by Sara Shepard
“I’m fine.” Kelsey shot Emily a tight smile and tucked her hands in her lap. “Just a little overwhelmed, I guess.”
Emily touched Kelsey’s shoulder. “I’m not judging you, you know. We’ve all made mistakes. I’m really flattered you told me about juvie. It must have been really rough.”
“It was.”
Kelsey’s quavering voice made Emily’s heart break. She felt terrible that Kelsey had been sent to juvie for something she wasn’t entirely guilty of. How could Spencer have done such a thing? And it appeared that Kelsey had no idea, either. Should Emily tell her?
Kelsey leaned into Emily. “Going to juvie was horrible, but probably not as awful as losing a best friend. And you were stalked, too, right? By her twin?” Her eyes widened.
The sound of bowling balls striking pins thundered behind them, and a group of bowlers burst into applause. “I can hardly think about it,” Emily whispered. “Especially because . . .” Now it was her turn to trail off. She’d been about to say, Especially because I think the Real Ali is still alive.
Suddenly, a scrawny older woman in a baggy wife-beater and child-sized acid-washed jeans clonked by in rented bowling shoes. “Oh my God,” Kelsey blurted. “Velma!”
Emily craned her neck to look, then burst out laughing. “You know her, too?” Velma was an institution at this place—Emily had noticed her ever since she started coming here as a second grader with her Brownie troop. She always bowled by herself, got some insane score, and then sat at the bar and smoked a zillion cigarettes. Everyone was afraid to talk to her. Now, when Velma passed a greasy-haired guy with a huge beer gut, he actually cowered.
“Of course I know her,” Kelsey said. “She’s always here.” Then she touched Emily’s arm. “I have a challenge for you, bad girl. Steal one of her Marlboros.” She pointed to a pack of Marlboro Lights in Velma’s back pocket.
Emily thought about it for a moment, then slid off the bar stool. “That’s easy.”
Velma had paused at the end of the bar to study a scorecard. Emily crept up behind her, giggling with every few steps. When she was almost behind Velma, the cigarettes within reach, the old woman turned around and peered at Emily with lined, rheumy-blue eyes. “May I help you, darlin’?”
Emily’s mouth dropped open. She’d never actually heard Velma speak before, and was surprised by her clear, songbirdlike voice and oozing-with-sweetness southern accent. It was so disarming that she took a few big steps backward, waving her arms in front of her body and blurting, “Never mind. Sorry to bother you.”
When she returned to her seat, Kelsey was doubled over. “You totally choked!”
“I know,” Emily said between gulps of laughter. “I didn’t expect her to be nice!”
“Sometimes people aren’t what they seem.” Kelsey swallowed a chuckle. “Like you. You look all sweet and sporty, but deep down you’re a wild child.” And then, before Emily knew what was happening, she leaned forward and gave Emily a little peck on the cheek. “And I love it,” she whispered in Emily’s ear.
“Thanks,” Emily said back. Kelsey was definitely right about that—people weren’t what they seemed. Kelsey wasn’t a crazy, duplicitous stalker, as Spencer had implied. She was just a normal girl, much like Emily was.
She was also the coolest friend Emily had made in a long time. A girl Emily didn’t have any intention of dropping anytime soon.
Chapter 16
ARIA’S FAVORITE BOOK EVER
On Monday morning, Aria sat at a long study table in the Rosewood Library. The room was full of kids browsing for books, working at the computer stations in the corner, and secretly playing games on their phones. After making sure no one was looking, Aria pulled out the thick manuscript Ezra had given her and opened to the last page she’d read. Instantly, a blush rose to her cheeks. Ezra’s novel was utterly romantic, exceptionally vivid, and all about her.
Ezra had given her a different name—Anita—and they lived in a different town—somewhere in northern California—but the girl in the book had long, blue-black hair, a willowy ballerina frame, and startling blue eyes, which was exactly what Aria saw when she looked in a mirror. The novel had started out with an account of Anita and Jack, Ezra’s alias, meeting in Snookers, a college bar. On page two was a conversation about how shitty American beer was. On page four was their shared nostalgia about Iceland. On page seven, they snuck off to the bathroom and kissed. In reading, Aria got to see the situation from Ezra’s perspective. He wrote that Anita was “fresh” and “nubile” and “the stuff of dreams.” Her hair was “like spun silk,” and her lips “tasted like petals.” Not that Aria thought petals really had a taste, but it was still awesome.
The similarities didn’t stop there. When Jack and Anita discovered they were teacher and student, they got all weird and embarrassed about it, just like they had in real life. Only, in Ezra’s novel, they figured out a way to make it work. They met in secret after school at Jack’s apartment. They snuck off to the city to attend art openings. They confessed their love to one another by night and acted completely professional by day. There were some strange missteps, like how Anita was way clingier than Aria had ever been in real life, and how Jack could be droning and pedantic at times, subjecting Anita to diatribes about philosophy and literature. But those things were easy to adjust in the next draft.
As Aria read, all worries that Ezra had forgotten about her in the year he’d been away flew out the window. Writing this novel had surely taken many long, arduous, thoughtful months—Aria must have been on his mind all the time.
“Hey, can I talk to you?”
Aria looked up and saw Hanna pulling back a chair beside her. She covered the manuscript with her hand. “Sure. What’s up?”
Hanna bit her glossy bottom lip. “Do you really think”—she glanced around nervously—“you know who is Kelsey?”
Aria twisted her mouth, her heart jumping. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Hanna looked worried, maybe for good reason. Aria had been surprised when she heard that Hanna had helped get Spencer out of jail. She remembered Spencer’s frantic phone call, saying she’d gotten caught with drugs. She’d felt terrible for hanging up on Spencer, but she would have felt wrong helping her, too. And anyway, she had still been smarting from the last time she’d seen Spencer, at one of Noel’s parties a few weeks before.
Spencer had come to the party with Kelsey, and it was obvious the two of them were on something. Halfway through the bash, at about the time the boys were starting to play beer pong, Aria had pulled Spencer around the side of the Kahns’ house, where it was quieter. “I realize we all need to blow off some steam sometimes,” she whispered, “but drugs, Spence? Really?”
Spencer rolled her eyes. “You and Hanna are worse than parents. It’s safe—I swear. And actually, Aria, if you ever break up with Noel, you should go for my dealer—he’s hot and totally your type.”
“Is this because of your friend?” Aria spotted Kelsey across the Kahns’ expansive lawn. She was sitting in James Freed’s lap, and her blouse had fallen off her shoulder, revealing the lacy cup of her bra. “Did she get you into this?”
“Why do you care?” Spencer’s features were cold and closed.
Aria stared at her. Because we’re friends? Because we share all kinds of awful secrets together? Because you saw me push Alison DiLaurentis to her death, and I trust you with not telling anyone, ever? “I don’t want to see you get hurt,” Aria said aloud. “We could find you a rehab program. I’d sit with you while you detox—whatever it takes. You don’t need drugs, Spence. You’re awesome without them.”
“You are so one to talk.” Spencer gave Aria a half-playful, half-rough shove. “Like you didn’t do crazy drugs when you were in Iceland? You definitely acted like you were stoned when you came back. And you had to have been stoned to go after that English teacher. I mean, he’s hot, Aria, but seriously? A teacher?”
Aria’s mouth fell open. “I’m trying to help you,” she sai
d stiffly.
Spencer crossed her arms over her chest. “You know, you act like you’re all open-minded and cool, but deep down, you’re afraid of everything.” Then she wheeled around and marched across the lawn to Kelsey. Kelsey unwound herself from James, and she and Spencer glanced at Aria and started whispering.
Several Typical Rosewood Girls carrying dog-eared copies of Teen Vogue brushed past, yanking Aria back to the present. Hanna fiddled with a snap on her bag. “I got another note,” she admitted, her eyes darting around the room. “Whoever A is—Kelsey or someone else—A is watching our every move.”
And then, abruptly, Hanna slung her purse over her shoulder, slid from the chair, and disappeared through the library turnstiles. Aria watched the double doors slam shut, feeling a sudden chill. Maybe A was Kelsey—she certainly seemed like a girl heading off the rails. But how did Kelsey know so much about them? Could she know about Jamaica—and that Aria was a cold-blooded killer?
There was a faint cough behind her, and Aria had the distinct feeling someone was staring. When she whipped around, she nearly collided with Klaudia. “Jesus!”
“Shhhh!” Mrs. Norton, the librarian, called from her post at the front of the room, giving Aria a sharp look.
Aria blinked at Klaudia, whose Rosewood Day blazer looked at least two sizes too small and was pulled taut across her perky boobs. Klaudia stared back at Aria, then down at the contents on the desk. A curious eyebrow rose. Aria looked down and saw that the title page of Ezra’s manuscript was clearly visible. So was the dedication page: To Aria, for making this all possible. Yours, Ezra. She quickly covered the pages with her yak-fur bag. “What do you want?” she asked Klaudia.
“We need to talk about the art history project,” Klaudia whispered.
“Let’s meet at Wordsmith’s on Wednesday at six,” Aria answered, just wanting Klaudia to go away. “We’ll talk about it then.”
“Fine,” Klaudia said at normal volume, then turned and flounced to the back corner, where Naomi, Riley, and Kate were waiting. As soon as Klaudia reached them, the four girls started to quietly giggle. Naomi pulled out her phone and showed the girls something on the screen. They all glanced at Aria and snickered once more.
Aria gathered up Ezra’s manuscript and stuffed it back into her bag, feeling like she was on display. When her own phone rang, three loud chimes piercing the sacred library silence, Mrs. Norton’s head looked like it was going to pop off her neck. “Miss Montgomery, turn that phone off now!”
“Sorry,” Aria murmured, fumbling for her phone, which had fallen to the bottom of her bag. When she saw the screen, her heart froze in her chest. ONE NEW TEXT FROM ANONYMOUS. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the button to open the text.
What novel would Ezra have written if he knew the truth about what you did? —A
Aria let her phone fall back into her bag and gazed around the room. Kirsten Cullen glanced at her from the computer card catalogue. Naomi, Riley, Klaudia, and Kate were still giggling in the corner. Someone slipped into the stacks before Aria could see who it was.
Hanna was right. Whoever A was, he or she was watching them closely, tracking their every move.
Chapter 17
KISSING IN THE CHURCHYARD
That night, Hanna tramped down a steep slope toward the darkened windows of the old Huntley Rectory, an imposing stone building on twelve acres in southern Rosewood. The church had once been a mansion that housed an older, wealthy railroad baron and his Olympic-team-in-training of male fencers. The railroad baron had gone crazy, murdered several of the fencers, and escaped to South America. His mansion had been converted into a monastery shortly thereafter, but people were always saying they heard swordfight sounds and ghostly, tormented wails from the tallest towers.
The heels of her booties sank into the muddy soil. A twig snapped against her face. A couple of fat raindrops splattered on her forehead, making her skin prickle, and Hanna kept thinking she saw two huge eyes watching her from the trees. What was she thinking, agreeing to meet Liam here? What was she thinking, agreeing to meet Liam at all?
She was such an idiot. How could she fall so madly and crazily for a guy she knew nothing about, just because he paid her a couple of compliments and was an amazing kisser? It was as bad as her crush on Patrick, and look where that had gotten her. When she’d left Rue Noir last night, she’d vowed to put all this behind her—there was no way she could fraternize with the son of her dad’s biggest enemy. And when she’d met her father at Starbucks this morning to discuss how well the flash mob had gone, he’d been scowling at something in the paper. Hanna peeked over his shoulder; it was an article about Tucker Wilkinson and how much money he gave to charities. “As if he actually cares about multiple sclerosis,” Mr. Marin said under his breath. “That whole family has poison for blood.”
“Not his kids,” Hanna squeaked before she could stop herself.
Her father gave her a sharp look. “Everyone in that family is the same.”
But between then and now, an achy longing had bloomed inside of her. She kept thinking of the way Liam looked at her, like there was no other girl in the universe. How he confessed that damaging secret about his dad, seeming so broken and sad. How he wanted to take her to Miami so he could have her all to himself. How the unbearable loneliness she’d felt since she broke up with Mike vanished when she was with him, and how she forgot all about A, Tabitha, and Kelsey when they were together. So when Liam texted her earlier this afternoon, asking if she’d meet him here—sufficiently secluded, she noted, so that no one would see them—Hanna couldn’t help but text him back that she would.
The old mansion-turned-church rose up before her, a huge structure of stonework, turrets, and antique stained glass. The saints etched into the windows seemed to glare at Hanna in judgment. Something scuttled around the corner, and Hanna froze.
“Psst.”
Hanna jumped and spun around. Liam stood in shadows under an old, blown-out lamppost. Hanna could make out the shy smile on his face. A huge part of her wanted to run to him, but instead she stood where she was, giving him an uncertain look.
“You came.” Liam sounded surprised.
“I’m not staying long,” Hanna answered quickly.
Liam’s feet made squishy noises in the mud as he walked closer. He took her hands, but she quickly pulled away. “This isn’t right,” she said.
“Then why does it feel right?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “My dad would kill me if he knew I was with you. Wouldn’t your dad kill you, too? This isn’t some kind of setup, is it?”
“Of course not.” Liam touched her chin. “My dad has no idea I’m here. Really, I should ask you if this is a setup. I told you a huge secret, before I knew who you were.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone about that,” Hanna muttered. “That’s your business, not mine. And my father doesn’t play dirty.” Like yours does, she almost added, but didn’t.
Liam looked relieved. “Thank you. And, Hanna, who cares about a political campaign?”
Hanna twisted her mouth. All of a sudden, she didn’t know how she felt about anything.
“I couldn’t go another day without seeing you.” Liam ran his fingers through her hair. “I’ve never felt such a strong connection with anyone else before. I don’t care whose daughter you are. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”
Hanna’s heart melted, and when Liam began to kiss her, she no longer felt the drizzle on her cheeks. Slowly, her body sank into him, and she breathed into his neck, his soft, shampoo-smelling hair.
“Let’s run away together,” Liam whispered in Hanna’s ear. “Not to Miami. Somewhere farther. Where have you always wanted to go?”
“Umm . . . Paris?” Hanna whispered.
“Paris is awesome.” Liam slipped his hands under Hanna’s shirt. She jumped a little at his cold palms on the small of her back. “I could rent us an apartment on the Left Bank. We wouldn’t have to deal with any of this ele
ction bullshit. We could disappear.”
“Let’s do it,” Hanna decided, swept up in the moment.
Liam drew away, reached into his jacket pocket, and took out his cell phone. He pressed a button and then held the phone to his ear. Hanna frowned. “Who are you calling?”
“My travel agent.” The cell phone’s screen glowed green. “I can get us on a flight tomorrow, I bet.”
Hanna giggled, flattered. “I wasn’t actually serious.”
Liam pressed END. “Well, you say the word, Hanna, and we’ll go.”
“I want to know absolutely everything about you first,” Hanna said. “Like . . . what are you majoring in?”
“English lit,” Liam answered.
“Really? Not political science?”
Liam scrunched up his face in disgust. “I have no interest in politics.”
“And how is it that you have a travel agent on call?”
“He’s an old family friend,” Liam said.
Hanna wondered if the Wilkinson family had lots of old family friends—probably on the political payroll. “So you’ve been to Paris before?”
“Once, with my parents and brothers, when I was nine. We did the tourist crap, but I just wanted to sit at a café and watch people.”
Hanna leaned against the damp stone wall, not caring if it made wet prints on her butt. “I went to Spain once with my parents. All they did was fight, so I stuffed my face and felt miserable.” Liam chuckled, and Hanna lowered her head, mortified. Why had she blurted all that out? “I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” Liam stroked her arm. “My parents fought like crazy, too. But now they just . . . don’t speak.” He got a faraway look on his face, and Hanna knew he was thinking about the trouble his parents were in. She touched his arm gently, not sure how to comfort him.
Suddenly, the doors to the church banged open. Liam grabbed Hanna’s hand and pulled her into the shadows. A bunch of teenagers sauntered out, followed by a familiar ash-blond woman in a knockoff Burberry jacket, but Hanna couldn’t quite place her.
