One: Deep Freeze In The Warm Florida Sun.

The day after Christmas, Spencer Hastings sat squished in a marrow leather seat of a private plane as it touched down at the airport in Longboat Key, Florida. Through the window, she watched the heat rise up from the tarmac, making the palm trees look like they were swaying and shimmering. The sun beat down ruthlessly on the traffic controllers, who strutted about in T-shirts, shorts, and sunglasses. It was a huge change from the seventeen-degree weather and two-foot snowdrifts in Rosewood. Spencer couldn't think of a better time to take a vacation to Nana Hastings's Florida beach house—although given that her family was, as usual, barely speaking to her, she could think of many better groups to travel with.

Spencer's mother, who sat farther up the aisle and was dressed in her requisite flying uniform of a cashmere hoodie and yoga pants, lifted the satin sleep mask from her eyes. "Peter, did you remember to rent a car?"

Spencer's father paused from typing on his Android phone and let out an exasperated puff of air. "Of course I did. I rented a Mercedes SUV."

"The G-class?"

"No." He stood and grabbed everyone's bags from the overhead compartment. "The ML350."

Spencer's mother made a face. "But the G550 has more legroom."

"Veronica, everything is walkable in Longboat Key—we don't even really need a car." He dropped Spencer's mother's travel-sized Louis Vuitton bag on an empty seat next to her.

The captain interrupted, telling the family that they'd landed—duh—and that Gina, the flight attendant, would open the door so they could disembark. Spencer eased out of the aisle behind her, keeping her head down and her iPod earbuds securely in each ear. She hadn't said a word the whole flight, which was odd—normally, she didn't shut up about the town house she was renovating, how well she was doing at the University of Pennsylvania Wharton School of business, or how generally fabulous she was.

Spencer knew the reason for Melissa's silence. A month and a half ago, Melissa's boyfriend, Ian Thomas, had been arrested for murdering Spencer's old best friend Alison DiLaurentis. Apparently, Ian and Ali had been secret lovers; Ali had pushed Ian to expose their relationship, and Ian had killed her in a frustrated rage. As Melissa's boyfriends were usually blue bloods groomed to make partners at daddy's law firm, or become the next state senator, Ian's circumstances represented a bit of a step down. Melissa didn't believe Ian had really done it, but that didn't matter. The rest of Rosewood sure did.

The situation was made even more complicated by the fact that Spencer had been the one who'd turned Ian in—she had recalled seeing him the night Ali went missing. In the month since Ian was thrown in jail, Melissa had been extra-frosty with Spencer—an impressive feat, considering the sisters didn't have a good relationship to begin with. Over the past few months, things had gone from bad to worse: They'd fought viciously over a boy, aired their dirty sisterhood laundry in front of a therapist, and had gotten into a colossal argument that ended with Spencer accidentally pushing Melissa down the stairs. Not to mention that Spencer had stolen Melissa's SP Econ paper and claimed it as her own, winning a prestigious Golden Orchid essay contest as a result.

Gina opened the hatch, and the family climbed down the rickety staircase onto the runway. The Florida heat and humidity enveloped Spencer immediately, and she shucked her North Face jacket. The Hastings family walked stiffly and silently into the terminal, their synchronized footsteps the only indication they even knew each other at all.

Inside, a uniformed man held up a small sign that read Hastings. He led them to their waiting SUV, on loan from the local car rental place. Spencer's father signed some papers, loaded their luggage into the back, and everyone climbed in, slamming their doors loudly behind them. Spencer's father stepped on the gas, hard enough that Spencer's body lurched back against the plush leather seats.

"Ugh, it stinks like cigarettes in here." Her mother fanned the air in front of her face, breaking the silence. "Couldn't you have had them clean it out, Peter?"

Her father signed audibly. "I don't smell anything."

"I don't smell anything, either," Spencer put in, wanting to stand up for her dad. Her mom had been ragging on him for days now.

But this just earned her a chilly look from them both. Spencer knew why. Against their wishes, she had declined the Golden Orchid award last month, admitting to the judging committee that she'd plagiarized her sister's paper. Her parents had wanted her to keep quiet about it and just accept the award, but dealing with Ali's death, discovering the identity of her killer, getting stalked by Mona Vanderwaal—as-A, and having Mona nearly pushed her off a cliff had put everything in perspective.

Spencer sank down in the backseat and stared out the window as her father turned onto the main boulevard. She'd been to Nana's house many times she could walk this street blindfolded—first came the marina, with its enormous private yachts, then the yacht club, which had a tasteful sign out front that said Luau December 28, 9 P.M., then the bridge that was raised whenever a particularly tall boat passed through, followed by the many overpriced shops and fancy restaurants. And everywhere, women in sprawling sun hats and oversized sunglasses peppered the sidewalks and outdoor patios, while men, looking fresh in their golf clothes, parked their convertibles and flashed their whitened teeth.

Mr. Hastings rolled up to the gated community where Nan Hastings lived. A guard with tanned, leathery skin and wearing a polyester uniform checked them off on a clipboard and waved them through. After passing a brilliant green golf course, a multi tiered pool in which Spencer had spent many hours swimming a private shopping area, and a world-class spa, they turned on Sand Dune Drive and approached the huge white comping that looked like a mix between the White House and Cinderella's castle at Disney World. Done columns flanked the front facade. Terraces lined the sides and the back. A tall turret jutted into the sky. The yard was elegantly landscaped; not a single flower was anything less than wedding-arrangement perfect. As Spencer's father opened the car door, she could hear the roar of the ocean. It butted up to the back of the house; a private deck looked out onto the beach.

"Now, this is more like it." Mr. Hastings put his hands on his hips, arched his back a little, and stared into the brilliant blue sky.

They unlocked the front door and pulled their bags into the foyer, creating a fort of name-brand luggage. The house smelled like expensive floor wax, a smattering of sand, and lavender laundry detergent. It was utterly silent inside, and Spencer was about to ask where Nana was before she remembered she'd left for Gstaad, Switzerland, with her new boyfriend, Lawrence, yesterday morning. Nana Hastings wasn't really into interacting with her family—she was rarely around when they visited. She in particular had never taken to Spencer. It must be genetic.

Spencer carried her bags up the sweeping, Southern plantation-style staircase to the bedroom she always stayed in, which was flooded with sunlight, had cheery yellow-and-white-striped wallpaper, a fluffy white rug, and an old brass bed. The room had a closed-up smell to it, as though no one had stayed in her for a long time.

She hoisted up her bag, pulled at the zipper, and began neatly unpacking her Florida wardrobe—bright sundresses, high-waisted sailor pants, and form-fitting polo shirts, which she remolded and placed into empty drawers. She unearthed her felt-lined travel jewelry case as she stood in front of the gleaming white bureau, ready to line up her necklaces and rings in the antique wooden jewelry box her grandmother had her grandmother had long ago cast off. She opened it, noticing a pair of chandelier-style earrings glistening from the top shelf. She gasped as she lifted them up, recognizing them instantly. She'd left them here the last time she'd visited, which had been over Memorial Day weekend in seventh grade. But the earrings weren't hers—they were Ali's.

Ali's family also had a place down here, just across the man-made lake, and she and Spencer had divided their time between the two houses, lying out on the sand swapping clothes, sneaking slugs from Spencer's parents' Dewar's bottle, and flirting with boys downtown.

Ali had lent Spencer the earrings the night they had been invited to a house party a few streets over from Nana Hastings's. Spencer had struck up a conversation with a guy named Chad who' dated Melissa one holiday break; after a while, she'd felt Ali's eyes on her. "You're acting really slutty," Ali had whispered nastily when Chad turned away. "Isn't it bad enough that you already hooked up with one of your sister's boyfriends?"

Ali was referring to how Spencer had kissed Ian Thomas behind Melissa's back a few weeks earlier. But Spencer hadn't wanted to hook up with Chad—she was just talking to him. She and Ali had gotten into a huge, blowout fight; they didn't speak for the rest of the vacation. Ali hung out with some older girls from town, always laughing exaggeratedly when Spencer passed by. And Spencer wandered around alone, too proud to apologize.

Now she sank down on the bed and cradled the earrings in her hands. She should have apologized. If only she'd known that Ali had been seeing Ian—that that was why she was being so weird about Spencer kissing him. Maybe she could have somehow steered Ali away from Ian. Maybe she could have prevented Ali's murder.

Placing the earrings on her nightstand, Spencer stood back up, changed into a pair of shorts, a soft American Apparel top, and a pair of Havaianas flip-flops, and walked downstairs. A warm, sweet-smelling scent wafted from the white-tilted kitchen.

"Hello?" Spencer called out, looking around. Her voice echoed throughout the empty first floor.

She heard loud voices on the patio and peeked out the sliding-glass door. Her family was sitting at the teak table that overlooked the pool and the ocean; there were bowls of chips and nuts, a marble slab containing several cheeses, and an open bottle of white wine on the table. Spencer's mouth watered.

The ocean roared loudly as she opened the patio door, right in the middle of a wild gesture her mother was making. Melissa looked like she'd eaten a sour plum, but Melissa always looked like she'd eaten a sour plum. Spencer glanced at her father, who was tapping on the iPad they'd given him for Christmas, probably playing Angry Birds. He'd only had it for a day and already he was obsessed.

She dragged another chair to the table just as Melissa popped a slice of aged cheddar in her mouth.

"Mom, do you want some cheese? It's really good," Melissa asked.

"What I want, Melissa, is for your father to put down his little toy and actually talk to us for once," her mother snapped.

Spencer froze, Melissa looked like she'd been slapped. Their mother usually reserved that tone for Spencer. Their father only sighed and continued tapping on his screen.

"Hey, how about we rent a movie tonight?" Spencer suggested, trying to ease the tension.

"A movie might be nice," Melissa offered. "Good idea, Spencer."

Spencer stared at Melissa with wide eyes, unsure how to respond. When had Melissa ever used the word good in any kind of relation to Spencer?

But then their mother snorted, as if the notion of a family movie night was outlandish, and that Spencer was an idiot for having suggested it. The family lapsed back into silence, and her parents, armed behind their invisible fortresses, stewed in their own private anger.

Spencer stifled a sigh. After everything that had happened this fall—Ali, Ian, even A—Spencer had hoped to spend the next few days sunning, getting spa treatments, and winning over her family. And then when she returned to Rosewood for a second semester, she'd feel retorted and rejuvenated.

But with World War III brewing in Nana Hastings's beach house, she'd be lucky to get any peace at all.