by Sara Shepard
“Hailey . . . ,” Hank warned.
Hailey raised her hand to cut him off. “Because I quit.”
Then she wheeled around, shoved Daniel out of the way, and stormed to her dressing room, slamming the door so hard some of the high overhead lights shook. In seconds, Hanna could hear her on the phone with someone—her agent, maybe. Hailey sounded furious.
Hanna dared to look around the set. Every single actor stood stock-still, awkward looks on their faces. The cameraman gripped the sides of the camera, his jaw slack. The hairstylist’s mouth was a perfect O. The production assistants nudged each other, and one of the guys in catering was already typing away on his phone.
It suddenly felt so hot inside the room. Hanna turned and fled for the side door, needing some air. She exited into the same alley that had spooked her the other day, though it was now bright, airy, and completely unthreatening. She peered down at the pavement. The BreAk a leg, Hanna message was gone.
“Ouch,” said a voice. Hanna turned around. Jared had stepped out onto the ramp next to her.
Hanna nodded, gesturing to the building. “Should I go to Hailey’s dressing room and see if she’s okay?”
Jared shook his head. “Let her cool down. Call her tomorrow.” He ran his hands over his thick hair. “It sucks, though. They’ll have to replace her on such short notice.”
Hanna rolled her jaw. She hadn’t thought about that. “Who do you think they’ll get?”
“I don’t know, but hopefully someone way better.”
Hanna’s thoughts began to churn. Maybe that was a good thing. Hanna’s character would be redeemed. No one would make fun of her once the film came out. And Hailey would find something else, wouldn’t she? She was a huge star. Her agent probably had something lined up already.
“Like Lucy Hale,” she suggested, suddenly excited. “Or maybe that cute girl on that Netflix series?”
“Actually, I think you should go for it.”
Hanna blinked hard. Jared was staring at her with a completely serious expression. “Excuse me?” she blurted.
Jared sidled closer. “I’m serious,” he murmured. “You’re good—really good. Hank can’t stop talking about you. And we both already know you make a better Hanna Marin than Hailey. . . .”
He smiled leadingly, one eyebrow raised. Hanna lowered her eyes, feeling guilty about what she’d said to Jared about Hailey’s performance—and about the kiss.
But it was true. Hanna thought about how Hank had done nothing but praise her after every scene. Sure, the Hanna role was more demanding and time-consuming than the Naomi part, but Hanna could handle it. Anyway, why hire another actress when the real Hanna was right here, ready and waiting?
Was Hanna ready and waiting? Could she ask for the role? She thought of something Hailey had said in New York: Never pass up an opportunity. You never know where it’s going to take you.
Jared shifted his weight. When Hanna looked up, he was studying her closely, a whisper of a smile on his face as if he knew what Hanna was thinking. “Talk to Hank,” he urged. “All he can say is no.” And then, patting her arm, he turned on his heel and went back to the soundstage.
22
A TOUR AND AN A
Thursday evening, Aria stood on the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum as the sun set. Though the museum was almost closed, visitors were still lingering, eating pretzels from the cart at the foot of the steps, racing up and down the stairs like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky, or listening to a saxophone player belt out a rendition of “Let It Be.”
Then a neon-green car with PHILADELPHIA QUICK CAB printed on the side pulled up to the curb, and Harrison, dressed in crisp jeans and a gingham button-down, climbed out. When he spied Aria, his whole face lit up. Aria waved happily.
“Hey!” he cried after bounding up the stairs to meet her. He leaned forward and gave Aria a hug. Aria sighed happily, inhaling the sandalwood smell of his coat.
“Ready for this?” Harrison asked when he pulled away.
Aria ducked her head, suddenly feeling shy. “A private tour in the museum? Of course I’m ready.”
“It’s the least I could do,” Harrison said earnestly.
Harrison had sent her a text this morning telling her how many comments the article had already received, though she’d been too afraid to look at them herself. He’d also added that he’d scored several new advertisers and had been asked to be an “expert” on an art-scene retrospective the New York Times was writing for its Sunday edition. At this rate, he’d said, he could actually start making money from the blog and quit his part-time bartending job.
As he reached for her hand, he looked intimately into her eyes, and Aria held his gaze. She wanted to go slowly with Harrison, but whenever he looked at her like that, it felt like there were horse hooves pounding in her chest. Which was a welcome feeling, especially after seeing Noel and Scarlett in Best Buy.
Not that she was really dwelling on that or anything.
They started up the stairs toward the museum. Everyone was streaming out instead of going in. “How’d you manage to score an after-hours tour, anyway?” Aria asked.
Harrison smiled. “The perks of being just the teensiest bit connected. A lot of art critics get to go after-hours to all the museums—that way they can really see the works without fighting the tourists. All it took was one phone call—and a mention of your name.”
Aria gasped. Her name had clout?
Harrison held the door open for her. “But actually, I was hoping you’d give me the tour. The Philly Art Museum, Aria Montgomery–style.”
Aria cocked her head. “I’d be honored, Mr. Überblogger.”
They walked into the lobby, which Aria knew like the back of her hand. It was strange to see the place so empty, no hustle and bustle of kids racing for the armor and weaponry rooms or the gift shop. An echo spiraled from high above, and then came a loud clank. Aria looked around nervously. She didn’t like the idea of being totally alone.
But then a guard appeared from around the corner. A girl stepped out of the coat-check room, shrugging into a jacket. Aria breathed out.
She and Harrison walked past a table of flyers about upcoming events and a large desk about membership opportunities. Then Aria felt the slightest pang. She and Noel had come to the museum a few months ago, and they’d stood right in front of the membership desk, arguing about what to see. Of course Noel wanted to visit the ancient hatchets and swords, but Aria had insisted on seeing a new exhibit of eighteenth-century children’s apparel first. In the end, she’d gotten her way.
She winced. Was she always that pushy? Was that why Noel didn’t want to see her anymore? Maybe he’d taken stock of all their differences and realized how little they really had in common. That had to be it, because last night, when she’d stalked Scarlett on Facebook—the girl had been asking for it by giving her last name—she’d discovered that she went to a preppy private school in Devon, was totally into horses, was the captain of her cheerleading team, and almost certainly had no idea what differentiated a Kandinsky from a Rothko. In other words, the complete opposite of Aria.
She caught herself. You don’t care. She was here with a boy, after all. She’d moved on just like Noel had.
A docent rushed up to them, a big smile on her face. “Mr. Miller! Ms. Montgomery! It’s lovely to see you. I’m Amy, and I’m so thrilled you made it.” She pinned little buttons that had pictures of the museum’s winged-horse logo on their shirts. “Do you want a guided tour?”
“No, we’ll be all right on our own,” Aria insisted.
Amy scuttled off, saying she’d check on them later.
“Come on,” Aria said to Harrison, skipping up the marble steps, suddenly filled with confidence. “Our tour starts now.”
She led him to her favorite part of the museum, the contemporary-art wing. The rooms were empty, and only one guard stood at the main entrance, tapping on his phone. At first, Aria and Harrison walked around the perimeters, silently s
tudying the art. Then Aria began to pick out her favorite pieces. She pointed at Three-Part Windows, by Robert Delaunay, a Cubist masterpiece of shapes signifying the Eiffel Tower views out a window. “I wish I could paint something like that,” she sighed. “It’s so evocative.”
Then she moved on to another Cubist work, Nude Descending a Staircase, by Marcel Duchamp, then pointed at some of the graphic compositions by Jean Hélion. “For whatever reason, I was always drawn to these,” she said.
“Mmm,” Harrison said, his chin in his hand.
Aria swallowed hard, suddenly unsure. All at once, she remembered how cool and opinionated and cultured Harrison was. Were her choices small-timey? Prosaic? “I mean, there are probably works in here that are better examples of the form, or the time period, or a particular movement,” she said quickly. “I’m no art-history major.”
Harrison looked at her. “Art is subjective. You know that. You like what you like.” He squeezed her hand. “You know, this is why you’re so unique. You’re so . . . humble. I’m around self-obsessed artists all day—it’s really refreshing. And you’re not like a high school kid, either. You’re so mature.”
Aria blushed. “Well, thanks, I guess.” She wasn’t used to receiving so many compliments.
Then she walked toward a room full of sculptures, her heels clacking loudly on the marble floor. “I used to come here when I was younger, like, in fourth and fifth grade, and sit here for hours,” she murmured. “And when I was older, my junior high class came as a group. I wanted to see all these paintings again—they felt like my friends. But my real friend, the girl I was with, wanted to go back to the steps and flirt with some boys from Penn. I was kind of bummed.”
A sour feeling filled her. She’d told that whole story without being totally cognizant that the friend had been Ali. Not crazy Ali, but Courtney had been crazy—and pushy—in her own way.
Harrison clucked his tongue. “I used to think the paintings were my friends, too. I never knew anyone else thought like that.”
Aria blinked hard. “We seem to have a lot of funny things in common.”
“A lot of cool things.” Harrison stepped toward her.
Aria’s heart pounded as he stared meaningfully at her. See, this was why she was attracted to him. Because they understood each other.
He moved closer and closer until their chests were almost touching. Aria held her breath, knowing what was coming next. When he leaned in to kiss her, she shut her eyes.
“Is this okay?” she heard him whisper softly, his sweet-smelling breath on her cheeks. She nodded and felt him kiss her. His lips were firm and tasted a little fruity. His jaw felt angular, and there was a smattering of stubble on his chin. It was a foreign feeling: Noel had always been clean-shaven. She explored his skin carefully, not sure if she liked it or not.
Then the guard in the corner coughed loudly. Aria giggled and pulled away, and Harrison’s eyes widened guiltily. But then he slipped his hand into hers. Aria squeezed back, a shaky feeling growing inside her. Maybe it was excitement. Maybe it was uncertainty. Was it weird that she’d thought about Noel during their kiss? Why couldn’t she just get over him?
She pulled back and regarded Harrison. “Will you go with me to a party in Rosewood tomorrow?” she blurted. “It’s called Rosewood Rallies, and it supports a good cause. I can’t promise it’ll be fun or even remotely cool, but you and I could make the best of it.”
She needed to ask, she realized. The more dates she went on with Harrison, the more she’d probably like him—and the less she’d think of Noel.
Harrison smiled. “Anything you’re at is more than remotely cool, Aria. Of course I’ll go.”
Aria was about to fling her arms around him, but then she heard footsteps. She turned just as a shadow disappeared out of view. She frowned and looked back at Harrison. “Did you hear that?”
He cocked his head. “Hear what?”
Aria walked toward the door. The guard from the doorway was missing; had it been him? The silence pounded in her ears, noisier than any sound. She listened closely for any other noises, and then heard something else. The faintest, lightest, laughter. Goose bumps rose on her arms.
No one was in the hall. Aria crossed into the next room, a long, narrow space filled with huge canvases. Then she heard footsteps again and gasped.
“That,” Aria instructed. “Those footsteps.”
This time they were coming from the main hallway. Aria turned and followed them, her heart beating fast.
“Aria?” Harrison called after her as she turned the corner into the main hall. It was empty. She looked around. As she wheeled to the left, she almost collided with someone bustling out of another wing. She jumped back and screamed. But it was only Amy, carrying a cardboard holder of coffee drinks.
“Sorry!” Amy cried, stepping back. “I was searching for you two. A girl still in the café wanted to treat you to this, Aria. She says she’s a friend and a big fan.”
She gestured to the coffees. Aria stared down at them. The lids were off, revealing frothy white foam. On the left one, a letter had been etched in the milk—a rapidly disappearing but very obvious A.
Her stomach dropped. Before she could quite think it through, Aria took off down the stairs and ran down the hall toward the café, stopping short in the doorway. Workers were clearing trays off of tables. Someone was changing the trash bag in the can by the door. The air still smelled like coffee, but there was no one sitting at any of the tables.
Then Aria saw a flash of blond disappear through one of the back doors. She darted over—only to find a blond cafeteria worker, soaking a large metal tray in a deep, stainless steel sink.
“What are you doing?” Harrison asked.
Harrison and Amy stood behind her. They both had strange looks on their faces, especially Harrison. The cups of coffee were gone.
Aria ran her hands down the length of her face. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I—I just wanted to find the guest who bought those for us. A-and thank her.”
It was a ridiculous excuse, and neither of them looked like they believed her. Harrison stepped forward, slinging his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here,” he said, steering her toward the main entrance. “A friend told me of a great Italian place a few blocks away.”
“Sounds perfect,” Aria said faintly, grateful that Harrison wasn’t making a big deal out of her weirdness. No more freak-outs for the night, she scolded herself. The A on top of that coffee might have just been an accident, a coincidence. Ali. Wasn’t. Here.
She would have believed it, too, if it hadn’t been for the faint hint of vanilla that suddenly assaulted her as they left the museum, a tiny ribbon of scent that followed Aria, hauntingly, all the way down the long stone steps into the busy city street.
23
SOMEBODY’S OUT THERE
Spencer pulled into the parking lot of the Turkey Hill. She tapped her toe to a Taylor Swift song playing on the stereo by the gas pumps. She started inside, recognizing one of the junior high–age boys hanging out on the curb near the ice machine from her first visit.
“Excuse me,” she said to them. All of them held skateboards, and one had a pack of cigarettes peeking out of his hoodie pocket. They looked at her lazily and mostly uninterested, though they all did a quick once-over, their gazes resting on her boobs. “Have you seen a blond girl about my age? Pretty, but she’s missing some teeth? Probably doesn’t say much?”
The boys shook their heads. One of them actually snickered. Okay, strike one. Spencer caught the arm of another customer who looked like a local heading inside and asked him the same thing, but he said he hadn’t seen Ali, either. Strike two.
Inside the mini-mart, she accosted a man by the stacks of soda—no, he said—and a woman pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Honey, I’m from out of town,” the woman told her in a husky voice. “Sorry.”
Spencer lowered her shoulders. Strike three? Finally, she marched to the counter. “I�
��m wondering if Marcie is here?” she asked the worker, who had a shaved head and a lazy eye.
He shook his head. “Marcie doesn’t work here anymore.”
She frowned. “Why?”
He looked uncomfortable. “She passed away, actually. Just the other day. It was rather unexpected.”
Spencer blinked hard. “Was she sick?”
He shrugged. “I heard it was a car accident.” Then he looked at Spencer expectantly. She grabbed a pack of gum and paid for it, knowing that she had to get away from the counter and stop asking questions. Her heart banged hard. Marcie had slipped about a blond girl buying water . . . and now she was dead? From a car accident? That didn’t seem like a coincidence.
She was starting the engine as the phone rang. ARIA, read the caller ID. “I feel like I’m losing my mind,” Aria whispered after Spencer said hello. “I was in the Philly Art Museum, and I swear Ali—or maybe one of her minions?—was following me. Tell me that’s not possible.”
Spencer glanced at her iPad on the passenger seat. The surveillance feed was up, but as usual, every single camera angle showed nothing. “It’s not impossible,” she said carefully.
Aria made a small, nervous squeak. “I don’t understand why Ali’s going out in public. I mean, what if someone other than us does recognize her and turn her in? She’s taking a lot of risks. And using her minions is crazy, too. How can she trust those people not to talk?”
“I know,” Spencer said. “Imagine if they did talk and they told the cops she was alive. Even though Nick took the blame for almost killing us, the police still have that letter we got from Ali saying she killed her sister. And Ian and Jenna. She’s still really guilty.” She shut her eyes, drinking in the possibility. It would be so awesome if that happened. Say Dominick or this Robin Cook person from prison really were Ali Cats, but they got tired of Ali’s game and talked. It was possible, right? They’d be such heroes.
Aria barked a laugh. “Maybe we should hope Ali makes more public appearances. She might mess up.” She sighed. “I have to go. My date’s probably wondering where I am.”
