by Sara Shepard
She leaned back on the cushions, and Wren wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. As she curled into his body, her eyes teared up again. She felt so safe with him.
It scared her that she might never feel this safe again.
22
A SOBER RETURN
On Friday evening, long after the sun had set, two police officers greeted Aria at customs at the Philadelphia airport. They offered a gruff thank-you to the air marshal who’d escorted her on the plane from Brussels to Philly—who had smelled sweaty, smacked his lips when he ate the meal they’d served on the plane, and even accompanied her to the aircraft’s tiny bathroom, waiting outside while she peed.
The cops took Aria by the arms and dragged her toward baggage claim. The handcuffs she had been wearing for ten hours had rubbed her wrists raw. Her head swam with fatigue, and she felt sticky, dirty, and sick. As she walked past the sparsely populated security lines, all the guards looked up and stared at her. As they passed a dead McDonald’s and a few gift shops, the workers gaped. They rode down an escalator in silence, listening to Frank Sinatra on the PA system. But suddenly, at baggage claim, tons of people swam into view. Flashbulbs popped. Everyone started to shout. “Miss Montgomery!” the reporters clamored, rushing for her.
Aria shaded her eyes, wishing she’d been better prepared. Of course reporters were going to be here. She was the biggest story on the eastern seaboard.
“Miss Montgomery!” more reporters roared. “Did you think you were going to get away with it?”
“Does this mean you’re guilty?” someone screamed.
The reporters were screaming at someone else, too—and that was when Aria caught sight of Noel coming down the escalator behind her. He’d been on the same plane as Aria, though in another section, with his own air marshal. For the first half of the trip, Aria had been angry with him, but soon enough that had given way to deep regret. How was Noel supposed to know someone was actually watching them? And why on earth had she spouted all that ridiculous stuff about Ali? He probably hated her now.
“Mr. Kahn, why did you follow your girlfriend to Europe when you knew it was a crime?” someone shouted.
“Are you two in cahoots?” another reporter asked him. “Did you help kill Alison?”
“Out of our way,” one of Aria’s agents grunted, pushing aside some of the reporters and photographers.
Aria’s gaze was still on Noel. He had his head down and his hoodie pulled tight. They were snapping his picture all the same. It would be everywhere. If only he’d never come to Europe. Aria had ruined his life.
“Aria!” cried a familiar voice.
Aria looked up. Her mother was elbowing through the crowd. Ella’s eyes were red, and her face was blotchy, and she was wearing a pair of army shorts and Mike’s Rosewood Day lacrosse sweatshirt—as if she’d had no time and these were the first things she’d found to throw on. Byron stood with her, too, looking stiff and embarrassed.
Ella grabbed Aria’s shoulders. “We were so worried,” she blurted, and then burst into tears.
“What were you thinking?” Byron called out behind her.
“Mrs. Montgomery, Mr. Montgomery.” Aria’s police escort held out his hand to keep them at arm’s length. “We told you we’d bring Miss Montgomery home, and we’d meet you there.” Aria had been granted permission to remain in her house this weekend, though under strict lockdown and constant supervision by her parents. It was a huge win, apparently orchestrated by Seth Rubens—normally, Aria would have been sent straight to prison after pulling such a stunt, but her family had paid bail. Aria asked if Noel had been given the same privilege, but the officers hadn’t given anything away.
Ella gave the officer a strange look. “I wasn’t just going to sit at home, waiting.” She walked alongside Aria and out the double doors to the sidewalk. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I’m sorry,” Aria said, feeling her eyes fill with tears.
“Sorry isn’t going to cut it,” Byron said sadly, shaking his head. “Sorry doesn’t matter to the judge.”
Aria ducked her head as the officers pushed her into a waiting car, tumbling onto the smelly, faux-leather backseat. An officer checked her cuffs. A second officer strapped her in, then swung into the front seat, which was visible through a set of heavy bars. The reporters rushed the car, still screaming questions and snapping pictures. Aria could only imagine what sort of caption would accompany her pasty, bloated, tear-stained face on tomorrow’s front page. She glanced out the window past the reporters, toward her grieving parents on the curb. There was a tug in her heart so painful she let out another sob. They looked destroyed.
She could just add them to the list of people whose lives she’d ruined.
“There’s milk in the fridge,” Ella said woodenly as Aria stumbled down to breakfast the next morning. Ella was sitting at the table in a dressing gown and a pair of embroidered silk slippers. Her gaze was on the New York Times Saturday crossword puzzle, though she hadn’t filled in any of the squares. Several cereal boxes were also on the table, along with a bowl of fruit, a carton of orange juice, and a coffee carafe. Mike sat there as well, tapping incessantly on his phone.
“Okay,” Aria mumbled, not sure if she should sit down with them or scuttle back up to her room with her breakfast. She wasn’t in the mood to eat. Half the night she’d heard her mother sobbing. Byron had stayed, too, and Aria had even heard him crying—and her dad hadn’t cried even when an Icelandic pony trampled him in Reykjavík and broke three of his toes.
She poured a very small bowl of Weetabix and sat at the island on the very edge of the stool. Her new ankle bracelet clanked against the metal leg, and Mike winced, as though she’d just scraped her nails down a chalkboard.
“Sorry,” Aria mumbled, hunching her shoulders. Needless to say, the cops had slapped the thing on her when they’d pulled into the Montgomerys’ driveway last night—and they took her passport, fake passport, driver’s license, Rosewood Day ID, cell phone, and anything else that could connect her to the outside world.
Ella scraped back her chair and looked at Mike. “So we have to pick up your tux in an hour, and then you’re due at Chanticleer at noon. Dad’s picking up Grandma at the airport, and I’m going to have to scramble around because Aunt Lucy is coming in from Chicago. So take the Subaru, okay?”
“Sure,” Mike answered.
Ella nodded, then touched her face. “And I need to figure out how I’m going to fix my puffy eyes before tonight.” She left the room quickly, her dressing gown trailing behind her.
Aria looked at her brother. “Your wedding’s today. I forgot.”
Mike sniffed. “Yeah, I guess you’ve been too wrapped up in yourself.”
Aria hung her head. “I’m sorry.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
The only sounds were Mike crunching his cereal and Aria’s small, pathetic sniffs. Finally, Mike sighed. “So are you going to come?”
Aria flinched. A long beat passed. “You don’t want me there,” Aria answered.
Mike shrugged. “Get over yourself. You’re still my sister. Hanna would probably like to see you, too.”
Aria swallowed hard. Hanna probably hated her for disappearing and leaving her the burden of dealing with the trial on her own. Besides, things felt too tarnished after Emily, too damaged. Could they really be friends again, after all they’d been through?
She took a tiny bite of cereal. “I don’t know.”
“Come on. There will be Hooters girls.”
Aria stared at him. “Hanna’s letting you have Hooters girls at her wedding?”
“It’s one of the reasons I’m marrying her.”
Aria wanted to laugh, but she still felt too numb. “I’ll think about it,” she said.
Mike rolled his eyes. “You should be thrilled I’m inviting you. I’m pretty pissed, you know.”
She peeked at him. “Because I got Noel in trouble?”
He stared at her crazily. “T
hat’s that dude’s own fault. No, I’m mad because, one, no one has really slept since you took off. Pretty uncool, Aria. And two, because you went to Amsterdam without me—again! How many times have I told you that the next time you go, you bring me with you?”
He slammed his coffee cup into the sink, let out a groan, and stomped up the stairs. Aria watched him go, swirling her spoon in her cereal bowl again and again. Huh.
Then, she looked down at herself. Of course she should go to her brother’s wedding—as long as she was with her parents, it was probably allowed. Suddenly, something struck her. Noel would probably be invited, too. Would the police let him attend? Maybe they’d get to talk. Maybe she could apologize. Beg for his forgiveness. Tell him that if she could serve his sentence for him, she would.
It was a tiny, shiny ray of hope. Aria might have to go off to prison for the rest of her life, but she would make things right with him before she did. Or else she would die trying.
23
I DO!
At T-minus thirty minutes until the big moment when Hanna walked down the aisle, Hanna, her mother, and Ramona stood in a dressing room at the Chanticleer mansion. Ramona held a tiny pair of nail scissors aloft. “Once you get this dress on, I don’t want you sitting down,” she instructed. “It’ll wrinkle, and that’s the biggest faux pas for any starlet on the red carpet—and any bride, for that matter. And since you’re going to be both, you’re just going to have to stand up for the rest of the day.”
“Got it,” Hanna answered obediently, pushing the Hollywood waves her stylist had created in her just-highlighted auburn hair over her shoulders. She looked at herself in the mirror and pursed her deep red lips and fluttered her eyelashes, which had just been fitted with extensions. She was probably the best-looking almost-criminal in the history of girls who were about to go to prison.
Not that she was dwelling much on that. Or the fact that closing statements had been made and that the jury was now at the Rosewood Holiday Inn, deliberating her fate. Her wedding was today, and she was going to enjoy it, damn it. Even though she’d had only a week to plan, absolutely everything had come together. The weather was perfect for an outdoor ceremony, and the lines of chairs on either side of the aisle were decorated in fresh white roses. The rabbi her mother had found was young and tall and almost cute—well, for a rabbi, anyway—and the girls Hooters had sent to cater the wings and other Hooters stuff weren’t the skankiest Hanna had ever seen. Us Weekly reps had already arrived to set up the red carpet in the grand hall. Hailey Blake had texted her several times asking if she could bring a few more famous actors and models as plus-ones. The cocktail-hour food looked delicious, and every waiter who would be passing out the canapés was more model-perfect than the last. The reception-room tables were exquisitely set with the most beautiful, silver-patterned china Hanna had ever seen. Ramona had booked the best fireworks company in Philadelphia to set off a serious display during the reception, and #HannaMarinWedding had been tweeted 981 times in the past three hours. Hanna was pumped and ready.
Ms. Marin, who looked stunning in an off-white Chanel shift, began to take Hanna’s dress out of the plastic. Slowly and carefully, she slid it over Hanna’s head and started to spread out the folds and fluff the train. “Hanna,” she breathed. “It’s even more beautiful than I remembered.”
Tingles traveled up Hanna’s spine as she beheld her reflection in the mirror. The dress made her skin look rosy and her waist minuscule. The jeweled beading on the bodice sparkled in the light.
“It’s fine,” Ramona barked—which, Hanna realized, was as close to a compliment as she would get. Then she hurried out of the room, murmuring something about checking in on the flowers.
Hanna turned to her mother, who was dabbing her eyes in the back of the room. “So,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Are you ready to walk me down the aisle?”
Ms. Marin nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. Maybe to keep from crying.
Hanna felt her eyes well up, too. “Thanks for being so cool through all this,” she said. “I know it’s sort of . . . unprecedented. And that I’m young. And that—”
“It’s fine,” Ms. Marin interrupted, rushing toward her and touching her bare shoulders. “It makes you happy. That’s all I want to see. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to see.” She held Hanna’s arms and looked her up and down. “Remember when we used to play wedding when you were little? I’d let you wear my slips?”
Hanna’s lips parted. She’d forgotten that she and her mom had done that together—so many of her memories involved her dad and his special attention. But all of a sudden, she remembered her mom helping her pull the lacy slip over her head and putting ringlets in her hair. It made her feel sad that the memory had gone unacknowledged for so long. Or that Hanna had written off her mom for so long—maybe she shouldn’t have.
Then a knock came at the door, and Hanna’s head whipped up. Ms. Marin frowned. “Who could that be?”
“Maybe Ramona again?” Hanna murmured, leaping up to answer it. Hanna’s vision adjusted as a tall figure walked into the small space. It was her dad.
“Oh,” Ms. Marin said tightly.
Mr. Marin was dressed in a conservative black suit and a red tie. When he saw her, his face crumpled and his eyes went soft. “Oh, Hanna,” he gushed. “My baby. You look beautiful.”
Hanna turned away from him, instantly annoyed. “What part of don’t come did you not understand?” she spat.
Mr. Marin crossed his arms over his chest. “Hanna. I know I’ve disappointed you in too many ways. And I know I’ve put myself first way too many times. I haven’t been a father to you, and I’ll never make that up to you, and you have a right to hate me forever. But please let me be here. Please let me see you get married. I want to walk you down the aisle.”
“Uh, that job’s already taken,” Ms. Marin piped up. She placed a hand on Hanna’s arm. “Do you want him to leave, honey?”
Hanna gritted her teeth. Her dad had done this so many times. And so many times she’d forgiven him, only to be jilted again. But this time, she didn’t feel the same pull to please him. All at once, she realized: Their relationship had changed. Her dad would never have the same place in Hanna’s life as he had before. He’d lost that privilege for good.
At the same time, just seeing him standing there, that hangdog expression on his face, his hands pushed pathetically into his suit pants pockets, she felt something approaching pity. Maybe she should just give him this. Be the bigger person.
She let out a breath. “You can stay,” she decided. “But Mom’s right—she’s walking me down the aisle. And that’s final.”
“Okay, okay. But thank you for letting me stay.” Mr. Marin lurched forward to hug Hanna, and she obliged him, though she held him at arm’s length so as not to wrinkle her dress. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her mom rolling her eyes.
Then Ramona popped her head in again. “They’re ready for you, Hanna.”
Hanna felt a spike of nerves. She turned back to the mirror and smoothed down her hair, her heart suddenly going wild. She was doing this. Really marrying Mike. A huge smile stretched across her face. It was going to rock.
Her father had the good sense to slip out of the dressing room and into the crowd of guests. Hanna held tightly to her mom’s hand as Ramona led her there, her head spinning. All sorts of scenarios suddenly plagued her. What if she tripped on the grass? What if Mike wasn’t under the chuppah? Were they expected to say anything in Hebrew? Of all the Jewish weddings she’d attended, she couldn’t remember for the life of her.
“Hanna? Oh my God!”
At first, Hanna thought that the two girls at the end of the hallway were a mirage. Spencer, dressed in a goddess-style beige dress, rushed forward, arms outstretched. Aria followed behind her looking gorgeous in a long emerald-green sheath. “Wow,” Spencer gushed shyly. It looked like she wanted to touch Hanna but wasn’t sure that was acceptable.
Hanna stared at her. �
�You came,” she finally mustered.
Spencer squeezed her tight. “Of course I did, Hanna. I wouldn’t miss this.”
“I’m so sorry,” Hanna blurted.
“No, I’m sorry,” Spencer said.
“And this is the only reason I’m glad the Feds caught me,” Aria added, worming her way into the circle.
Hanna turned to her. Aria looked tired, but otherwise fine. “Are you okay?” she asked.
Aria shrugged. “You know. Not perfect, but whatever.”
“Did Noel really go with you?” Hanna asked. “How did that happen? And how did they catch you?”
Aria put a finger to her lips. “I’ll explain it all later. This is your time, Hanna.”
Then Spencer cleared her throat. “It’s been awful not talking to you, Han. I feel like such a jerk.”
“It’s okay,” Hanna said, realizing that she should have said this days ago. “I’ve been a jerk, too. It’s been so messed up, you know? The trial, Ali, Emily . . .”
Aria’s face became pinched. “I miss her so much.”
“I do, too,” Spencer blubbered, erupting into fresh sobs.
“I keep thinking about her,” Hanna exploded. “And Spence, it wasn’t your fault. Of course it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was!” Spencer pressed her hands over her eyes. “You were right, Han. I shouldn’t have suggested we stay in Cape May. It’s why I went into the water after her. I felt responsible.”
“None of us is responsible,” Aria urged. “We all loved her. We all wanted to protect her. And we thought we would keep her safe, all together in one hotel room. It just didn’t work out that way.”
Hanna pulled them in again. It felt so good to hug them. It was what they should have done at Emily’s funeral. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. They’d all loved Emily. They’d all wanted the best for her.
Suddenly, Ramona appeared on the scene and let out a screech. “What the hell, girls?” she bellowed, inspecting Hanna’s smeared makeup. She pressed the mouthpiece of her headset closer to her ear. “Is Janie still here? Get her over to the back vestibule so she can fix the bride.”