It had always been more than that - controlling their narratives, turning them against each other, gutting the truth until it became unrecognizable. A wasn’t just deleting Alison. A was rewriting her.

She sinks into the nearest chair. “If that was the goal… to erase Alison completely, then maybe the boyfriend is the key.”

Emily glances over from the whiteboard. “You think he was A?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer says, reaching for her notebook. “But I’ve gone through everything a dozen times. Her texts, her emails, her calls. The only thing she consistently avoided naming was him. Whoever he was… she was scared of him.”

Aria leans forward, her voice tentative. “We always thought she was being dramatic. Or playing games.”

“She was,” Hanna says. “But not about this.”

Spencer flips open the journal on her lap and traces a line she’d circled twice: August 25th — ‘He said no one else could love me the way he does.’

“She wrote that the week before she died,” Spencer murmurs. “In a draft email. She never sent it.”

Emily sits on the arm of the couch now, her brows furrowed. “Did she ever mention his name? Or anything that might link him to Rosewood?”

“No names.” Spencer’s jaw tightens. “Just vague references. A motel room. A car with out-of-state plates. One time she mentioned he picked her up from the old train station at the edge of town.”

“That place has been shut down for years,” Hanna says. “Even back then it was sketchy.”

Spencer nods. “Exactly. She was hiding him. But not from her parents - she wasn’t scared of getting caught by them. She was scared of what we’d think. Or what he’d do if we found out.”

Aria’s fingers still on her phone. She looks up, her face pale, eyes wide and suddenly very far away.

“Whoever he was,” she says slowly, “he was older. Not high school. College or out of college. Someone she met outside of school, maybe even someone we knew around town. She was vague about it, which meant she was hiding it for a reason.”

Spencer nods slowly. “There was that one time she asked me how I could tell when someone was lying to me. Out of nowhere. I thought it was just Alison being Alison, but now I wonder if it was about him.”

“Do we have anything that connects him to us?” Hanna asks. “Anything that says he stuck around?”

Spencer turns back toward her laptop. “I have some notes from her emails. The ones I found before the arrest. There’s no name. Just initials. But the tone was… intense. Demanding.”

Hanna moves toward the stack of printed emails and photos on the table. “This kind of guy? Hanna reads aloud. “‘You don’t get to decide when this ends. If I can’t have you, no one does.’ Jesus.”

“Romantic,” Aria mutters under her breath, then goes pale. “Wait. That line. I’ve heard that line before. Ezra… Ezra used to say something similar. He said it about us when we were going through one of our breakups. That he couldn’t stand the idea of me walking away. That he… needed to be the one to end it.”

They all go silent. Spencer watches Aria’s face, the slow horror blooming there, mirrored in her own chest.

“No,” Aria says quickly, as if saying it fast will make it more true. “It can’t be. He didn’t know Alison. He wasn’t even living here back then. Was he?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer says. “But he taught at Rosewood a few months later. And he was always… around. Interested in things he shouldn’t have been.”

Hanna lowers the paper in her hands. “That’s not just a coincidence.”

Emily speaks, barely above a whisper. “We need to find out exactly when he moved here. And what he was doing before he became a teacher.”

“It can’t be Ezra.” Aria’s voice is barely above a whisper, and Spencer can hear the desperation trying to anchor her to the past. “He didn’t even know Alison. He told me he didn’t.”

Spencer looks at her then, truly looks. There’s fear in Aria’s face, but beneath that - grief. And shame.

“Are we really surprised?” Hanna mutters, not unkindly. “I always thought he was creepy. You don’t date a teenager when you’re a teacher and get to claim moral high ground.”

Emily snorts. “Hanna, that’s probably the most you thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“I’m serious!” Hanna turns back to the table, pulling out her phone. “Give me five minutes. I’m texting Caleb.”

Spencer leans forward, heart starting to beat in a strange new rhythm. Hope. It feels like something close to hope, and that terrifies her. “You think he can find something?”

“Caleb’s better than Google, the NSA, and Santa combined. If Ezra sneezed near a job application, Caleb can trace it.”

They fall into silence for a few minutes while Hanna types, fast and furious, then sets her phone down with a huff. “He’s on it.”

Aria shifts restlessly in her seat. “Even if… even if Ezra knew Alison, why would he become A? Why keep coming after us?”

Spencer reaches slowly for her journal, flipping back to the section she’d scrawled after a sleepless night a week ago. “A always wanted control. Every move, every message was about power. Psychological warfare.”

She slides the notebook across the table. “That fits Ezra. He’s obsessed with story structure, metaphor, misdirection. A puzzle-maker. And Alison? She didn’t play by his script.”

“Which would have made him furious,” Emily murmurs. “Especially if she tried to leave him.”

Spencer nods. “I think he was already unstable, but her rejecting him pushed him over. He kills her. And then starts rewriting the narrative around her. Around us.”

“That’s why he went after you,” Hanna says to Spencer. “You were always the one digging too deep.”

“And Aria?” Emily asks.

Spencer hesitates. “He always knew who she was. From the start. He sought her out. She wasn’t a random girl at a bar.”

Aria presses her fingers to her temples. “Oh god.”

“He wanted you,” Spencer says gently. “But he needed to isolate you to keep you. And the only way to do that was to turn us into monsters in your eyes. Or take us out of the picture.”

Hanna’s phone buzzes and they all jump.

She snatches it up and scans the message. Her face pales. “Caleb found something.”

They gather around her, silent.

“Ezra enrolled at Hollis College for grad school three months before Alison went missing. He didn’t live in Rosewood yet, but he was commuting to take summer classes. And… this is the kicker - Caleb found an old job listing on a community forum Ezra replied to. A tutoring gig.”

Spencer blinks. “Where?”

“Rosewood,” Hanna breathes. “It was listed under the DiLaurentis family. Jason posted it.”

Silence. Heavy and awful.

Spencer swallows. “He was in their house.”

Aria backs up a step, like the words are physically pushing her.

Emily stands. “That’s the link. He didn’t just know Alison. He was dating her.”

“And when she tried to end it,” Spencer says, voice low, “he killed her.”

The pieces lock into place. Spencer can feel it like a shiver running up her spine. Everything about A, about Ezra’s carefully constructed façade, starts to crumble under the weight of the truth.

“He always had money,” Hanna says. “Good equipment. Surveillance. He could track us. Spy on us.”

“He had access to school records,” Emily adds. “He was our teacher. He knew where we lived. Who we were dating.”

Spencer adds the final piece. “And he hid behind the idea that he was protecting Aria, all while poisoning everything around her.”

Aria’s hand trembles as she grips the edge of the table. “He… he used me.”

Spencer reaches for her. “We all got used. But it ends now.”

They sit in the aftermath of it, the silence heavy and shaking, like the air after a storm.

Aria excuses herself quietly, barely above a whisper. She pushes away from the table without looking at anyone, and Spencer watches her disappear down the hall toward the bathroom. The door clicks shut, soft but definitive.

Spencer hesitates for a moment. Her hand rests on the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

She stands.

The hallway feels colder than the living room, dimmer too. She lifts a hand and knocks gently on the door.

“Aria?” Her voice is soft, uncertain.

There’s a pause.

“I’m okay,” comes the reply. But her voice breaks on the second syllable.

Spencer doesn’t wait. She opens the door slowly.

Aria is sitting on the closed toilet lid, knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them. Her mascara is smudged beneath her eyes, a few streaks of black trailing down her cheeks. She doesn’t look up when Spencer enters.

Spencer closes the door behind them and crouches down in front of her.

“You’re not okay,” she says quietly.

Aria exhales sharply, like she’s been holding her breath for too long. “He was the only person other than the girls who didn’t walk away when you went to prison.”

Spencer blinks. “Aria…”

“No, let me say this.” Aria finally looks at her. Her eyes are bloodshot, but steady. “When everything was falling apart, when I thought I was losing my mind trying to figure out how to live in a world without you, he was there. He brought me tea. He held me while I cried. He told me it wasn’t my fault.”

Spencer nods, slowly. She doesn't interrupt. She just lets the words fall.

“I didn’t want to believe he could be a part of this because it means that comfort wasn’t real. That the one person I trusted after losing you was just… using me. Controlling me.”

Her voice cracks again, and Spencer reaches out, resting a gentle hand on Aria’s knee.

“I was so angry at you for leaving,” Aria says. “But I didn't know what you’d given up for us. For me.”

Spencer swallows hard, blinking back tears. “I didn’t want to leave. I just… I couldn’t see another way. If I could’ve protected all of you without going to prison, I would have. But A knew exactly what to threaten. I wasn’t strong enough to let them hurt you.”

“You were seventeen,” Aria says, breath hitching. “None of this should have happened to you.”

Spencer laughs, bitter and small. “None of this should have happened to any of us.”

A long silence stretches between them, heavy with everything left unsaid over the years. But it is not cold. It is not cruel. There’s something raw and alive in it.

Aria reaches for her hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“You were seventeen too,” Spencer says. “You weren’t supposed to carry my weight. I didn’t want you to.”

“I would have,” Aria says. “I still would.”

Spencer feels her chest cave in around the words. “I know.”

They sit like that for a while. Not saying anything. Not needing to.

Eventually, Aria wipes her cheeks and manages a shaky smile. “You know, I should have known he was too obsessed with poetry. That’s a red flag.”

Spencer laughs through her tears. “That and the vintage typewriter collection.”

“Oh god,” Aria groans, resting her forehead on Spencer’s shoulder. “He made me read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock on our second date. That should’ve been my first clue.”

Spencer pulls her into a proper hug this time, one that presses them together tightly, like they are trying to undo the space that years and lies created between them.

“I’ve got you now,” Aria says into her shoulder.

Spencer closes her eyes.

“I know,” she whispers. “I’ve got you too.”

Chapter Text

The apartment still smells faintly of takeout and burned coffee, the table cluttered with printouts, highlighted maps, and Spencer’s journal opened to a page half-filled with red ink. Spencer stands with her hands braced on the back of a chair, head bowed over the mess of evidence, trying to keep herself grounded.

Emily sits cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced on her knees, while Aria flips through a pile of photocopied emails. Hanna is perched on the edge of the bed, twirling a pen between her fingers, eyes sharp with thought.

No one speaks for a while. The silence is heavy, but focused.

Then Emily breaks it.

“We should all call off work tomorrow so we can keep working this out,” she says, already pulling out her phone and typing. “We’re close.”

Spencer straightens, brushing hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can’t,” she says, her voice low. “If I don’t go to work, I’m in violation of my parole.”

That stalls the room. Emily’s fingers stop moving. Aria glances over at her. Hanna shifts off the edge of the bed and sits on the floor.

Spencer forces a thin smile. “I’ll be fine. We can work around my hours.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Emily says softly, but she doesn’t push. No one does.

Spencer exhales slowly and picks up a photo of Alison. Her handwriting scrawled on the back from some long-forgotten sleepover. Everything about her seems like it belongs to another world.

“Ezra was always watching,” she murmurs. “Not just when he was with Aria. Even before that. We were pieces in his story.”

Aria’s jaw tightens. “He wanted to be in control. With Ali. With me. Probably with all of us.”

“He didn’t just want to be in the story,” Hanna says, sitting forward now. “He wanted to write it.”

Spencer looks up. The comment lands hard.

“Then let’s give him a story,” she says quietly. “Let’s make him believe he’s winning.”

Aria shifts, eyes narrowing. “What are you thinking?”

“We feed him a lie,” Spencer says. “We make it look like we’re falling apart. Like the tension is back. Aria, you and I stage a fight. You distance yourself from me. Delete my contact, change your habits.”

“Won’t that hurt?” Emily asks.

Spencer shrugs one shoulder. “Only if it’s real.”

“And in the meantime,” Hanna cuts in, “I’ll ask Caleb to help us track Ezra digitally. See what we can dig up. Any trace that he accessed those old files. Any surveillance systems he’s still running.”

“We get him comfortable,” Spencer continues. “Let him think he’s broken us again. And then Aria reaches out. Tells him she’s scared. That I’ve been spiraling.”

Aria looks down at the page in her lap. “He’ll believe it.”

“That’s when we set the hook,” Spencer says. “You meet with him. He won’t be able to help himself. He’ll try to spin the story his way again.”

“And I’ll record it?” Aria asks.

Spencer nods. “Caleb can wire you up. I’ll be nearby. Emily and Hanna too, if it goes sideways.”

The room falls quiet again, each of them turning over the plan in their heads.

“He’s going to hate that we’re doing this,” Aria says finally, and there’s something dark in her voice. “Because this time, we’re the ones writing the ending.”

Spencer doesn’t smile, but something in her chest shifts. Not hope exactly. But the shape of it.

“We end it,” she says. “For Ali. For all of us.”

Hanna lifts her takeout carton and offers it like a toast. “To the final chapter.”

They don’t clink glasses or laugh. But they all nod.

Tomorrow, the trap begins.

The street outside Spencer’s apartment is quiet in that tense, artificial way it gets when photographers are nearby. She spots one crouched halfway behind a parked car, another pretending to check his phone across the street. The camera strap gives him away.

She swallows tightly and steps outside, pulling her jacket tighter around her. Her palms are clammy despite the chill in the air. This part has to feel real.

Aria is already pacing near the curb. She’s in jeans and a green coat Spencer doesn’t recognize, her hair tied up, phone clutched tightly in her hand like she’s halfway through a furious message. Her eyes snap up as Spencer approaches.

Spencer gives a small, practiced nod. Showtime.

“You seriously think I’m going to be okay with this?” Aria’s voice rises immediately, her words cutting through the stillness like a whip. She turns sharply, giving the photographers the perfect profile view.

Spencer exhales, forcing herself to match Aria’s energy. “I’m trying to protect you,” she says, stepping closer. “You don’t know what this could turn into.”

“No, you’re trying to control everything again,” Aria fires back, spinning toward her. “Like prison gave you some moral authority the rest of us don’t have.”

Spencer flinches. That part wasn’t scripted. But maybe it needed to hurt to feel real.

“I confessed for all of you,” she says sharply, too sharply, and she knows she’s giving them something. “So maybe I do have some say in what happens now.”

Aria scoffs, taking another step back. “You think that gives you the right to drag us all back into this? To lie to us, to lie to me? Maybe Ezra was right.”

Spencer blinks. That one burns.

“Really?” she says, voice tightening. “After everything he’s done, you’re still listening to him?”

Aria’s jaw clenches. She shakes her head, fast and furious. “I can’t do this with you. Not again. You haven’t changed, Spencer.”

And with that, Aria turns on her heel and storms away down the sidewalk, footsteps loud against the concrete. Spencer stays standing there, watching her go, every part of her screaming to run after her, to fix it.

Instead, she lowers her gaze, lets her shoulders sag just enough for the cameras. She doesn’t have to fake the sting in her chest.

Hanna is parked two blocks over, watching the street from behind a pair of oversized sunglasses. Emily is just around the corner, pretending to scroll her phone. Spencer walks slowly to the edge of the sidewalk and texts one word into their group thread.

Done.

Almost immediately, her phone buzzes in return.

They’re moving. Two left already. Caleb’s tracking uploads. – Hanna

 You okay? – Emily

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. She stares down the road where Aria disappeared, her jaw tight, heart heavy.

They had to make it convincing. And it was. A little too much.

Finally, she types.

I’m fine. Let’s hope Ezra’s watching.

She turns back to the building and walks slowly to the door, aware of every lens clicking in her periphery. The fight is in motion now. They’ve thrown the bait.

Now all they can do is wait for the wolf to come sniffing.

Spencer closes the apartment door behind her, the sound of the lock clicking into place louder than usual in the silence. She exhales, pressing her forehead briefly against the wood before shrugging off her jacket and making her way to the dining table, where every inch is still covered in documents, notes, and grainy printouts.

The lights hum overhead. Her boots scuff quietly against the floor. She doesn't bother changing. There's no point. She has work in the morning, and the clock is already bleeding into late.

She tosses her keys into the bowl by the door and reaches for the notebook with the thickest spine, flipping it open to a half-filled page titled:  ‘Alison – Last 3 Weeks (Timeline).’

There are scribbles in the margins. A star beside the phrase: ‘Secret boyfriend. Controlling. Maybe dangerous.’

The word dangerous has been underlined three times.

Her phone buzzes. Aria.

He called me. - Aria 

Spencer’s pulse jumps. She grabs the phone and starts typing.

What did he say?- Spencer 

A pause. Then:

Said he was “worried.” That he saw the paparazzi photos and thought I looked upset. Said he’s always there for me if I need someone who “knows the real story.” - Aria 

Spencer lowers the phone slowly, her jaw tightening. Of course. Ezra’s not stupid. He knows how to play the long game. Knows Aria better than almost anyone else. Knows just what kind of pressure to apply and where.

Her phone buzzes again.

This time it’s from an unknown number.

It’s sweet that you thought she’d stay. But no one clings to a sinking ship, Spencer. - A 

Spencer’s fingers freeze above the screen. The silence of the apartment suddenly feels heavier. Thicker. Like A is watching from the very walls.

She grips the edge of the table until her knuckles pale. The notebook beneath her hand crumples slightly at the edge.

No. Not again.

The door bursts open a moment later, Hanna and Emily walking in with bags of food and the kind of breathless urgency that only means one thing: they’ve been talking about her the entire way over.

“We brought dumplings,” Hanna announces, heading for the kitchen like she owns the place. “Figured if we’re going to keep unmasking a sociopath, we shouldn’t do it hungry.”

Emily nods. “Is Aria coming?”

Spencer holds up her phone. “She just texted. Ezra called her.”

They both still.

“What did he say?” Emily asks, already setting plates down.

“That he’s worried. That he’s here if she needs him.” Spencer sinks into her chair, voice clipped and tired. “Classic grooming behavior. Making himself seem like the safe harbor.”

Hanna rolls her eyes. “He’s not even subtle.”

“No, but he’s patient,” Spencer mutters. “And smart. He’s watching and waiting for the moment we fall apart.”

Emily pauses halfway through unpacking. “We won’t.”

The apartment door creaks open again and Aria steps inside, her coat wrapped tightly around her. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes dart immediately to Spencer.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says quickly. “I just told him I was busy.”

Spencer exhales, tension loosening an inch.

“I’m fine,” Aria adds, but the words land hollow.

“Sure you are,” Hanna says softly, handing her a plate.

They settle in around the table. The food goes mostly untouched.

Spencer flips her laptop open again and gestures toward the whiteboard beside her. “We need to keep the momentum going. A sent me a message right after Ezra reached out to Aria. He’s watching. He knows. That means we’re getting close.”

Emily sits forward. “We need to keep him focused on Aria. Let him think the plan is working. Meanwhile, we keep digging.”

“I’ll ask Caleb to look into his employment records again,” Hanna offers. “There’s still that window before he showed up at Rosewood. I bet you anything that’s when he was with Alison.”

Spencer nods. “If we can prove he was in town before Ali died, that might be the crack in his alibi.”

“He’s going to make a mistake,” Aria says. Her voice is quiet, but there’s a new steel beneath it. “He always has to be the smartest person in the room. That kind of ego leaves footprints.”

For the first time all day, Spencer lets herself feel a sliver of hope.

They are close. She can feel it, like a thread stretched taut between her ribs. And when it finally snaps, when Ezra slips up, they’ll be ready.

The sun’s gone down by the time Caleb finally arrives, his hoodie pulled low over his brow and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The lights in Spencer’s apartment are dimmed to keep the heat at bay, but the table is flooded with papers, old photos, highlighted notes, and open laptops that cast a pale blue glow over everyone’s faces.

Spencer opens the door before he knocks.

“Nice to see the conspiracy board’s thriving,” Caleb says, brushing past her and setting his bag on the floor with a soft thud.

“You’re late,” Hanna quips, though there’s no real heat in it.

“I brought snacks,” Caleb counters, holding up a bag of pretzels like it’s proof of loyalty. “And I’ve been prepping the digital trail.”

Spencer stands a little straighter. “Walk us through it.”

Caleb pulls his laptop out, connects to the Wi-Fi, and spins the screen around to show a series of folders with neatly labeled names. He clicks one open and reveals a fake email inbox filled with messages dated back several months -  a digital breadcrumb trail.

“Here’s the idea,” he begins. “We create a fake cloud directory -  something that looks like Spencer’s old research. Timelines, metadata, scanned letters from Ali, maybe even some fake IP logs that look like they were sent to the police.”

Spencer leans in. “It has to be real enough to feel dangerous.”

“It will be,” Caleb says. “I already set up an unsecured sync folder. The kind people think they’ve made private, but really isn’t. I’m masking the IP as if it’s coming from your home Wi-Fi, Spencer. If he’s monitoring your address -  and he probably is - he’ll see it as an easy grab.”

Hanna folds her arms. “And if he tries to open anything?”

“We’ll know,” Caleb replies. “The files are embedded with traceable data tags. They ping back the device ID, general location, and IP. It’s how I helped Mona track down Noel Kahn that one time. Same strategy, just more polished.”

Emily lets out a low breath. “And you think Ezra will fall for it?”

“He needs control,” Spencer murmurs, more to herself than anyone. “If he sees something slipping out of his hands, he won’t ignore it. Especially not if it’s tied to Alison.”

Caleb nods. “That’s the bet we’re making. These files imply you found something. Something that could clear your name and burn whoever’s behind the texts.”

“Which we’re ninety percent sure is Ezra,” Hanna mutters. “Creepy literature boy with a god complex.”

Spencer doesn’t smile. She’s staring at the fake documents. At her name at the top of them. At the buried pain and paranoia this whole plan stirs in her gut. “How long before we know if he takes the bait?”

“Could be an hour. Could be a day,” Caleb says. “Depends how obsessed he still is.”

Aria doesn’t say anything. Her face is pale, her jaw tight.

Spencer glances at her, trying to meet her eyes. But Aria’s gaze stays fixed on the screen.

Caleb clicks a final key. “And… it’s live.”

A beat passes. Nothing happens. But Spencer knows better than to expect a theatrical reaction. If Ezra is watching  -  and she’s almost certain he is -  he’ll wait. He’ll lurk. He’ll act when he thinks they’ve let their guard down.

But this time, they’re watching him.

Spencer swallows hard and leans back in her chair, feeling the weight of everything they’ve just put into motion. It’s not just a plan anymore.

It’s a war.

Chapter Text

It’s been a week since the staged argument in the street.

Spencer can still hear the echo of her own voice from that day, sharp with manufactured venom, as Aria flinched in all the right places. The footage had made the rounds -  clips of the fight airing on a dozen trashy gossip sites with captions like Troubled Spencer Hastings Lashes Out at Former Friends and Murderer Meltdown: Hastings Spirals After Release. The internet had taken sides with the kind of bloodlust only anonymity allowed.

Hanna had thrown her phone into a pillow pile after reading one too many comment threads. Emily deleted every app that started with “Insta” or “Snap.” Spencer, meanwhile, had stared at the videos until her eyes burned. Every replay chipped something off her ribs. Something hollow and soft that had not yet hardened.

But the act had worked.

Ezra hadn’t texted Aria again after that first call. He’d waited. Three days passed before the next message came.

Are you okay? - Ezra

Aria showed it to Spencer with shaking hands and unreadable eyes.

Now, it’s been seven days. Aria has done her part. Slowly. Believably. She has replied when it felt right, vented just enough to feel real. She told him she was exhausted. That she felt like she was walking on eggshells around Spencer. That maybe he was right all along.

Each text she sent gutted her. But she did it anyway.

And tonight, it finally pays off.

Spencer is in the apartment, bent over her laptop, eyes bleary from comparing Ezra’s old school schedules with public library Wi-Fi logs from the year before Alison died - when Caleb’s voice breaks the silence.

“Got him.”

Spencer jerks upright. The others crowd closer around Caleb’s laptop, pulled up on the kitchen counter. On screen is a simple data interface, code blinking in lines she only half understands. Caleb is already typing.

“Three minutes ago,” he mutters. “IP address hits the folder. Accessed two files. One of the PDFs and a zipped audio file.”

Emily breathes out slowly. “Can we trace it?”

“Already doing it.” Caleb leans forward, his expression sharp, predatory. “He was careful. Masked the IP. Tried to route it through a VPN based out of Chicago. But it’s lazy work. The guy got cocky.”

He taps a final key and turns the screen toward them.

An IP trace. It pings back to a brownstone in town. The billing address tied to the internet account? Ezra Fitzgerald.

“Jesus Christ,” Spencer whispers.

Hanna crosses her arms. “So we’ve got him accessing files he shouldn’t even know exist.”

“Which were tied to Spencer’s name and appeared as evidence,” Caleb says. “I don’t know if it’ll be enough to charge him with Alison’s murder. But it’s enough to show criminal intent. Enough to make a very loud noise.”

Spencer nods slowly, her heart pounding, not from victory but from something colder. The weight of it. The realization. The certainty.

Aria is sitting back against the couch, her arms wrapped around herself, her face a mixture of heartbreak and something else. Fury, maybe. Or betrayal in its purest form.

The heater in Emily’s car clicks softly as it fights off the late evening chill. Spencer sits in the back seat, wedged between Hanna and Caleb, the tension in her spine coiled tight enough to snap. The café across the street glows a muted amber, its windows fogged around the edges. Inside, Aria is already seated at a table near the back wall, her posture calm, collected, rehearsed.

Spencer’s fingers grip the edge of the seat. Her legs are jittering, and she hates that it feels like they’re waiting for something to go wrong.

“Audio’s clear,” Caleb mutters, his laptop balanced on his knees, signal bars glowing green. “She’s wired in. We’ve got both her mic feed and a remote backup.”

Hanna peels open a granola bar without taking her eyes off the screen. “Ezra just walked in.”

Spencer’s breath catches.

He looks almost harmless through the window. Corduroy blazer. Scarf. That same mild, bookish face. No blood under the fingernails. No physical trace of what he’s done. And yet Spencer feels the disgust well up like bile.

Inside, Ezra approaches the table. Aria stands slightly, greets him with a tense smile, then sits again. Ezra mirrors her, careful, cautious.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Aria says, her voice fed crisply through the speakers. “I know it’s late.”

“No, of course,” Ezra says smoothly. “You sounded… upset.”

Spencer bites the inside of her cheek. The game has begun.

Aria exhales, brushing her fingers along the rim of her coffee cup. “It’s about Spencer. I think she’s slipping.”

Ezra leans in slightly. “What do you mean?”

“She’s been up all night again, spiraling into old files, old messages. She barely sleeps. Barely eats. She's twitchy and... hollow.”

There’s a pause. Then: “You’re worried she might be using again.”

Spencer’s body goes still. Her ears ring. Aria knew?

In the car, she can feel everyone turn to look at her, but she stares straight ahead, locked in place.

Ezra’s voice cuts back in. “I hate to say it, but I warned you. She’s always been unstable. You remember how things were before the arrest.”

“She used heroin in prison, Ezra,” Aria says softly. “I only found out recently. She almost died in there.”

Spencer’s chest caves in, just slightly. She presses her hand against her sternum like that might hold everything inside.

Ezra doesn’t respond right away. When he does, it’s measured. “I didn’t know that. But it doesn’t surprise me. Pressure does things to a person. Especially someone like Spencer.”

“Someone like Spencer?” Aria repeats, voice tight.

Ezra sighs. “Someone who has always needed control. She never could let anything go. Even now, she’s still obsessing over Alison.”

That’s your tell, Spencer thinks. You’re too calm. Too precise. He already knows Spencer is looking again.

Aria shifts in her seat, then plays her next line. “She thinks there’s something in Alison’s old messages. Something about initials. She said Ali was scared, and that whoever she was seeing before she died was controlling. Dangerous.”

Ezra’s fingers twitch against his coffee cup. “Aria…”

“She asked me if you knew Alison,” Aria adds, her voice gentler now. “I told her no. But… did you?”

Another pause. Ezra doesn’t meet her eyes. “Briefly. Before she died. It wasn’t serious. She lied about her age.”

“And you believed her?”

“I wanted to,” Ezra says. “She had a way of making you believe what she wanted.”

Spencer exhales sharply. That’s the crack. He’s not denying it now. He’s rewriting it. Minimizing it.

Aria leans in, still playing the part. “She was a teenager, Ezra.”

“I know,” he says. “I ended it when I found out.”

“She got sent a message,” Aria says quietly. “One that said, ‘If I can’t have you, no one will.’ Spencer thinks it’s from him. From the man she was seeing. That doesn’t sound like someone who let go.”

Ezra looks up sharply now. “She’s reading into things.”

There’s the slip.

“I know how it sounds,” Aria murmurs. “But… Spencer’s unraveling again. I just wanted to know if there was anything I should be worried about. If you knew something.”

Ezra says nothing.

But his silence isn’t peace. It is calculation.

In the car, Caleb’s fingers fly over the keyboard. “He tried to access the cloud again. I spoofed a fresh file dump with altered metadata. He went in twice. From the same IP.”

“That’s enough, right?” Hanna asks.

“It’s a start,” Caleb says. “We’re stitching it together.”

“I need to go in,” Spencer says, suddenly.

Emily turns to her. “Spence -”

“He knows,” Spencer says. “He knows we’re onto him. If Aria leaves now, it gives him too much space to run. I need to see his face.”

Across the street, Aria’s still seated. Ezra’s talking again, words soft, voice tight.

Spencer pushes the door open, steps out into the cold.

“Spence … wait,” Emily calls, but she doesn’t stop.

She crosses the street, every step deliberate. The café glows ahead, a small island of warmth in a city that suddenly feels too quiet.

It’s time.

The café door swings open with a soft jingle.

Ezra glances toward it, mid-sentence, and his jaw clenches the moment he sees her. Spencer doesn’t break stride. Her boots click softly on the tile floor, her coat still zipped halfway as if she came in from a colder world than the one he occupies.

Aria’s eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t say a word. Just subtly shifts her chair, as if clearing space at the table.

“Ezra,” Spencer says evenly, nodding once in greeting. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

She isn’t breathless, though she feels it in every rib. Her nerves are razor-thin under the surface, but her voice stays composed, almost clinical. Like a scientist examining a subject through glass.

Ezra forces a smile, eyes flicking back and forth between them. “Quite the reunion,” he says.

Spencer slides in beside Aria. Her knee bumps against Aria’s under the table. Neither of them pulls away.

She takes a moment before speaking. Lets the silence grow just uncomfortable enough.

Then, “I know you were in Rosewood before you started teaching at the high school.”

Ezra goes still. The warmth drains from his eyes like someone threw a switch.

“I’m sorry?” he says slowly.

“You told Aria you moved here for a writing retreat. That you didn’t know Alison. But you knew who we were. You were watching us before you ever set foot in a classroom.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Spencer folds her arms. “Is it? You quoted something Alison said in an old email. One I never showed anyone. How did you know that line?”

Ezra blinks. His mouth opens, then closes again.

“I was researching for a book,” he offers. “I read about the case. About you. All of you.”

“But that was after Alison died,” Spencer says. Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it hits like a hammer. “You had access to her. To her thoughts. Her writing. And you used it.”

Aria glances at Spencer, her hand frozen on her mug. Ezra doesn’t notice.

Spencer leans forward. “We know she had a boyfriend she kept secret. Someone older. Controlling. Someone who said if he couldn’t have her, no one would.”

Ezra’s voice sharpens. “You’re twisting things. Again.”

There it is. The crack. Caleb’s still recording from the car. Every second of it.

“You told Aria something almost identical during one of your breakups.” Spencer’s voice cuts clean through the space between them. “That you couldn’t handle her walking away. That you needed to be the one who ended things.”

“I was upset,” Ezra says. “That’s different. And that’s private.”

“You don’t get to play both parts in the story,” Spencer says. “The romantic hero and the invisible narrator. You inserted yourself into her life. Then you tried to write the ending.”

Ezra’s chair scrapes against the tile as he pushes back slightly. His mask is starting to peel. His tone turns acidic.

“Alison was a manipulative girl. You’re all acting like she was some innocent victim.”

Aria’s mouth opens, but she doesn’t speak.

Spencer watches him. Calm. Cold. “She was fifteen.”

“She knew what she was doing.”

Spencer doesn’t blink. “Did she know you would still watch her friends after she was gone? Did she know you would turn your obsession into a vendetta? That you would torment girls half your age to feel powerful?”

“I never -”

“You played with Alison’s life. With Aria’s. With all of ours. You couldn’t let her leave, and then you couldn’t let us go either.”

“You don’t get to rewrite history just because you’re… broken.”

Spencer doesn’t flinch. “You were in love with a girl. A teenager. And when she tried to walk away, you made sure she never did.”

His hands curl into fists against the table.

“You don’t know anything,” he spits.

“I know what control looks like. I lived it for years. You never wanted love. You wanted ownership.”

Ezra stands suddenly, knocking his chair back. His voice rises, eyes wild. “You’re all the same. Always whispering. Judging. Acting like you didn’t benefit from everything she did for you. You think Alison was a saint? She was manipulative. She deserved - ”

He stops.

But it’s too late.

Spencer sees it on his face. The horror that he said too much. That he got too close to saying what really happened.

Ezra freezes, glancing around the café like he’s finally aware of the other eyes on him. And of course, Emily’s car just outside, Caleb recording every word. Every line. Every threat.

Aria stays seated, shoulders tight. She hasn’t moved.

“Are we done?” Ezra asks, voice brittle now.

“No,” Spencer says. “But you are.”

Ezra stares at her for one last moment, and then storms out of the café, coat flaring behind him, the door slamming against the frame.

Silence blooms in his absence.

Aria exhales. Spencer just watches the empty space where he had been, heart hammering, the truth finally laid bare.

“He admitted it,” Aria whispers. “He practically said it.”

Spencer nods, though her eyes stay fixed ahead. “Now we just have to prove it.”