by Sara Shepard
Ella placed her hand on Aria’s knee. “But couldn’t you do those things in New York? Philly? Rosewood, even? Why did you have to go all the way to Holland?”
Aria studied Ella’s piercing blue eyes and questioning expression. “Does this have anything to do with Noel?” Ella went on. “Mike told me you two broke up. That Noel lied to you.”
Aria’s jaw twitched. Said like that, it sounded so . . . harsh. Awful. But then, maybe it was kind of the truth. Even if Noel hadn’t done anything with Ali, he’d still lied.
She shut her eyes, thinking yet again of Noel. Sometime between when she’d gone to the police station and when she’d been released, he’d sent her a message that said, How are you? She doubted he had any idea what was happening to her; it was just a coincidence. On the ride home, she’d composed a text back.
But she hadn’t sent it. She needed to move on, right?
She stared across the room at a table that held framed family photos. Long ago, Ella had removed the ones that had Byron in them, so now they were mostly of Aria and Mike, with a random one of Aria’s ancient great-grandma Hilda. “How did you feel when you found out about Dad’s thing with Meredith?” she asked.
Ella groaned and sat back against the pillows. “Awful. I wanted to run away, too. But I didn’t.”
“Of course you didn’t. You had me and Mike.”
“You have me and Mike, too,” Ella said firmly. “And your dad and Lola. We still need you.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve heard some other things, too, honey.” She took Aria’s hands. “You’re not thinking of . . . hurting yourself, are you?”
There were tears in her eyes. Her voice was so tender. Aria lowered her shoulders, hating those stupid suicide rumors. “Of course not,” she said softly. “I’m stronger than that.”
“I thought so,” Ella said, her voice trembling a little. “I just wanted to make sure.”
Aria snuggled into her shoulder. Ella’s gauzy blouse smelled like patchouli oil. She stroked Aria’s hair, the same way she used to do when Aria was younger and afraid to go to sleep because she thought a giant eel lived in her closet.
“I’m sorry about Noel, honey,” her mom said softly. “And I know not going to Holland seems like a setback. But you’re resilient. And you don’t need to go to some faraway country to be happy. You can find an amazing art scene here in Rosewood.”
Aria sniffed. “Yeah, right.” Rosewood’s idea of cutting-edge art was painting the apples in a still life slightly off-red, the pears a marginally unnatural shade of green.
“I think I know of something that might cheer you up. There’s an opening for a part-time assistant at the gallery. If you want the job, it’s yours.”
Aria resisted the urge to snicker. Her mother worked at an art gallery in Hollis that sold tame, tepid landscapes of old Pennsylvania barns and detailed paintings of local birds. Aria got a headache every time she went in there because the place smelled overwhelmingly like the Yankee Candle store that was next door.
“It’ll be good for you to be around people,” Ella urged. “And bring your portfolio—maybe Jim will frame one of your pieces and give you a mini-show.”
Maybe Ella had a point. A job would give her something to do in the afternoons—she had so many hours to fill now that she and Noel weren’t together. And though Aria hated the idea of someone buying one of her paintings and hanging it next to a hokey Amish hex sign, she did like the idea of selling her work.
“Okay, I guess I could do that,” she said.
“Great.” Ella went to stand, then paused and looked at Aria again. “And you’re positive I don’t have to worry about the cop car?”
Aria pretended to be interested in the psychedelic swirls on the couch. “Of course not,” she mumbled.
“Good!” Ella pretended to wipe her brow. “I’ve got enough gray hairs as it is!”
Aria managed a chuckle. Ella was using that gray-hair line on the kids long before Aria was ever getting tormented by A. But this time, she was pretty sure she could hold up her side of the bargain. From now on, there would be no drama. No trouble. No lies.
And maybe, now that A was out of her hands, Ella would get her wish.
11
ONE MAN’S TRASH . . .
On Wednesday afternoon, Spencer and Chase stood on the lawn of Mr. Pennythistle’s model home. It had carefully trimmed hedges and a weed-free front walk. Daffodils exploded out of ceramic pots by the door. Birds chirped from the branches of the big oak on the front lawn. The only eyesore was the yellow police tape across the front door.
Spencer walked up to it and moved it aside. Then she looked at Chase. “Are you sure you want to help? It’s a huge mess in there.”
“Of course,” Chase insisted, walking up to the house and gingerly stepping over the police tape. “That’s why I’m here, Spencer.” Chase had called her this morning, asking what she’d been up to, and the whole story of her arrest had spilled out of Spencer before she could stop herself. He had insisted on driving out to Rosewood to comfort her, which Spencer had to admit felt . . . well, comforting.
Spencer reached for the keys Mr. Pennythistle had left for her earlier that day, but as she was about to push them into the lock, the door swung open. She froze, listening for whoever might be inside. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the tough-looking security guy behind the wheel of the SUV. He was staring straight ahead, impassive behind his dark sunglasses.
“Hello?” Spencer called into the house, her heart pounding.
“Hello?” a voice called back.
There were footsteps, and Officer Gates stepped into the living room, navigating around the four couch cushions that lay on the floor and the tipped-over furniture. He blinked at Spencer. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to clean up,” Spencer answered. “What are you doing here?”
“Dusting for prints.” Gates held up his palms; he was wearing plastic gloves. “The forensic team just left. I’m heading out, too.”
Spencer’s heart lifted. Fuji was taking her seriously. Gates was searching for Ali.
“Did you find anything?” she asked eagerly.
Gates ran his hand over his bristly red hair. “A few prints here and there, but nothing conclusive.” His cell phone bleated out a calypso ringtone, and he held up a finger to Spencer. “Hello?” he said into the speaker. After a moment, he added, “I’m on my way.”
He turned back to Spencer. “Family emergency, sorry. I bagged a couple of things as evidence, but I’m not sure it’s going to give us much.” He cast an uncertain look at Chase. “Anyway, we’re done here. You can start cleaning up the place.” He nodded at Spencer and strode out of the house.
Spencer shut the door behind him, leaned against the wall, and heaved a huge sigh. “Well, that’s disappointing.” She looked around the room. Though she’d come and gone from this place several times while the girls were investigating Ali, it looked so different now. Desk drawers hung open, and there were crayon slashes all over the walls. There was a big crack in the glass on the grandfather clock. A ceiling light had been pulled out of the plaster, the wires dangling. “How is it that there’s no trace of Ali anywhere?”
Chase poked his head into the kitchen, which had broken glass on the floors and trash strewn everywhere. It smelled like rotten milk. “Ali’s wickedly smart. I’m sure she thought everything through before trashing this place.” He cleared his throat. “That cop was looking at me as though he thought I did it.”
“No, he just didn’t want to say anything about Ali,” Spencer assured him, picking up a flattened Coke can and dropping it into the trash. “They don’t want us to tell anyone else.” She paused, peering at him. “Are you okay with knowing? It could be dangerous.”
Chase shrugged. “It’s not like you told me anything I didn’t already know. I’ll be fine.”
Spencer turned back toward the door to get the cleaning supplies from the car. “I guess we should get this over with, huh?
”
“Wait a sec,” Chase called from the kitchen. “C’mere.”
He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, gesturing at the ceramic tile floor. Nestled between broken pieces of plates and glass was something shiny.
Spencer knelt to pick it up and frowned, holding it up to the light. It was a silver keychain, minus the key. An Acura emblem was etched into the metal. “I can’t believe Gates missed this,” she murmured. “Do you think it’s Ali’s?”
“Maybe,” Chase said. “Or maybe it’s her helper’s.”
Spencer pulled out her phone. Her finger hesitated on Fuji’s number, but she dialed Hanna instead.
“Do we know anyone who drives an Acura?” she asked when Hanna answered.
Hanna didn’t miss a beat. “Scott Chin. Mason Byers. My mom’s divorce lawyer. One of my neighbors. That lady who—”
“Whoa,” Spencer interrupted. “I didn’t realize you knew every Acura driver in Rosewood.”
“They’re nice cars,” Hanna answered matter-of-factly. “Why do you want to know?”
Spencer explained what she’d just found. “Could her helper be one of those people? Scott Chin doesn’t make sense as Ali’s secret boyfriend—he’s gay. I’m not sure Mason does, either—he moved here in sixth grade, remember? And he and Ali never seemed to get along.”
“Spence, weren’t we just at the police station turning over the case to a team of professionals? Hand the keychain over to Fuji and forget about it.”
Spencer knew Hanna was right, but it was more difficult to relinquish control than she realized. At school, when they had to do group projects, Spencer always insisted on doing most of the work. The others will just screw it up, she always thought. They won’t do it as well as I can.
Still, she dutifully stuffed the keychain into her bag, making a mental note to call Fuji when she and Chase were finished cleaning. Hanna was right. She didn’t have to worry about this anymore. It was off her plate—and that was a good thing.
She canvassed the rest of the model home, sifting among the stuffing fluff and shredded newspaper and yards of toilet paper wound around the chandelier, but found no other clues.
There was a knock at the door, and Spencer froze again. “Yoo-hoo?” Spencer’s mother’s voice called into the living room. “Spencer? Are you there?”
Frowning, Spencer padded toward the front door. Her mother, Mr. Pennythistle, and Amelia stood in the foyer, all dressed in jeans and T-shirts. They were all holding brooms, mops, and the cleaning supplies from Spencer’s backseat.
“What’s going on?” Spencer asked. Had they come over to urge her to clean faster?
Mrs. Hastings tied her short blond hair back with a stretchy headband. “We’re going to help you clean, honey.”
“R-really?” Spencer stammered.
Mrs. Hastings ran her finger along the crayon marks on the walls. Some of it came off on her skin. “It’s not fair for you to have to do it yourself. I’m not saying it was right that you took Nicholas’s keys without his permission, but it was unfair of us to assume that you were the one who did this to the place.”
Mr. Pennythistle clapped her on the shoulder. “You were home the night this place was trashed—I checked the security video in the house. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
Maybe Spencer should have been more bothered that he didn’t take her at her word, but it felt like too much emotional effort. She kind of liked the stern way he was looking at Amelia right now, too. “I’m sorry for telling on you,” Amelia muttered, after he nudged her.
“And the police explained that your drug arrest was a mistake,” Mrs. Hastings added as she scrubbed the wall with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. “Thank God.”
“Oh,” Spencer said. “Well, good.”
“Anyway, let’s get to work!” Mrs. Hastings handed Amelia a broom. Then she stopped and noticed Chase in the kitchen. “Oh. Hello.”
“This is my friend Chase,” Spencer said. “Another Chase,” she added, realizing that her mom was introduced to Curtis as Chase when he’d picked her up for the prom. “He’s helping me clean.”
“How nice!” Mrs. Hastings trilled, shooting him a kind smile. “Well. Any friend of Spencer’s is a friend of ours.”
Spencer almost snickered. Someone certainly felt guilty for assuming false blame. Spencer was just happy that her mom was here, helping, and that she didn’t hate her.
Mr. Pennythistle plugged in the vacuum and turned it on. Amelia begrudgingly picked up the couch cushions and crammed the salvageable stuffing back inside. Spencer shot Chase a secret smile as she began to sweep up the broken glass with the broom. She was glad he was here, too. All of a sudden, everything felt—well, not perfect, but better than it had in a long time.
Just the way she liked it.
12
DADDY’S LITTLE HANNA
Hanna was heading back from Wawa, where she’d gotten a loaded-with-sugar, totally-adding-inches-to-her-thighs, irresistibly delicious cappuccino. Between sips, she glanced in her rearview mirror at the black Suburban behind her. She waved to Bo, the driver, and he waved back. Though Bo had a broken nose, ripped muscles, and flame tattoos peeking over his collar, earlier, when Hanna had sauntered over to the car to ask if he wanted anything to drink, he’d been listening to Selena Gomez. He also had a picture of his little girl, Gracie, hanging from his rearview mirror.
Her phone beeped. At a stoplight, she pulled it out. GOOGLE ALERT FOR TABITHA CLARK, read the screen. Her heart jumped.
But it was only an article about how the authorities were trying to get video footage from other hotels near The Cliffs—apparently, some of the hotels were having trouble locating footage from that long ago.
Her phone rang. MIKE, said the caller ID. She pressed the button on the steering wheel to activate Bluetooth. “Is your dude on your tail?” he asked without saying hello.
“Yep,” Hanna answered in a chipper voice.
“Mine, too!” Mike sang. “It totally rocks. Do you think he’s carrying a flamethrower?”
Hanna snorted. “This isn’t a superhero movie.”
Mike made a disappointed sound, which Hanna found totally adorable. She was thrilled that Fuji had put security on him, too. With Noel almost dying and Iris going missing, Mike would have probably been next on Ali’s list.
“So I drove by the burn clinic, and it was swarming with cops,” Mike said. “That means they’re probably looking for Ali clues, don’t you think?”
“Probably,” Hanna said. The cops would surely find traces of Ali in no time. There was lots of DNA evidence—hairs, skin follicles, drawn blood—from her time as Kyla. “Are there tons of news vans?”
“Yeah, but I heard a report. The cops gave a statement that Kyla’s killer was an escaped mental patient. They aren’t breathing a word about Ali.”
“That’s good,” Hanna said, relieved.
Then Mike cleared his throat awkwardly. The phone line crackled. “So . . . are you feeling okay?”
Hanna giggled. “You mean, like, am I sore?” She and Mike had been able to steal some time last night together when her mom wasn’t home. They hadn’t left Hanna’s bed for two hours.
“No . . .” Mike cleared his throat. “I was worried after your text.”
“What text?” Hanna hadn’t texted all day.
“Uh, the one that said you were having a really bad morning and you wanted to kill yourself?”
“What?” Hanna hit the brakes hard, and the Prius made a squealing sound. Her bodyguard almost rammed her bumper. “You got a note that said that from my phone?”
“Uh, yeah. At about eight forty-five.”
Hanna’s mind spun. She was in English then. Not thinking about killing herself.
She pulled over and yanked up the clutch. The Suburban pulled over, too. “Mike, I didn’t write that. Someone must have gotten hold of my phone and sent you a text just to mess with us.”
Static crackled on the other end. “The thing is, Hanna, it’s
not the first time I’ve heard about you guys wanting to kill yourselves. The rumors are everywhere. And you do have a lot going on. You’d tell me if something was bothering you that much, right?”
Hanna rested her forehead against the steering wheel. The interior of the car suddenly smelled overwhelmingly like coffee. “I’m not even dignifying that with a response. You need to forward that note to Agent Fuji.”
She gave him Fuji’s information, then hung up. As she pulled back into traffic, her head was pounding like it had the time she and Mona Vanderwaal, her old-best-friend-turned-lunatic, had drank too much Patrón Silver. Why would A send Mike a fake suicide note?
But when she pulled into the driveway of her father’s new house, her worries took a sharp turn. Something had occurred to her last night, after everything at the police station went down. Ali and Helper A weren’t going to sit idly by once they found out the girls had involved the cops. Even if all their charges had been dropped, police could do nothing to prevent the A-team from spilling their secrets to the public. And if A released Hanna’s car-crash photos, her dad’s future would be over.
Hanna had to do damage control, and fast. She parked under the weeping willow and stared at her dad’s new house, mustering up the courage.
Legs shaking, she pushed through the door into the house. She glanced at herself in the big mirror in the powder room just off the pantry. Her auburn hair was bouncy and full, her eyes were bright, and her makeup was perfect. At least she looked fabulous.
Her dad and Isabel, his new wife, were in the kitchen. Isabel, whose skin had paled considerably in the past few months—she used to fake-tan nonstop, but Hanna suspected campaign advisers had told her she looked too orange on camera—was loading dishes into the dishwasher. Mr. Marin was at the island, flipping through pictures. He looked up at her and smiled broadly. “Hanna!” he cried, as if he hadn’t seen her in months. “How are you?”