She looked around the room for the fifty-millionth time. Jordan would know what a daunting task it was and try to make the surprise something Emily would gravitate toward anyway, right? Then again, everything in the room was interesting and worthy of another look. The bouquets of flowers on the tables. The animal ice sculptures. The teenager-height, papier-mâché stars. The henna tattoo artist in the corner, the fortune-teller by the stairs.
“It’s conga line time, everyone!” the DJ called out, breaking Emily from her thoughts. A large easel was wheeled to the front of his booth. “Where are our prom king and queen?”
“I is prom queen!” called Klaudia Huusko, the exchange student, her words slurred. She staggered toward the stage, the prom queen crown askew atop her golden locks. When she was almost at the DJ booth, she tripped over the hem of her dress and the crown went flying. Everyone giggled. Klaudia’s dress slipped down her body, showing off a push-up bra and—horrors—a girdle. Everyone guffawed.
Emily’s gaze returned to the fortune teller. Their second day at sea, Emily had used the ship’s slow Internet to log onto an astrology site to get her daily horoscope. When she told Jordan that she did it every day to see if things were going to be good or bad, Jordan had looked at her like she was crazy. “What if the horoscope tells you not to leave the house?”
“Then I don’t,” Emily joked. She gave Jordan a playful shove. “But they never say that. Even if you’re going to have a bad day, they say it’ll be challenging. Or a learning experience.”
“And you really buy all that stuff?” Jordan asked.
“I do,” Emily had said.
Jordan had touched the tip of her nose. “I love finding out things about you.”
Now, Emily checked the clock on her cell phone: 9:53. As most of the kids on the dance floor were forming a long conga line, she drifted toward the fortune-teller’s table. The woman had long, scraggly, gray-streaked brown hair, a mole on her nose, and oblong-shaped glasses with purple lenses. She eyed Emily calmly and steadily, like she was drinking Emily in slowly, all the way to the last sip.
Finally, she smiled, grabbed Emily’s hand, and kneaded her palm. “You have smooth fingers, which means you’re artistic,” she started out. “Your thumb is strong, which means you’re logical. And you’re in good shape and able to overcome obstacles, aren’t you?”
Duh, Emily thought. That was an understatement.
The woman went on to say that Emily would have a love affair but never marry and that she’d live a long, happy life. Emily kept waiting for some sort of reference to Jordan, but the woman didn’t mention her. After about five minutes of kneading, she patted Emily’s hand. “There you go. Go forth and be happy.”
Emily cocked her head. “So . . . you don’t have anything else to tell me?”
The woman frowned. “No, that’s all.” She pulled out a rubber stamp from under the table, pressed it on an ink pad, and stamped Emily’s hand. “It marks that you’ve been here already. I don’t do repeats.”
Emily stood, unable to hide the disappointment on her face. This challenge suddenly felt like the I Spy books she used to look at in the school library. She would drive herself crazy trying to find the hidden snowman or tiny lamb charm or pink apostrophe in the cluttered photos, feeling unobservant and unintelligent when she failed. Or maybe Jordan just didn’t know her that well. Maybe Emily didn’t know Jordan that well.
She trudged over to Iris, who was marching in the conga line. Iris let Emily cut in, then looked at her strangely. “What’s on your hand?”
Emily peered at the stamp the fortune-teller had given her. “No repeats,” she mumbled. But when the strobe light flashed on it, she noticed the stamp was a large black circle with the initials JR in the center. She stopped short. Could that stand for Jordan Richards?
She broke out of the conga line, held her hand directly under a recessed light by the buffet, and squinted hard. The mark looked like a stamp on an envelope. Around the initials was the word Bonaire. Could that be some kind of clue as to where Jordan was? Was Bonaire a post office? A town?
Emily darted out of the ballroom and into the hall, where the light was much brighter, and fished out her old cell phone. The clock at the top said ten PM exactly. Luckily, the WiFi signal in the hotel was strong, so when she typed BONAIRE into the browser, quite a few results immediately popped up. Bonaire was a little island in the Caribbean. Emily clicked on a Chamber of Commerce page. According to the site, Bonaire was a popular spot for snorkeling. The site showed a slideshow of images: tropical fish, people playing in a turquoise ocean. Then, a photo of an old-timey movie theater flashed on the screen. On the marquee, instead of the coming attractions, were the words I MISS YOU, EMILY.
Emily’s heart almost stopped. She stared, unblinking, at the website, worried she was seeing things. But then the image appeared on the slideshow again. I MISS YOU, EMILY. She gasped. “I miss you, too, Jordan,” she whispered.
She watched it scroll through six more times. Then, at 10:01, it disappeared. Emily felt dizzy. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her. If only she could book a flight to the Caribbean tonight and find Jordan. But she was sure Jordan was much too smart for that. Even if she had been in Bonaire, she was most likely long gone by now.
“There you are, Miss Fields!”
A cold, slender hand landed on her bare shoulder. Emily jumped and looked up. Agent Fuji’s smile was unfriendly. Her conservative gray suit looked out of place among all the tulle and silk. “Have you been avoiding me?”
Emily’s mouth immediately felt dry. “Um . . .”
“I wanted to give you a chance to explain something,” Fuji cut in. “Maybe we could talk right now.”
Emily’s mouth fell open. Explain . . . what?
Without waiting for Emily’s consent, Fuji guided Emily to the end of the hall, where it was quieter. “I received an anonymous tip that you are harboring priceless art in your house,” she said sternly. She leaned closer. “Do I need to get a search warrant, Miss Fields?”
Harboring priceless art? “There’s no art at my house!” Emily blurted out.
Fuji raised an eyebrow. “Is it in someone else’s house you know? I was told one of you girls had something we should know about. If it’s not you, who is it?”
The music pounded in Emily’s ears. She’d spoken before thinking. A had told . . . but A hadn’t told everything. It was a brilliant scheme: She was relying on Emily to spill the rest.
She looked at Fuji again. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh really?” Fuji placed her hands on her hips. “Are you sure about that?”
Emily shook her head faintly, trying her hardest to stand her ground. After a moment, Fuji pulled at the strap of her briefcase and spun on her heel. “You better not be lying,” she warned.
She strode away, her phone glued to her ear before she’d even left the building. Emily felt hot, then cold. What had she just done? Where was Fuji going? As soon as the cops found that painting, they were done.
She ran back into the ballroom and looked around for her friends, but she didn’t see any of them anywhere. Her burner phone was at the bottom of her clutch; she whipped it out and dialed Aria’s number. “Not it!” she screamed after the voicemail beep. She tried Spencer next, then Hanna. Nothing. “Not it, not it!” she yelled at both of them.
“Are you okay?”
Iris was behind her, breathless from the conga line. Emily dropped her phone back into her clutch, feeling scattered. “Um . . .”
“Did you get your surprise? You ran out of here so quickly, and . . .” Iris trailed off abruptly, her eyes widening at something across the room.
“What is it?” Emily followed her gaze. Was Fuji back? Was there a SWAT team here? The only people on the dance floor were kids in gowns and tuxes. The DJ was now heading the conga line, bopping his head back and forth.
Iris started to tremble. “I can’t believe it. That’s the guy
who visited Ali at The Preserve.”
Emily frowned at the DJ. He had a scruffy goatee, beady eyes, and a fireplug of a body. “Really?”
Iris nodded, her gaze fixed. “I would recognize his picture anywhere.”
Suddenly, Emily realized she was looking at a picture on the easel. ROSEWOOD DAY MAY DAY PROM KING AND QUEEN! read swirly lettering at the top. Beneath it was the picture of the king and queen in their crowns. This year’s king and queen. A king Emily knew very, very well. Her gaze fell to the gold watch on his wrist. It was the same gold watch she’d seen in that photo from Tripp’s house. The one that had been taken of Ali at The Preserve.
She stared at Iris, all feeling leaving her extremities. “Noel Kahn? Are you sure?”
Iris nodded gravely and with authority. “I’d bet my life on it.”
29
Before It’s Too Late
It took Spencer forty-five minutes, several hiding spots to avoid the dicey-looking locals, and a fifteen-block walk in the direction of the city before she found a cab that would take her to the Four Seasons. She’d brought some emergency cash and her credit card—A hadn’t found a way to shut that down. She’d tried to power on her phone again and again during the ride, but it was useless. A had jammed her in-box.
Something hit her, too: A knew of her in-box. Which meant A knew this phone number. Of course A did: A was Chase. He’d probably peeked at her phone when she was hanging out with him. She’d stepped right into his trap, and her friends were going to die because of it.
She glanced out the window as the Art Museum swept past. Couldn’t the driver get to the hotel any faster? She needed to find Aria, Hanna, and Emily before Chase found them first.
Finally, the Four Seasons appeared on the right. “This is fine!” Spencer shouted on the corner, shoving some money at the driver and launching out of the backseat. She ran haltingly down the block in her narrow-fitting maxi gown. Several cabs and limos were parked at the hotel entrance. A familiar black car screamed past Spencer, lifting the ends of her dress. Was that . . . Fuji?
Spencer peered into the tinted windows but couldn’t see the driver or any passengers. Were Hanna, Emily, and Aria already in there? Had Fuji already gotten them?
She barreled into the Four Seasons lobby and then into the ballroom. The first person she spied was Reeve Donahue, one of the girls on the decorations committee. “Have you seen Aria Montgomery?” she asked breathlessly.
Reeve looked Spencer up and down, curling her lip at Spencer’s torn hem and mussed hair. “That girl has been AWOL all night. She so didn’t deserve to be decor chairwoman.”
Spencer eked out a thank you, then did another round of the dance-floor perimeter. Naomi Zeigler was dancing with Henry Bennett. Sean Ackard and Kate Randall were whispering at a private table in the corner. Iris had her head on James Freed’s shoulder.
Spencer was about to run to Iris and ask her where Emily was when Emily herself appeared in front of her.
“Oh my God,” Emily said, grabbing Spencer’s forearms. “Where have you been? And what happened to you?”
“It’s a long story,” Spencer said. “But I have something to tell you.”
“Ali’s boyfriend was most definitely Noel,” Emily blurted out at the same time.
Spencer backed up and looked at her. “Wait, what? Are you sure?”
Emily nodded. “Iris made the connection that Noel visited Ali nonstop at The Preserve.”
The strobe light flickered across Spencer’s arms as she canvassed the ballroom. If Noel was Ali’s boyfriend . . . then Chase wasn’t. She’d been wrong. She squirmed uncomfortably, not sure if she should feel horribly embarrassed . . . or relieved . . . or still annoyed that Chase knew about Jamaica another way.
“Where is Noel now?” she asked absently. “And Aria? And Hanna?”
“I’m here,” Hanna said behind them, rushing into the room as breathlessly as Spencer had a moment before. Her face was drawn, and her hands were shaking. “We came back as fast as we could.”
“Back from where?” Emily asked.
“The Bill Beach.” Hanna’s voice swooped up and down. “Graham woke up.”
“And you took Mike?” Spencer was horrified. She peered around the room again. “Where is he now?”
“He’s . . . somewhere.” Hanna looked around, too, then shrugged. “I didn’t tell Mike what was going on. And he stayed in the car—he didn’t see anything. But guys, Graham saw A. That’s what he wanted to tell Aria.”
“Was it Noel?” Spencer demanded.
Hanna nodded. “Well, all he said was N . . . . I’m sure he meant Noel. But then I had to get the nurse, and when I came back, he was gone.”
Emily stepped back. “Gone, as in died?”
“Jesus,” Spencer whispered.
Emily looked at Spencer. “What did you have to tell me?”
Spencer’s stomach clenched, her mind on Chase again. “Uh, nothing.”
“Guys, we have to go to the cops with all of this,” Hanna said, peering around the room. “Noel might have a spy at the Bill Beach. He could know we’re on to him. We’ve got to go to the police now and tell them everything we know.”
“We need to go to the police for another reason,” Emily said. “Fuji knows that one of us has the painting . . . but she doesn’t know who. She thought I was hiding it—she asked if there was any reason they should search my house.”
Spencer slumped against the wall. “Which means she might want to search my house next. Or Hanna’s.”
“Or Aria’s,” Emily whispered.
“Where is Aria?” Spencer asked worriedly.
Everyone scanned the room. Then Hanna strode toward a girl near the buffet. She wore a black tiered flapper gown and a 1920s hat, and she was holding Hanna’s prom queen scepter in her hand. A pin that read ROSEWOOD DAY ALUM was on her breast. She smiled when Hanna approached.
“Hey there, queen!” she trilled, offering the scepter back to Hanna. “I love how you made everyone else queen for a dance!”
Hanna grabbed the scepter, then frowned. “I did?”
“So innovative—I love it!” Ryan held up her hand for Hanna to high-five. “It’s too bad the decor chairwoman didn’t get pictures, though.”
Spencer and Emily exchanged a look. Aria was the decor chairwoman. “Do you know where she is?” Spencer demanded.
Ryan cocked her head. “Actually, I thought she was with Hanna. Didn’t you see her in the graveyard for your picture? She and the king left for there about fifteen minutes ago.”
Hanna’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t at the graveyard.”
“Oh.” Ryan looked confused. “I saw you leave, so that’s what I assumed.”
Spencer stiffened. “So Aria is at a dark graveyard with Noel . . . alone?”
Hanna swallowed hard. “Oh, God.”
Ryan’s eyes searched them. “What?”
Spencer wheeled around and ran for the lobby. The others followed. All sorts of terrible things swirled in Spencer’s mind. Aria was with Ali’s coconspirator right now, the very person who’d helped burn and ruin and kill. Ian’s lifeless body swam into her mind. That horrific fire in the woods. That twisted laugh they kept hearing high above the trees.
They spilled into the front drive of the hotel and stared out at the busy city street. Spencer turned to Hanna. “Do you know where this cemetery is?”
Hanna nodded shakily. “I-I think so. It’s about a ten-minute walk.”
“Then let’s go,” Spencer said, heading for the sidewalk. “I just hope we aren’t too late.”
30
Digging His Own Grave
Even though the Rittenhouse cemetery was off a busy section of the Ben Franklin Parkway, there was something about the way the buildings hemmed it in that made it seem like Aria and Noel were in the middle of the countryside. Twisted vines surrounded the small space. Centuries-old gravestones jutted out of the ground like crooked teeth. Mist swirled around a large stone statue of an angel
. An old, rusted fence surrounded the whole place. A loud squeak sounded from the hinges when Noel and Aria opened and shut the wrought-iron gate.
Aria gazed at the names on the gravestones, then ran her fingers along a large stone cross. Her bracelet glittered in the dim light. She ran her fingers along the links again, and they tinkled together.
Noel came up behind her and snaked his arms through the crooks in her elbows, lacing them around her front. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Well . . .” Aria touched the top of an angel’s wing. A bit of her confidence had flagged since sitting at the bar. Was this place really private? It certainly wasn’t a panic room. What if A was listening?
But then she turned around and tried to focus. This would bring them together. And they could fight A as one. “You know I love you, right?” she began.
Noel’s eyes softened. “I hope you do. You’ve been acting so strangely.”
“Of course I do,” Aria breathed. “I’ve been acting strangely because I’ve been keeping things from you, though.” She spoke into her chest, too afraid to look Noel in the eye. “Big things. For your own good. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
Noel nudged Aria’s chin back up so she would look at him. “Haven’t we gone over this? You can tell me anything. No matter how bad it is. No matter if it puts me in danger.” Then he stepped away. “Are you in danger?”
“I . . .” At that very moment, her new cell phone beeped. Aria peeked into her clutch at the message that had popped up on the screen. Get away from Noel! Spencer wrote in all caps. He was Ali’s secret boyfriend! We have definite proof!
Another text popped up from Emily: Noel visited Ali in the hospital. Iris knows it for a fact.
And then from Hanna: Graham just told me that Noel was the one who was watching you on the boat!
Aria clapped her hand over her mouth. No. It couldn’t be. There had to be an explanation.
Pretty Little Liars #13: Crushed Page 21
