Pretty Little Liars 14: Deadly

by Sara Shepard

  “Are you okay?”

  Aria blinked hard. To her horror, tears had filled her eyes. She tried to smile. “Sorry. All those paintings are of an ex. I’m still getting over him. I actually hate all this stuff. I should burn it.”

  Asher peered at Noel’s face for a beat, then shut the folder. “I incorporate people I’m in love with in my paintings as well. It’s only human, you know?” He rolled toward her. “Don’t burn these. They could be worth something someday.”

  Aria looked at him crazily. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious. These are amazingly deep. You’re really talented.”

  The sun emerged from a cloud and streamed in through the window. Aria swallowed hard, not knowing whether she should smile or burst into tears. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Asher laced his fingers together. “You should keep at it. Show me stuff as you finish it. I could put you in touch with my agent.”

  “What?” Aria blurted.

  But Asher just smiled confidently. “I know talent when I see it.” Then he grabbed the stack of papers from the desk, slipped them into his portfolio, and tucked the whole thing under his arm. “Anyway, I’ll be in touch. Have your mom call me.”

  “I will,” Aria said.

  A warm, pleasant feeling enveloped her as she watched him step off the porch and lope down the street. She wanted to call someone right now and tell them a famous artist had encouraged her to paint more—imagine if he really hooked her up with his agent! Then she realized who it was she wanted to call: Noel.

  But as Asher turned the corner, her mood shifted. The street was so dark and shadowless, suddenly. A car swished past a side street and didn’t slow. A cat meowed in an unseen alley.

  Ping.

  Her phone vibrated in her palm. Aria flinched and stared at the screen. ONE NEW MESSAGE FROM ANONYMOUS. She opened the text.

  Don’t get too close to your new little artist friend, Aria. Or I’ll just hurt him, too. —A

  Aria’s stomach clenched. How did Ali know? Was she listening? Was she just going to take down everyone Aria knew?

  There was a way to solve this. She hit FORWARD and sent the note to Fuji. Then she stuffed her phone into her bag and willed herself to walk back into the gallery with her head held high. You’re safe, she repeated over and over in her mind. It’s all over. You’re finally going to move on.

  At least she hoped so.

  16

  HANNA MARIN, POSTER CHILD

  That afternoon, Hanna stared into the impassive eye of a TV camera lens. When the red light that indicated they were filming began to blink, she smiled brightly. “And that’s why I stand behind Tom Marin’s Zero-Tolerance Plan,” she said clearly and slowly. She was six takes into the Tom and Hanna Marin Families Against Drunk Driving PSA, and this one was going to be a keeper.

  Her father, who sat on the stool next to her, recited his lines in a presidential voice. The cameras did a close-up on him, and Hanna peeked at her reflection in the mirror that was set up on the other side of her father’s campaign headquarters-turned-studio. She wore a navy-blue sheath dress and a pearl necklace she’d borrowed from her mom. Her auburn hair had been professionally blown out, cascading in a smooth waterfall down her back. Her green eyes sparkled, and her skin glowed, thanks to an expensive cream in the makeup artist’s tool bag. Hanna definitely had to get its name.

  The camera turned back to Hanna. “We need to keep teens of Pennsylvania safe,” she said emphatically. “I know this not only as a teen of Pennsylvania . . . but also as a victim of stalking and drunk driving.”

  Pause. Smile bright. Look earnest and patriotic. “And . . . cut!” said the director, who was perched on a stool behind the camera. “I think that one’s a winner!”

  Everyone in the room applauded. Mr. Marin patted Hanna’s shoulder. “Good work.”

  “That really was amazing,” Kate agreed, appearing by Hanna’s side. “You’re a natural in front of the camera, Han. I’m so impressed.”

  “She gets that from me,” boasted Hanna’s mom. Hanna was pretty sure her mom and Kate had never been together in such a small room, but they seemed to be getting along okay. Isabel, however, was standing in the opposite corner gripping a clipboard so tightly, Hanna was surprised she hadn’t bent it in half by now.

  Sidney, Mr. Marin’s top aide, approached. “I’ve been thinking. Let’s spin this so that the bar that served Hanna and Madison is to blame. It will test well with our voters, Tom,” he said. “People will think, If they would have been tougher about carding, this accident never would have happened.”

  “Exactly.” Then Mr. Marin’s expression grew serious. “What was the name of that bar that served you? We should shut them down. Make an example of them.”

  “The Cabana.” Hanna had thought a lot about the South Street dive she’d ducked into that fateful day. The smell of smoke and the twangy country song washed back to her. So did Madison’s boozy breath and the way the soles of Hanna’s shoes were sticky after walking across the bathroom floor.

  “Got it.” Mr. Marin tapped something into his iPhone. “Okay, Han. Ready for Phase Two?”

  Hanna shifted uneasily. Phase Two was apologizing to Madison at Immaculata University, where she’d transferred after the accident. Madison had agreed to speak to Hanna, but it still made Hanna feel uneasy. If only they could skip it.

  Sensing Hanna’s apprehension, Mr. Marin wrapped his arm around her. “I’ll be with you the whole time, honey, I promise. We’ll do it together.”

  Isabel rushed forward. “But Tom, we’ve got that meeting with your new donors today at four.”

  Mr. Marin set his jaw. “Reschedule it.”

  Isabel’s face clouded. “You lost a huge donation when Gayle Riggs died—we need the cash.” She cleared her throat. “Speaking of Gayle, did you hear the news? There was a break in the case. The police are looking through her house again for new evidence.”

  Hanna shifted her weight. Of course there was a break in the case. It was from them.

  Mr. Marin started for the door. “I’m sure the donors can wait a day, Iz. I told Hanna I’d do this with her, and I want to honor that.”

  “Good for you, Tom,” Hanna’s mom gushed. She shot Isabel a snarky smile. A deep wrinkle appeared between Isabel’s eyes. Hanna had a feeling that if they didn’t get out of here soon, it would devolve into an episode of Real Housewives: Rosewood, PA.

  “I’ll be ready in a second,” Hanna said quickly to her father. “I just want to call Mike.” She hadn’t heard from him all day, and she wanted to make sure he was okay. Usually, Mike texted her nonstop, even during school.

  She stepped out of her father’s office, stood on the walkway that overlooked a large atrium with a burbling fountain, and dialed Mike’s number. Once again, it went to voicemail. Hanna hung up without leaving a message. Where was he?

  When a door slammed shut, Hanna jumped. It echoed so loudly, like it was right behind her. Just being in this building gave her the creeps; a few months ago, A—Ali—trapped Hanna in the elevator. The lights had gone out, the power had died, and when Hanna had gotten free and on solid ground again, she’d found the elevator control box wide open, its levers and switches tampered with. Ali’s telltale vanilla perfume had wafted through the air, taunting her nostrils. If only Hanna had called the cops then.

  Hanna peered out the front windows for Bo, her security guy, but she didn’t see his car in the lot. She dialed Agent Fuji. “Do you know where Bo is?” Hanna asked, when she answered. “I don’t see him anywhere.”

  The sound of typing echoed in the background. “Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not there,” Fuji answered.

  “But I haven’t seen him all day.”

  “Hanna, I don’t have time to monitor your security detail’s comings and goings. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “It’s just I heard that the cops are looking into Gayle’s murder,” Hanna said in a small voice. “And I
know that probably will make Ali nervous. And I have my boyfriend to worry about, too. I’m afraid Ali might hurt him because he knows so much.”

  All at once, just talking about Mike, she remembered a dream she’d had last night. Her phone had buzzed, and a note from A said that Mike was in danger and Hanna had to find him. Hanna had darted into the street and looked around. Incongruously, the DiLaurentis house was next door—and the old hole the workers had dug to build the gazebo was back. Hanna had run to it and peered inside . . . and there was Mike at the bottom, curled up in a fetal position. It was obvious he was dead.

  “What if something happens to him?” Hanna said now, horrified she was only just remembering the dream. “Are we sure everyone is safe?”

  “Hanna, calm down,” Fuji interrupted. “Everyone is safe. Every time you girls call, it takes me away from solving this case. I’m sure you understand.”

  CALL ENDED flashed across the screen. Hanna recoiled, not sure whether to feel dissed or reassured. But Fuji was doing her job—she had to trust that. Soon enough, this would all be over.

  Thirty minutes later, Mr. Marin’s SUV pulled through the gates of Immaculata University, a liberal arts school not far from Rosewood. Girls in rugby sweaters and plaid kilts crossed the quad. Boys carrying lacrosse sticks over their shoulders climbed the steps to a dorm. Nearly everyone was wearing Sperry Top-Siders.

  They parked at Madison’s dorm and got out. “Come on.” Mr. Marin took Hanna’s hand and led her to the path toward the dorm entrance. The inside of the building smelled like a jumble of perfumes and bustled with girls.

  “This is it,” Mr. Marin said when they got to a door marked 113. There was a white board filled with messages for Madison. Hanna paused to read a few. Dinner, 6? And, Are you going to that meeting tomorrow? And, Did you do the chem homework? Did that mean Madison had a relatively normal life?

  Hanna hesitated before knocking, dread squeezing her chest corset-tight. “You can do this,” Mr. Marin said as if reading her mind. “I won’t leave your side.”

  Hanna was so grateful, she almost burst into tears. Mustering up the courage, she reached out and knocked. The door flung open immediately, and a blond girl with an oval face and overplucked eyebrows stood on the other side.

  “Hanna?” she said.

  “That’s right.” Hanna looked at her dad. “And this is my dad.”

  Madison’s brow crinkled, her focus still on Hanna. “Huh. I thought you were the blond Pretty Little Liar.”

  “That’s Spencer.”

  Madison leaned against the jamb. “Wow. I really don’t remember that night at all.”

  She stepped aside and let Hanna and her dad into her room. A neatly made twin bed with a downy, white comforter stood near the window. There was a desk filled with books, papers, and a Dell computer pushed against another wall. A pile of laundry was near the bathroom, and shoes lay in a heap by the closet.

  “You have a single,” Hanna commented, only noticing one bed. “Lucky.”

  “It’s on account of my leg.” Madison pulled up her jeans to reveal a brace around her calf. “They took pity on me, I guess.”

  A heavy weight settled on Hanna’s chest. Naomi had told her that Madison’s leg had been shattered in the accident. She wouldn’t be able to play field hockey ever again. “Does it hurt?” Hanna said in a small voice.

  Madison shrugged. “Sometimes. I’m having surgery to reset the bone this summer. The doctors say I’ll be good as new after that.”

  Surgery. Hanna glanced at the door, tempted to run out and never come back. But then she peeked at her father. He nodded at her encouragingly.

  She took a deep breath. “Look, Madison, I’m sure you know by now what went down that night, right? I drove you home . . . and then someone swerved into my lane and we crashed and I left the scene. I never should have left you.”

  Madison sat down in her desk chair. “It’s okay, Hanna. I forgive you.”

  Hanna’s eyebrows shot up. Well, that was easy. “Okay, then,” she said, starting to stand. Done and done!

  But then she paused. Maybe that was too easy. “Wait. Are you just saying that? If you’re really pissed, you can tell me. It’s okay. I would be pissed.”

  Madison twirled a pen between her fingers. “It sucks that we got in an accident. It sucks that you felt you had to leave. But as far as I’m concerned, I would have been in way worse shape if I would’ve driven myself.”

  “I should have been more forceful about getting you a cab.” Hanna perched on the edge of Madison’s neatly made bed. “They wouldn’t have crashed.”

  Madison spun around in the chair. “We don’t really know that for sure. The same person might have crashed into them.” She paused, her eyes lighting up. “Did you know we found video footage?”

  “Of the other driver?” Hanna leaned forward. “Did you see who it was? Was it Ali?”

  “They had part of a license plate, and for a while I thought they were on to something, but they couldn’t figure out who the driver was,” Madison answered. “The only thing the cops figured out was that the car was an Acura.”

  Spots formed in front of Hanna’s eyes. An Acura? Hadn’t Spencer found an Acura keychain in her stepfather’s trashed model house?

  Madison pinched the bridge of her nose. “I wish I could remember who the driver was. I wish I could remember anything from that night.” She grabbed her phone from her desk. “I barely remember going into that bar. I’d had a couple drinks at this other place that never cards down the street before I even went there, but I kind of remember this hot bartender really, really wanting me to come inside.”

  Hanna straightened up. “Yeah, Jackson. He did that to me, too.”

  She thought about passing the bar that day, Jackson eyeing her from the entrance. Drinks are half off right now, he’d said in a flirty voice, flashing her an ultrawhite smile. He had the look of a guy who had played lacrosse and rowed crew in high school, though there was something predatory in his eyes, too. Much later, after Hanna and Madison bonded, Hanna had leaned over to catch Madison before she fell off the bar stool. As she looked up, she caught Jackson sneaking a look down her blouse, a smirk on his face.

  “I wish I could get my hands on him,” Hanna’s father said gruffly.

  Madison looked conflicted. “Maybe he didn’t know I was underage.”

  Hanna opened her mouth but didn’t say anything. Jackson might not have known Madison was under twenty-one, but he had been pouring drinks for Madison faster than she could drink them. And when Hanna suggested he call Madison a cab, he just laughed.

  Mr. Marin tapped his lip. “Could you describe what he looked like?”

  Madison smiled sheepishly, then tapped her phone. “I do have a picture. I took it secretly because I thought he was hot.”

  Hanna peered at the photo. It was a dark shot of the profile of a handsome guy with short hair. Madison had caught him while he was mixing up a margarita. “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Then Madison checked her watch. “Actually, I have to get to orchestra practice.” She awkwardly stood and held out her hand. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Marin. And to see you again, Hanna.”

  “It was nice to see you, too,” Hanna said, shaking her hand. “Good luck with . . . everything.”

  “Good luck with your PSAs,” Madison snorted. “Better you than me.”

  Hanna and her father were silent as they headed down the hall, but suddenly, Mr. Marin put his arm around her. “I’m so proud of you,” he said. “It’s hard to face your demons and come clean.”

  Hanna felt tears well in her eyes again. “Thanks for coming with me.”

  Then her phone pinged. Her heart lifted. It was Mike, finally getting back to her. Sorry, busy day, he’d written, and she let out a sigh of relief. He was fine.

  Then she noticed a second text had come in as well. She looked at the screen, and her heart dropped. This one was from an unknown sender.

  Just when you make peace wi
th Daddy, I’m going to have to take it all away. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. —A

  “Hanna?” Mr. Marin turned. “Are you okay?”

  Hanna’s hands trembled. Was that a threat against her father?

  Squaring her shoulders, she forwarded it to Fuji. Then she looked at her father, who was peering at her worriedly from the end of the hall. “I’m great,” she said with certainty. And she was. If Fuji was working so hard on the case that she couldn’t even take Hanna’s calls, then she would keep everyone safe.

  She’d better.

  17

  THE WALLS COME CRASHING DOWN

  Friday morning, Spencer and Chase sat at Wordsmith’s Books. The place smelled like fresh-brewed coffee and sugary crullers, jazz played faintly through the stereo speakers, and a free-verse poet was reciting his latest work on a makeshift stage. The store was holding a performance series called “Morning Muses” in which local authors read their works to caffeine-starved patrons.

  “That was awesome, wasn’t it?” Chase asked when the poet finished his zillion-line free verse and they stood to leave. “That guy has such an amazing sense of imagery. I wish I could write poems like that.”

  Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean you write poems?”

  “Sometimes.” Chase looked bashful. “They mostly end up really lame.”

  “I’d love to read them,” Spencer said softly.

  He met her gaze. “I’d love to write one for you.”

  Spencer’s stomach flipped over, but she cut her gaze away, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. A’s threat against Chase. Should she warn him?

  “You okay?” Chase asked.