Pretty Little Liars #13: Crushed

by Shepard, Sara

  She pressed the magnifying glass. Up came Google results. UNSOLVED PHILADELPHIA CONSPIRACIES was the title of the first site, along with the description A REGULAR SOURCE FOR THE PHILADELPHIA SENTINEL, THE ROSEWOOD GAZETTE, AND THE YARMOUTH YARDARM. Spencer clicked on the link, and a blog slowly loaded. The main page had a picture of the Rocky statue in front of the Philadelphia Art Museum. IS ROCKY TRULY CURSED?, the type read. READ ON FOR THIS AND OTHER PHILADELPHIA-RELATED CONSPIRACY THEORIES.

  She clicked on the link. There were posts on the Philadelphia Experiment, a story about how, in 1943, a war vessel docked in Philadelphia mysteriously vanished—people were sure it was a government plot to render warships invisible. Below those were posts about Ben Franklin being a polygamist and his homosexual dalliances, Betsy Ross working part-time as a madam when she wasn’t sewing American flags, and the Liberty Bell bearing secret inscriptions from aliens. Below all of that were more recent conspiracy theories, including a kidnapping of a wealthy man’s daughter in the 1970s, which included a lot of links to police reports and even a shout-out from a biographer who’d written a book about the crime. Finally, at the bottom, was the twisted tale of Alison DiLaurentis and her identical twin, Courtney.

  With shaking fingers, Spencer clicked the bottom link. WHY ALISON DILAURENTIS MIGHT NOT BE DEAD, read a blog post. It was dated from April of last year, not long after the fire in the Poconos. The post included a police report about the fire, including a coroner’s assessment that no bones had been found in the rubble. There was also some information about the Radley, where Their Ali had been, and The Preserve, including medical documents and police files most people wouldn’t have access to. There were even a few tidbits about the DiLaurentises’ lives before they moved to Rosewood; they weren’t called the DiLaurentises back then but the Day-DiLaurentises. Maybe they’d cut off the first part of their last name in an attempt to escape their past.

  When Spencer finished clicking on all the images and links, her head was spinning. Whoever this blogger was, he was legit. Working on some of those other cases must have opened some doors for the blogger, got him some connections. She wondered what else he knew.

  The blog didn’t have any conclusive evidence of why Ali wasn’t dead or where she’d gone, but the post was from a while ago. Spencer scrolled down to see if there were any newer posts, but there weren’t. The blog was still up and running, though; the latest entry was about a rumor that all of the Wawa markets in the tristate area were run by the Knights Templar. She clicked on the ABOUT ME tab at the bottom. It said the blog was run by an avid investigator named Chase M., but instead of a picture, there was a video loop of a cat slapping another cat. There was a loud, fake kapow! sound when one cat’s paw hit the other cat’s cheek. Okay.

  Crack. Spencer looked up. What if A was here? She stared at the empty street until her vision blurred.

  Then she clicked on the CONTACT US link and composed an e-mail on a generic template. I am connected to the Alison DiLaurentis case. I can’t tell you my name right now, but I will if we talk. I’m eager to know if you have more information about her.

  She signed it Concerned in Rosewood. In the space where the template asked for her e-mail, she used an address she’d created that morning, its password so nonsensical and impossible-to-crack that she almost forgot it as soon as she made it up.

  “Spencer?”

  Aria’s face loomed on the other side of the window. Spencer shot out the door and pulled her inside. A cab pulled up seconds later, and Hanna tumbled out. Emily drove up at almost the same time. Spencer led them down the hall and opened the heavy door to the panic room. The video monitors flickered. The room still smelled faintly of the microwave popcorn they’d made the last time they were here. Spencer fished out the list of potential Ali’s helpers and taped it back on the door. The remaining suspects glared at her. Iris. Darren Wilden. Melissa. Jason. Graham. Noel.

  “This had better be good,” Emily grumbled as she peeled off her jacket. “I had to leave Iris at my house for this. Who knows what sort of insane things she’s going to tell my folks?”

  “Iris is at your house?” Hanna repeated, staring at her.

  Emily nodded, then explained how Iris would only give her Ali intel if Emily signed her out for a while. “I told my parents she’s a low-income student from inner-city Philadelphia who’s going through some tough times at home right now, and I’m doing this as an outreach program through Rosewood Day. Amazingly, they bought it.”

  Spencer looked at Aria. “So what’s going on?”

  Aria whipped out two things from her yak-fur bag. One looked like a newspaper article. The second was a handwritten note. Spencer recognized the scrawl immediately.

  Aria showed the article to Hanna. “Recognize this guy?”

  Hanna shook her head, but then her face paled. “Wait. Is that . . . O-Olaf?” she stammered. Her eyes scanned the article. “He’s missing?”

  Aria nodded. “This happened in January.”

  “Who’s Olaf?” Emily asked, hugging her knees.

  “A guy I met in Iceland.” Aria swallowed hard.

  Hanna lowered her chin. “You didn’t just meet him.”

  “Okay, I kind of hooked up with him,” Aria mumbled. “I was really drunk.”

  Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. Aria seemed so happy with Noel—Spencer never would have guessed that she’d cheated on him.

  A crow landed near one of the video cameras, its body huge on the monitor. Spencer looked at the scrawl on the little piece of paper Aria had found. Isn’t seeing good art truly liberating? “What does that mean?”

  Aria looked back and forth nervously. “Well, Olaf and I did more than just hook up. We sort of . . . stole a painting together.”

  Spencer blinked. “You what?”

  “What kind of painting?” Emily breathed, her hands at her mouth.

  Spencer tried to listen as Aria laid out what had happened, but her brain stalled out once she heard the name Van Gogh. “How did I not know this?” she gasped. Then she glanced at Hanna, who had a guilty expression. “You knew?”

  “It’s not like I wanted to know,” Hanna said, crossing her arms over her chest. “She called me in a panic when the police came—I picked her up. But we decided to keep it quiet.”

  “I figured the less people who knew, the better,” Aria said softly, picking at the hem of her sweater. “And for a while, it was fine—the cops never caught Olaf, the painting was never found, and nobody ever connected it to me. But when I came home from school yesterday, that article was on my bed and the painting was in my closet. I’m sure A put it there.”

  Spencer’s heart stopped. “A priceless Van Gogh is in your closet?”

  Aria’s eyes filled with tears. “The article says the authorities couldn’t find the painting when they searched Olaf’s house. Ali must have gone there, chopped up Olaf—the article says blood was all over the floor—moved his body somewhere, ransacked his place, and taken it. And then she brought it back here.”

  Hanna frowned. “I’m not sure if Ali could have done all that. How could she have gotten a passport? And Olaf was over six feet. It’s like the Ian thing—Ali couldn’t have been strong enough to strangle him all by herself.”

  Aria shrugged. “Maybe her helper did it, then. It doesn’t change the fact that Team A killed Olaf so that they could get the painting. And now, one well-placed call from A, and I’ll have a SWAT team on my lawn.”

  “Whoa,” Emily whispered.

  “Maybe you should turn the painting in anonymously,” Hanna suggested, wrapping a piece of hair around and around her finger nervously.

  Spencer’s eyes widened. “Art theft is, like, a major crime. You could be on a surveillance camera. You could get in serious trouble.”

  “And now you guys could get in trouble, too,” Aria cried. “All of you know what I did now. You know where a stolen painting is.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You can turn me in if you want. I understand.”

  Emi
ly touched her arm. “We aren’t going to do that.”

  “We’ll figure this out without any of us getting in trouble, okay?” Spencer added. “I just don’t understand how A knew what you did.”

  “I guess A followed us to Iceland,” Hanna concluded.

  “And followed me to the chateau?” Aria held her palms to the ceiling. “There weren’t any other cars even on the road until the police came. I suppose A could have come on foot, but—”

  “What if A listened in on our call on my end?” Hanna interrupted.

  Aria pushed a strand of hair out of her face. “You think A was staying in our guesthouse?”

  Spencer leaned back in the chair and shut her eyes. Her head was throbbing, and she felt that same old rising panic that had plagued her many times before. How could A be in so many places at once? How could A know everything?

  Then she opened her eyes. “Aria, maybe A was staying in your room.”

  She must have had a telling tone, because Aria set her mouth in a line. “A is not Noel.”

  “Are you sure?” Spencer threw up her hands. “Aria, Noel has been everywhere bad stuff has happened to us. Jamaica. The cruise. Now Iceland. Do you really think that’s just a coincidence?”

  “Noel was dead-drunk that night,” Aria protested, her voice going high.

  Spencer paced back and forth around the little room. “Maybe it was just an act. Hanna, do you remember where Noel was when you talked to Aria?”

  Hanna shoved her hands in her pockets, the light from the digital clock on the wall glowing red on her face. “Well, he wasn’t in bed when I woke up. And I didn’t see him in the hall, which is where I was for most of the conversation. He came inside from the back when we got home, though. He said he was smoking a joint, but he didn’t smell like weed at all.”

  Aria’s eyes blazed. “Now you’re against me, too?”

  “Of course I’m not against you!” Hanna said. “But, Aria, it is weird.”

  Spencer shifted forward in the chair. “Remember how strange Noel was when ‘Courtney’ came to Rosewood?” she asked. “He was in a support group with her. He urged you guys to be friends. And you caught them making out at the Valentine’s Day dance. . . .”

  Aria slapped her arms to her sides. “Ali ambushed him! Noel didn’t want to kiss her. She just made it look like he did.”

  “Are you sure?” Spencer asked. “It was that kiss that made you get in the car to go with us to the Poconos. What if Noel was in on it?”

  Aria’s mouth hung open. “I can’t believe you.”

  One of the surveillance monitors went dark. Everyone’s gaze shot to it. There was fuzz, but then the image reappeared. The yard was empty. A few leaves drifted past the camera, and that was all.

  Spencer shook her head. “I’m sorry, Aria. I don’t want it to be Noel, either. I just wish we could rule Noel out for good. The article says Olaf was killed at the beginning of January. Do you know where Noel was around then?”

  Aria ran her tongue over her teeth. “Switzerland. His family was skiing. He asked me to go, but I wanted to stay home and spend time with Lola.”

  “Are you sure they were skiing? Switzerland isn’t that far from Iceland.”

  Aria pounded a fist on the arm of the sofa. “He posted a ton of pictures on Facebook! Do you honestly think Noel flew to Iceland, killed a guy, and came home the next day like nothing ever happened? You think he’s that good of a liar?”

  “Just see if you can find a lift ticket or something from January fourth, okay? And ask him where he was yesterday when someone snuck that painting into your house. It must have been while we were at school, right? So, basically, Noel will tell you he was in eighth period or whatever, and tons of people will vouch for him.”

  A worried look crossed Aria’s face, but then she shook her head. “I’m not interrogating my boyfriend. If he finds out why I’m asking him these questions, he’ll dump me.”

  “No one wants you guys to break up,” Emily said quickly.

  “Look, the rest of us will see what we can discover,” Spencer said, slumping against the wall. “Until then, don’t do anything with the painting, okay, Aria?”

  Aria’s mouth made an O. “I’m supposed to keep it in my closet?”

  “Just hide it.” Spencer glanced at Hanna. “What’s going on with the burn clinic?”

  Hanna sighed. “I really don’t want to volunteer there. But I’m talking to Sean’s dad about it tomorrow.”

  “And how about Iris?” Spencer asked Emily.

  Emily chewed her bottom lip. “I haven’t found out anything about Ali yet. But Iris has been at The Preserve for four years without a break, so there’s no way she can be Ali’s helper.”

  “Good.” Spencer stood up, uncapped the marker she’d brought, and crossed Iris’s name off their list. “Hopefully she’ll tell you who is.”

  Aria placed her hands on her hips. “And how is your investigation going, Spence?” she asked, a bitter tone in her voice. “Why haven’t you tracked down Ali yet?”

  Spencer bristled. “Um, I’m working on it.” She could feel Aria’s gaze on her, but she didn’t know what else to say.

  They shut off the lights in the panic room. Since Spencer had driven, she offered to take the girls who had come in cabs back home. As they walked out the door of the panic room, Spencer stared at Aria’s straight back and wondered what was going through her mind. She felt kind of . . . betrayed. After all that had happened, after A had tormented them about so many things, how had Aria kept quiet about the painting? And now Olaf, whoever he was, was missing and maybe even dead. Aria was right: They all could go to jail for knowing where a stolen painting was hidden and not coming forward with the information.

  Ping.

  It was Spencer’s old phone, still connected via WiFi. She cautiously looked at the screen. It was an e-mail on her newly created account. The return sender was PHILADELPHIA CONSPIRACY THEORIES.

  She glanced at her friends. Hanna was peeking out the window. Aria was staring into space, lost in her own world. Emily was looking at her own phone with a glazed-over expression. Head lowered, Spencer clicked OPEN and read the two sentences. We should definitely talk. There’s a lot you need to know.

  She hit REPLY. I’m available whenever, she wrote back. The sooner, the better.

  10

  Just Like Old Times

  The sky turned gloomy as Hanna steered the Prius into the parking lot of the William Atlantic Plastic Surgery and Burn Rehabilitation Clinic. She shut off the engine and looked at the squat, übermodern building. Was she seriously doing this? Part of her wanted to call up Spencer and beg for a different mission.

  Her old phone bleated a new message from her school e-mail account. It was from Chassey Bledsoe: VOTE CHASSEY FOR QUEEN!

  Hanna squeezed the phone between her hands, wishing she could send an alert, too. How else would people know what an awesome queen she’d make? And she’d heard that, as part of the Starry Night theme, the queen’s crown would be even more bejeweled than ever.

  The Starry Night. Her insides twisted. It was such an eerie coincidence that the very painting Aria had stolen was this year’s prom theme—if it was a coincidence at all. All A would have to do was tip the cops off that the painting was in Aria’s closet and she’d be done for. And though the police might not ever know that Spencer and Emily knew about the theft, there were Hanna’s phone records from that night in Iceland. She’d be ruined, too. Who knew, maybe A would even figure out a way to blame them for Olaf’s death.

  What had Aria seen in Olaf, anyway? His beard was nasty. The cap he wore looked like it was from a Dumpster. But Aria was always into those grungy dudes—Hanna had been surprised, actually, when she started dating Noel. Neither of them were each other’s types—a few boys on the lacrosse team even joked for a while that Noel was dating Aria because her dad, Byron, had access to good pot. Hanna was pretty sure that wasn’t true, but what if Noel did have an ulterior motive to go for Aria?
What if someone had put him up to it? Someone like . . . Ali? Could Noel be Ali’s helper?

  Hanna hated to think it, but Ali having a helper made a lot of sense. It also fit that Noel was that person—for a lot of different reasons. At the beginning of sixth grade, when Real Ali was still around and Hanna was still a loserish nothing, her BFF was Scott Chin. Scott was out of the closet even then, and he had a raging crush on Noel and was always jealous of his girlfriends. “What does he see in Alison DiLaurentis?” he whined at lunch one day when he spied Ali and Noel giggling at the cool table. “She’s such a butter face. Everything about her is pretty . . . but her face.”

  Hanna rolled her eyes. “She’s not a butter face.” Alison was the most beautiful girl ever. She’d modeled at the King James Mall spring and fall runway shows, and rumor had it she’d even been tapped by a big agency in New York City.

  “Oh please, yes, she is.” Scott’s eyebrows, which Hanna suspected he plucked, knitted together. “I wonder if Noel has to close his eyes when he makes out with her.”

  Hanna lowered her PB&J. “Do you think they actually make out?” Kissing was still exotic to her. She couldn’t believe kids her age were doing it.

  “Oh, yeah.” Scott had nodded. “I saw them doing it in the woods behind the playground.”

  Sighing, Hanna returned to the present and pushed through the double doors. Instantly, the familiar odor of gauze, antiseptic, and something that could only be described as burnt skin hit her like a tidal wave. She looked around, taking in the fake flowers on the tables and the patient art on the walls. Everything was the same as the last time she’d been here, down to the peppermints in the dish on the front desk. She remembered, suddenly, running into Mona in this lobby. Mona had acted all weird and cagey about why she was there, not admitting she was getting treatment for the burns from the prank-gone-wrong that Ali, Hanna, and the others had played on Toby Cavanaugh. In all the time they’d been friends, Hanna had never known Mona had been at the Cavanaughs that night, watching Ali shoot that firework into the tree house, witnessing Jenna getting blinded, maybe even hearing the fight Ali and Toby had afterward. Of course, Mona’s silence had been intentional.