Pretty Little Liars (Book One)

One: Oranges, Peaches, and Limes, Oh My!

"Someone finally bought the DiLaurentises' old house," Emily Field's mother said. It was Saturday afternoon, and Mrs. Fields sat at the kitchen table, bifocals perched on her nose, calmly doing her bills.

Emily felt the Vanilla Coke she was drinking fizz up her nose.

"I think another girl your age moved in," Mrs. Fields continued. "I was going to drop off that basket today. Maybe you want to do it instead?" She pointed to the cellophaned monstrosity on the counter.

"God, Mom, no," Emily replied. Since she'd retired from teaching elementary school last year, Emily's mom had become the unofficial Rosewood, Pennsylvania, Welcome Wagon lady. She assembled a million random things—dried fruit, those flat rubber thingies you use to get jars open, ceramic chickens (Emily's mom was chicken-obsessed), a guide to Rosewood inns, whatever—into a big wicker welcome basket. She was a prototypical were ostentatious and gas-guzzling, so she drove an oh-so-practical Volvo wagon instead.

Mrs. Fields stood and ran her fingers through Emily's chlorine-damaged hair. "Would it upset you too much to go there, sweetie? Maybe I should send Carolyn?"

Emily glanced at her sister Carolyn, who was a year older and lounging comfortably on the La-Z-Boy in the den watching Dr. Phil. Emily shook her head. "No, it's fine. I'll do it."

Sure, Emily whined sometimes and an occasional rolled her eyes. But the truth was, if her mom asked, Emily would do whatever she was supposed to do. She was a nearly straight-A, four-time state champion butterfly and hyper-obedient daughter. Following rules and requests came easily to her.

Plus, deep down she kind of wanted a reason to see Alison's house again. While it seemed the rest of Rosewood had started to move on from Ali's disappearance three years, two months, and twelve days ago, Emily hadn't. Even now, she couldn't glance at her seventh-grade yearbook without wanting to curl up in a ball. Sometimes on rainy days, Emily still reread Ali's old notes, which she stored in a shell-top Adidas shoebox under her bed. She even kept a pair of Citizens corduroy Ali had let her borrow on a wooden hanger in her closet, even though they were now way too small on her. She'd spent the last few lonely years in Rosewood longing for another friend like Ali, but that probably wasn't going to happen. She hadn't been a perfect friend, but for all her flaws, Ali was pretty tough to replace.

Emily straightened up and grabbed the Volvo's keys from the hook to the phone. "I'll be back in a little while," she called as she closed the front door behind her.

Emily straightened up and grabbed the Volvo's keys from the hook next to the phone. "I'll be back in a little while," she called as she closed the front door behind her.

The first thing she saw when she pulled up Alison's old Victorian home at the top of the leafy street was a huge pile of trash on the curb and a big sign marked, Freed! Squinting, she realized that some of it was Alison's stuff—she recognized Ali's old, overstuffed white corduroy bedroom chair. The DiLaurentises had moved away almost ago. Apparently they'd left some things behind.

She parked behind a giant Bekins moving van and got out the Volvo. "Whoa," she whispered, trying to keep her bottom lip from trembling. Under the chair, there were several piles of grimy books. Emily reached down and looked at the spines. The Red Badge of Courage. The Prince and the Pauper. She remembered reading them in Mr. Pierce's seventh-grade English class, talking about symbolism, metaphors, and denouement. There were more books underneath, including some that just looked like old notebooks. Boxes sat next to the books; they were marked Alison's Clothes and Alison's Old Papers. Peeking out of a crate was a blue and red ribbon. Emily pulled at it a little. It was a sixth-grade swimming medal she'd left at Alison's house one day when they'd made up a game called Olympian Sex Goddesses.