by Sara Shepard
It took Aria a few seconds to recall what he was talking about. It seemed like eons ago when she’d received the letter saying she was a finalist for an artist apprenticeship in Amsterdam. She’d written it off at the time, not wanting to be so far away from Noel.
“I don’t know,” Aria mumbled. “I probably wouldn’t get in, anyway. And traveling seems pretty daunting right now.”
Mike sniffed. “Says the girl who’s dying to get back to Europe. It sounds awesome, and you know it. And maybe I’m being a little selfish. There’s much less chance of Alison flying the whole way to Holland to get you. You’ll be safer there.”
Oh really? Aria thought. Ali had followed her to Iceland last summer, after all. But she considered it for a moment. It would be a great escape—not just from Ali and Helper A, but from the constant reminders of Noel and the relentless press. If Aria remembered correctly, the apprenticeship involved studying with a rotating group of up-and-coming artists. She’d help out in their studios and attend their shows, and there would be time to create her own art. She’d only been to Amsterdam once, for a few days, but she hadn’t forgotten the narrow streets, the relaxed attitude, the huge park on the edge of town. Actually, it sort of sounded like heaven.
She pulled Mike into a fierce hug. “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.”
Mike frowned, looking conflicted. “If you get in, bring me over, too. I bet Amsterdam pot is way better than Colorado’s.”
Aria ruffled his hair. Ever since Colorado legalized marijuana, Mike had been fascinated with the place. “I promise to at least bring you for a visit,” she teased. Then she swept past him into the journalism barn, which had better cell reception. She had an important call to make.
A few hours later, Aria got off SEPTA in Henley, a town ten miles closer to Philadelphia, famous for its liberal arts college and annual film festival. She took a right at the old hardware store on the main street and followed the road past a hospital to the Henley Languages Building. Students swept past her clutching their books and iPads. A bunch of kids congregated under a tree. A long-haired boy strummed a Beatles song near a coffee kiosk.
Aria’s excitement swelled. When Aria had called from school, Ella had given her the number for the apprenticeship’s American contact. The contact had answered and said that today was the second-to-last day for interviews, and the person she was to speak with, an Agatha Janssen at Henley’s Department of Germanic Languages, had an opening this afternoon. It seemed like kismet.
The languages building smelled musty and had a serious echo, and the wall tile was exactly like the kind in the building that housed Aria and Noel’s cooking class. She felt a pang. Should she call him?
Of course not. He lied to you. She set her jaw and swished the thought out of her mind. She should be thinking instead about Amsterdam, and her new life. She hadn’t technically gotten the apprenticeship yet, but she wanted to think positively. She couldn’t wait to begin all sorts of rituals in Holland that Noel would never be into, like watching the sun rise every morning; seeing long, plotless foreign films in which people do a lot of smoking and lovemaking; and going to coffee shops to debate philosophy. There.
Ms. Janssen’s office was at the end of the hall. When Aria knocked, an older woman with frizzy black hair and wire-rim glasses, wearing what looked like a bunch of silk scarves sewn together into a sacklike dress, flung open the door. “Hello, Miss Montgomery!” she said in a Dutch accent. “Come in, come in!”
The inside of the office smelled like apple pie. On the wall were drawings of the dykes around Amsterdam and a photo of a little girl in huge, yellow wooden shoes. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Aria said, shrugging off her plaid spring jacket.
“Not a problem.” Ms. Janssen tapped on the keyboard, her wooden bracelets knocking together. “As you know, I have the power to recommend a candidate. I’ve interviewed students from New York City, Boston, and Baltimore, but your portfolio is quite strong. And you know a little Dutch, so that’s helpful.”
“I learned when I was in Iceland,” Aria boasted. “I lived there for a few years.”
Ms. Janssen pushed a lock of hair behind her ears. “Well, the apprenticeship would be for two years. You’ll be helping several artists, learning a great deal from each of them. Everyone who has done this apprenticeship has gone on to have a career in the art world in their own right.”
“I know. It’s a remarkable opportunity.” Aria thought of the literature she’d reread this afternoon. The apprentices got to travel all through Europe with their artists.
The professor asked Aria some more questions about her influences, her strengths and weaknesses, and her knowledge of art history. With every question Aria answered, Ms. Janssen seemed more and more pleased, the smile lines at the corners of her eyes deepening. Not once did she bring up how Aria was a Pretty Little Liar. She seemed to know nothing of the stupid movie based on Aria’s life, or how Aria had been on a cruise ship that caught fire, or that she’d witnessed Gayle Riggs’s murder or found her boyfriend tied up in a storage shed only a few days before. In that little office, Aria was only a budding artist, nothing else. The Aria she used to be, before everything went wrong.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Ms. Janssen said after a while. “You seem quite promising. I’d like to recommend you.”
“Really?” Aria squeaked, pressing her hand to her chest. “That’s great!”
“I’m glad you think so. Now, let me start your formal application, which is right . . .” She trailed off as she looked out the window. “Oh.”
Aria followed her gaze. Out the big picture window, she could see three police cars at the curb, their lights flashing. Two uniformed officers got out and marched into the building. Soon enough, footsteps echoed down the hall. Walkie-talkies squealed. As the voices grew closer and closer, Aria swore one of them said, Montgomery.
A slithery sensation crept down her back.
The door flung open, and two men walked into the office, eyes narrowed, muscles tensed. Ms. Janssen shrank back against the wall. “Can I help you?”
The man in front pointed at Aria. His jacket said FBI on the breast pocket. He had squinty eyes and a wad of fruity-smelling gum shoved into his mouth. “That’s her.”
The professor stared at Aria as though she’d morphed into a giant toad. “What’s this about?”
“She’s wanted for questioning in an international incident,” the agent said stiffly.
Aria’s throat went dry. “W-what do you mean?” As if in answer, something made a ping inside her bag. Aria reached for her phone, her heart sinking. One new message, it said, followed by a jumble of letters and numbers.
Your dirty laundry, Aria? Time to get it dry-cleaned. —A
6
SPENCER GOES DOWNTOWN
At the same time on Tuesday, Spencer had just finished jogging five easy miles on the Marwyn Trail, an old train line turned nature walk. As she walked back to her car, pulling her hair up into a high ponytail, the wind stopped. The trail was clear of runners and bikers, but she swore she could see a human shape in the bushes. Ali?
A woman and three dogs appeared around the corner. A Rollerblader skated past, and a squirrel emerged from the bushes. Spencer pinched the inside of her palm. Ali isn’t everywhere. Only, did she really believe that anymore?
She climbed into the car, drained a bottle of coconut water, and switched on the radio. The first thing she heard was Noel Kahn’s name. She twisted the volume knob higher.
“. . . Though Mr. Kahn survived his attack, he is among a growing number of victims in Rosewood, along with socialite Gayle Riggs, who was murdered in the driveway of her new Rosewood home, and Kyla Kennedy, a burn patient who was found dead behind the hospital,” a deep baritone voice said. “New questions are swirling about a serial criminal on the loose. Authorities are also investigating a possible tie-in to the bombing of the Splendor of the Seas cruise ship a few weeks ago—students from Rosewood Day Prep and other surr
ounding schools were on board.”
Spencer shifted jerkily into reverse, nearly taking out a goose. If only they could hand over their texts from A. The texts would clear up this serial-killer thing in no time.
She turned onto her street, drinking in the late spring splendor. Tons of flowers had bloomed, and cherry blossoms floated down from the sky. But when she saw the news vans in front of her house, she hit the brakes. She was about to back out of the street and drive somewhere else—anywhere else—when the reporters descended on the car.
“Ms. Hastings, please!” The reporters banged on her window. “Just a few questions! What led you to Noel Kahn’s body?”
“Is it all just too much?” another reporter bellowed. “Are you girls thinking about killing yourselves?”
Spencer ducked her head and pulled into the driveway. The reporters had the good sense not to follow her, but they kept shouting. Mr. Pennythistle’s Range Rover loomed in front of her. That was odd: It was just past four, and usually Mr. Pennythistle didn’t get back from work until after six. And there was Mr. Pennythistle himself, standing on the porch, staring at Spencer as she drove in. Spencer’s mother, who wore knee-length khaki shorts and an old polo shirt from the Four Seasons Hotel in St. Barts, stood next to him, her expression grave. Spencer’s quasi stepsister, Amelia, sat on the steps, still in her St. Agnes school vest and plaid skirt—she was the only girl Spencer knew who wore her uniform after dismissal. There was a satisfied smirk on her face.
Spencer shifted into park and glanced at all three of them, feeling like something was up. “Uh, hi?” she asked cautiously as she walked up.
Mrs. Hastings guided her toward the door. “Good, you’re home,” she said through gritted teeth.
Spencer’s heart did a somersault. “W-what’s going on?”
Mrs. Hastings pulled her into the house. The family’s two Labradoodles, Rufus and Beatrice, lumbered up to greet them, but Mrs. Hastings paid them no mind—which meant something really must be wrong. She looked at her fiancé. “You tell her.”
Mr. Pennythistle, still in his business suit, sighed deeply and showed Spencer a picture on his phone. It was of a trashed living room. After a moment, Spencer recognized the heavy, copper-colored curtains and the marble-topped coffee table. “Your model home?” she squeaked. The model home had the panic room where she and her friends talked about A.
“A neighbor called last night,” Mr. Pennythistle said gravely. “They walked by with their dog and saw smears all over the window and broken glass on the floors. And Amelia said she saw you stealing the model’s keys from my office last week. Did you do this?”
Spencer shot a look at Amelia, who was now practically jumping up and down with glee. Narc. “Of course not. I mean—yes. I went into the model a few times. But I didn’t trash it last night. I was home last night.” She looked pleadingly at all of them, but then she realized—she’d been the only one home. Her mom and Mr. Pennythistle had gone to Amelia’s orchestra performance.
Mr. Pennythistle cleared his throat, then flipped to the next photo. In this one, a tall blond girl stood in the corner of the living room, her gaze on the front door. It was Spencer.
“This is impossible,” Spencer squeaked. “Someone Photoshopped me in.”
Mr. Pennythistle cocked his head. “Who would have done that?”
“The real person who did it, I guess.” Spencer sank onto the ottoman in the living room. And that, of course, was Ali or Helper A. But why? To send a message, loud and clear, that they’d always known what the girls were talking about in the panic room? To get her in trouble? She thought again of the presence she felt at the housing complex she and Chase had investigated. Maybe Ali had known they were there.
She handed the phone back to Mr. Pennythistle. “I know what this looks like. But it wasn’t me. Honest. Call the police. Have them dust for prints on all the stuff that was trashed.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Pennythistle said gruffly.
“Please?” Spencer begged. She needed him to do it—maybe Ali’s prints would turn up.
Mrs. Hastings pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Spencer, do we need to get you another appointment with Dr. Evans?”
“No!” Spencer gasped. She and Melissa had visited Dr. Evans, a psychologist, last year, and though Spencer would love some headshrinking right now, going there and being forced to lie about most of her life seemed stressful. “I didn’t trash the model, but I’ll clean it up if that’ll make you happy,” she said wearily.
“Cleaning up the model is a good start,” Mr. Pennythistle said stiffly.
Knock.
Everyone’s head whipped up. Two shapes shifted behind the curtained windows. Mrs. Hastings lunged toward the door, her face a twist of fury. “I’m going to strangle those reporters.”
“Is anyone there?” a stern, deep voice shouted. “It’s the police.”
Mrs. Hastings froze. Spencer stared at Mr. Pennythistle. “I thought you said you weren’t going to call the cops,” she whispered.
Mr. Pennythistle blinked. “I didn’t.”
He angled past Spencer’s mom and gingerly opened the door. Two uniformed police officers stood on the porch. “I’m Officer Gates,” the taller of the cops said, flashing his badge. Spencer recognized him: He was the same person who’d asked her questions about Noel at the hospital. Her stomach swirled.
Officer Gates gestured to the man next to him. “This is my partner, Officer Mulvaney. We need to take Spencer to the station to ask her a few questions about a crime we’re investigating.”
They glared at Spencer. She shrank back on the ottoman. Had they come here because they knew she’d lied?
“What crime?” Mrs. Hastings was now standing by the side table of the couch, clutching the large, jade bear statue she and Spencer’s father had bought years ago in Japan.
Officer Mulvaney, who had steely gray eyes and thin lips, tucked his badge into his pocket. “We received an anonymous tip that Miss Hastings framed another girl for drug possession last summer.”
Spencer’s ears began to ring. What?
Mrs. Hastings burst out laughing. “My daughter doesn’t do drugs. And she was at the University of Pennsylvania doing a very intensive pre-college program last summer.”
The taller cop smirked. “The crime happened on the Penn campus.”
Mrs. Hastings’s cheek twitched. She looked at Spencer, whose head was spinning. Anonymous tip. Drug charge.
Ali.
Something in her face must have given her away, because Mrs. Hastings’s expression drooped. “Spencer?”
It felt like a hockey-puck-sized lump had grown in Spencer’s throat. All she pictured, suddenly, was a study session a few weeks into the pre-college program. Spencer and her friend Kelsey Pierce had sat on their beds in their dorm room, trying to cram too much information in their minds at once, and there had been a knock at the door. “Oh, thank God,” Spencer had said, leaping up from the bed.
It was Phineas O’Connell, another student in the pre-college program—and their dealer. She threw her arms around Phineas’s skinny frame, mussing his layered, emo-rock hair, and playfully poked fun at his vintage-looking Def Leppard T-shirt that had probably cost eighty bucks at Saks. And then she’d said in a serious voice, “Okay, hand ’em over.”
Phineas had dropped two Easy As into her palm—one for her, one for Kelsey. Spencer had paid him, and then he’d waltzed out the door. Kelsey kowtowed. Spencer blew him kisses. Then they popped the pills, studied like mad, and aced the exams the next day.
No wonder Spencer sought a dealer off-campus after Phineas left, though that was what had led to her and Kelsey’s arrest. Surely Phineas hadn’t told the cops, though—he was just as guilty. Had Kelsey? Would the cops really believe someone from a mental hospital?
“I’m sure it’s a mistake,” she said shakily as she walked toward the cops. “But, um, I’ll just answer their questions, okay?” She was eighteen, which meant s
he could go to the police station alone. There was no way she was having the discussion with her family right now. The longer she could hold off her mom from finding out the truth, the better.
As the cops walked her to the squad car, reporters outside the gate snapped photos and begged for comments. Over the din, Spencer heard her phone chime. She reached for it in her pocket and peered at the screen. As soon as she saw that the new text was anonymous, she wanted to smack herself. Of course.
This one was an easy A for me, Spence. You didn’t think I was going to keep your secret to myself forever, did you? —A
7
NO RESPECT FOR THE DEAD
Hanna had never been to the St. Bonaventure Church in Old City, Philadelphia, but it reminded her strongly of the Rosewood Abbey, where Ali’s memorial service had been held. The air also smelled like incense, dried flowers, and musty, wet Bibles. The same pointy-faced icons leered at her from their high windows. An organ stood at the front of the church, phallic-looking pipes protruded from the back wall, and there were even the same song books in the little slots on the backs of the pews. Graham’s closed casket stood at the front of the room. Hanna bit her lip and avoided looking at it.
Countless funeral goers filed wordlessly through the imposing doors and down the aisles. Hanna peered out the window again, taking in the police officers, reporters, and ogling pedestrians that clogged the busy city street. Beyond them, a crowd of middle-aged men and women marched up and down the front sidewalk, holding signs. Hanna squinted before she stepped into the lobby. Were those . . . protesters? Their signs had pictures of cruise ships and bombs.
“Mr. Clark. Mr. Clark?”
Hanna swiveled around. A long-haired brunette holding a microphone chased a man across the lobby. When she caught up to him, he raised his face, and Hanna almost gasped.
It was Mr. Clark, Tabitha’s father and Gayle Riggs’s husband. There were bags under his eyes. His jowls were pronounced and sagging, and his gray hair was unkempt. It made sense why he was here: Graham and Tabitha had once dated.
