Vicious

by Sara Shepard

  Ramona raised an eyebrow. “Bridesmaids are part of the fun. You choose their dresses, their jewelry, you’ll have a buddy the day of the ceremony . . .”

  Hanna felt her chin wobble. Mike grabbed her hand. “She said she doesn’t want bridesmaids, okay?” He said it so ferociously that Hanna wanted to kiss him.

  “She’ll have a flower girl, though,” Ms. Marin piped up. She looked at Hanna. “What about Morgan?”

  “Definitely,” Hanna said, mustering a smile. Morgan Greenspan was her seven-year-old cousin on her mom’s side and pretty much the cutest thing ever. Every time Hanna saw her, she begged Hanna to catch fireflies with her in the backyard and told her stories about her pet Brussels griffon.

  Ramona just shrugged. “Okay. We’ll have to talk colors so I know what kind of flower-girl dresses to bring in. Now, why don’t you go start trying on those gowns. Chop-chop!”

  Hanna turned to the dresses once more, but they didn’t provide her as much joy as they had only a few seconds before. Your best friends are gone, a voice pounded away in her head. All of them.

  Her throat closed like it often did when she was about to cry. Hanna put her head down, gathered a bunch of dresses in her arms, and climbed the stairs to her room. Everything suddenly felt tainted. Emily was dead—she had to accept it. She’d read, a few hours ago, that the coast guard had given up their search for her.

  She turned Mike’s bracelet around her wrist. If only you were still here, Em, she thought. You’d figure out a way to get us all back together. You’d fix everything.

  The light suddenly shifted, sending a golden slant through Hanna’s window and skimming the top of her head. Hanna looked over, and for a moment, the space next to her on the bed felt warm, almost like there was someone sitting there. She decided to pretend it was Emily’s spirit. She thought about pulling Emily close, holding her tight, and never letting her go. She could almost hear Emily’s voice in her ear. I’m glad you’re getting married, Hanna. You should be happy.

  Hanna straightened up, feeling renewed. Emily was totally right. If she dwelled in her sorrow, if she fixated on everything that was wrong, Ali was winning. Screw that.

  She turned to the dresses on her bed and unzipped the first garment bag. It was a strapless gown made in delicate silk and overlaid with lace. Tiny jewels peppered the bodice, and it had a slimming fit all the way down to the dramatic, sweeping train. Hanna gasped. Not that she’d ever tell Ramona, but she used to spend hours sketching her ideal wedding dress when she was younger—and it had looked almost exactly like this.

  She slid it over her head and beheld herself in the mirror, astonished at the sudden transformation. She looked . . . older. Beautiful. And super thin. She twirled and grinned, unable to take her eyes off her reflection. Then, squealing with delight, she ran downstairs and peered around the corner. “Mike, hide in the bathroom. I can’t have you seeing me!”

  She waited until there was the obligatory slam to the door, then flounced down the stairs. Ramona stared at her impassively. Fidel tapped notes. Hanna’s mom looked like she was going to cry. “Oh, honey,” she breathed, pressing her hands to her breast. “You look lovely.”

  The rest of the evening proceeded just like that: Hanna sent Mike out for a little while and tried on dresses, shoes, and veils. Mike returned and everyone tasted wedding cake, settling on the white buttercream from Bliss. Ramona made bullying phone calls to Chanticleer and catering companies and florists, demanding that they get their acts together by the end of this week or she’d never work with them again. With every yes Ramona got, Hanna felt more and more confident that Emily really was watching her, creating a smooth path. You deserve to be happy, she could hear her saying. Even if it’s only for one day.

  By the end of the evening, there was only one big thing left to decide on: the guests. Ramona had an in with a calligrapher and a stationery company, but they had to know the head count tonight for the invitations to go out in time.

  “Well, there are the Milanos, the Reeveses, and the Parsons,” Hanna said, naming her relatives and a few old family friends. She eyed her mother. “But let’s not include the Rumsons.” They had a vile daughter named Brooke who’d tried to steal Hanna’s old boyfriend, Lucas Beattie, away. “Most everyone from school is a yes, though definitely not Colleen Bebris.” She snuck a peek at Mike. He’d dated her for a brief time earlier that year. “We can invite Naomi and Riley, but they should have a really crappy table assignment. And a definite no to that Klaudia Huusko girl.” Klaudia had tried to steal Noel from Aria. Aria might not be coming, but Hanna still had her standards.

  “Got it,” Ramona said, writing everything down.

  Hanna smiled nastily. If she had her way, this was going to be the party of the century, better than any Sweet Sixteen or Foxy Ball or stupid benefit at the Rosewood Country Club combined. It would be her last power play to snub those who’d pissed her off.

  “Noel, Mason, all the guys on the lacrosse team,” Mike listed off. “My mom, her boss at the gallery. And my dad and Meredith and Lola.”

  “What about your father, Hanna?”

  Hanna looked up, astonished. It had been her mother who’d said it.

  Ms. Marin jiggled her knee on the slipper chair. There was a conflicted but also principled look on her face. “I mean, he is your father. He would not want to miss it.”

  Hanna snorted. “Kate can come,” she said, referring to her stepsister. Kate had found out about the engagement and sent Hanna an email, in fact, asking if she could be of any help. “But not him. We’ve been through too much.”

  She felt everyone’s eyes on her, especially Ramona’s. But it wasn’t like Hanna was going to explain her reasoning. It was far too embarrassing to admit that your own father chose his new wife, his new stepdaughter, and even his political campaign over you. Again and again, Mr. Marin had given Hanna the tiniest bit of affection only to yank it away when she did something wrong. She was tired of giving him second, third, and fourth chances just because they used to be two peas in a pod. He’d changed.

  And suddenly, she felt like she had to make them understand she was serious. She sprang from her chair and mumbled that she’d be right back. Once back in her room, she gazed at herself in the mirror. She’d taken off the wedding dress, but there was still a bride-esque glow about her that couldn’t be undone. Her father probably would want to see her. But enough was enough. He’d hurt her for the last time.

  She reached for her phone and scrolled for the number at his campaign office. An assistant answered, and when Hanna told him her name, she said, “I’ll put you through” in a brisk voice. Hanna blinked hard. She’d half-expected the assistant to hang up on her.

  “Hanna,” her father’s voice boomed through the other end mere seconds later. “It’s so good to hear from you. How are you holding up?”

  Hanna was both shocked and irritated by the warmth in his voice. “How do you think?” she heard herself snap. “I’m on trial. Haven’t you heard?”

  “Of course I know,” Mr. Marin said softly, maybe regretfully.

  Hanna rolled her eyes. She wasn’t going to give in to that tone of voice. “Anyway, I just called to let you know I’m getting married to Mike Montgomery.”

  “You’re . . . what?”

  She bristled. Was that judgment she sensed? “We’re very happy. The wedding is next Saturday at Chanticleer.”

  “How long have you been planning this?”

  She ignored his question. “I just called to tell you that you aren’t invited,” she said loudly, saying the words quickly before she lost her nerve. “Mom and I have got it covered. Have a nice life.”

  She pressed END fast, then cupped the phone between her hands. All at once, she felt even better. The gentle, Emily-like warmth in the room returned. For the next few days, Hanna would surround herself with exactly who she wanted—and no one else.

  14

  LITTLE DUTCH GIRL

  Aria sat up as daybreak streamed throu
gh the long, slanting windows of her room. She pushed back the curtains and peered out. It was Wednesday morning, and bicyclists traversed the picturesque canals. The air smelled like pannenkoeken, the famous Dutch pancakes. A man was standing on the next street corner playing the loveliest little melody on his violin. And then, from the next room over, Aria heard one of the raucous boys let out the loudest burp ever. “I am so hungover,” someone bellowed.

  “Yeah, well, I think I’m still stoned.”

  Aria flopped back down on the bed. She was in a youth hostel in Amsterdam—what did she expect? At least she’d ponied up for a private room.

  Even the pile of vomit in the hallway and the unpredictable hot-cold stream of water in the shower didn’t dull her spirits. An hour later, she was clean, bright-eyed, and optimistic, strolling out of the Red-Light District. The streets were mostly empty, all of the tourists who flooded this neighborhood probably sleeping off their hangovers. It was like she had the whole city to herself. She’d forgotten how much she loved Amsterdam! The slower pace, the foreign signs, the putt-putt of motorbikes, Amsterdam’s funny trolley system, all of the quaint art and architecture . . . every detail made her realize how glad she was that she’d had the cab driver bring her here. It had been an impulse decision—Holland was lenient and tolerant—and it had been a long, boring drive through France and Belgium, Aria refusing to make eye contact or small talk with the hopefully oblivious, chain-smoking French driver and remaining slumped down so none of the other drivers could see her through the window. But it had been worth it.

  The cool morning air felt good on her skin as she turned down a series of alleyways toward the Anne Frank house, which she planned on visiting that day. Might as well get some culture in, right? As Aria rounded a corner, a group of kids passed her going in the opposite direction. One of them had Emily’s same copper-colored hair.

  Aria flinched. She was seeing versions of Emily everywhere. Like the girl with the strong swimmer’s shoulders she’d noticed through the windows of a touring bus yesterday, or the girl who’d thrown her head back and laughed the same way Emily did while Aria’s cab driver had pulled over at a rest stop to pee, or the girl who knitted her brow, Emily-like, when someone told her something interesting—Aria had spied her at the hostel last night. It was uncanny . . . and kind of awful. Sort of like Emily’s ghost was following her around, trying to tell her something.

  She pressed on, passing a gift shop, a restaurant, and a little place that sold cell phones. A newsstand was next on the block, and a tabloid headline in the window caught her eye. Pretty Little Liar trouwen, it read. Aria blinked hard. She didn’t know Dutch, but by the swirly writing and the picture of Hanna with a bridal veil superimposed on her head, she was pretty sure it meant getting married.

  Aria ran into the shop, snatched up a copy of the paper, and flipped to the article on page eight. Not that she could understand it—the whole paper was in Dutch—but she tried to glean as much as she could from the pictures. There was one of Hanna and Mike slow-dancing at the Valentine’s Dance last year. Another of Hanna on the set of Burn It Down before she was fired. And then images of various diamond wedding rings with a big question mark next to each.

  Aria’s mouth dropped open. Were they having an actual wedding, with guests? Did her parents approve of this? She thought of the time she’d gotten married—to Hallbjorn, a boy she’d known from Iceland, in a whirlwind justice-of-the-peace ceremony mainly so that Hallbjorn could stay in the country. Her parents hadn’t even known about it, would have killed her if they did. She’d gotten the union annulled long before they could have found out.

  But Mike and Hanna . . . they were different. Aria could actually see them being married. She felt a pang. She was going to miss her little brother’s and her best friend’s wedding. She was going to miss everything about Mike’s life, in fact—and Lola’s, and she was just a baby! Tears came to her eyes. She thought she could handle being away, but she’d focused only on the negatives—the trial, going to prison, having everything taken away from her. But here, halfway around the world, so much was still taken away from her. It was such a high price to pay for freedom.

  Then, her gaze focused on another front page on a newspaper two rows down. This paper was in English, and Aria’s face was on the cover. Pretty Little Liar in the EU? read the headline.

  Aria’s blood ran cold. She looked around the little shop. The shopkeeper behind the counter was looking at something on his phone. A teenage boy stood in front of a refrigerated case full of soda. Heart pounding, Aria picked up a Dutch sailing magazine and slid the incriminating newspaper within the pages. Terrifying phrases jumped out from the page. Authorities report that Miss Montgomery boarded a flight to Paris . . . Interpol searching for her everywhere, with an EU-wide alert at hotels, restaurants, and transport stations . . . several tips say she is in Northern Europe, perhaps the Scandinavian countries.

  Northern Europe. That was where she was—sort of, anyway. Aria’s hands started to tremble. She hadn’t expected them to find her so soon . . . but maybe that was naive. This was Interpol, not the Rosewood PD.

  Someone cleared his throat, and Aria looked up. The shopkeeper was suddenly staring at her, a strange expression on his face.

  She slipped her sunglasses over her eyes and backed away quickly, almost stumbling over the stoop onto the street. Her chest felt tight. The shopkeeper had recognized her, hadn’t he? She started walking as fast as she could down the street without breaking into a dead sprint. Any minute, the guy was going to follow her. Any minute, police cars were going to roar up and snatch her from behind.

  Just keep going, she told herself. She picked up the pace and noticed other people staring at her, too. A man on a bicycle. A teenager sitting on a bench, earbuds in her ears. What if they all knew who she was? What if there were tons of calls to Interpol right this minute? Should she go to the American embassy? Except that was insane—they’d ship her back, and she’d go to jail.

  She cut through an alley and burst onto another, busier street, blinded with panic. She ran as fast as she could, veering around bikes, cutting around open shop doors, eliciting more strange looks from passersby. Her bag thumped imposingly against her hip, but she was glad to have it—there was no way she could go back to that hostel now. Good Lord: She’d used her own ID to check in. When had that alert about her gone out? Had the hostel she’d stayed in received it, and did they cross-reference it with her name?

  How could she have been so stupid?

  The Anne Frank house loomed ahead of her, though she couldn’t imagine going inside now—it was far too cramped; she’d be too exposed. She stopped at the stairs and placed her hands on her thighs, panting. She needed a second before she pressed on.

  Tons of people streamed past her. Tourists. Workers. Students. All at once, this felt like the worst idea in the world. She was in a foreign country—she didn’t even know the language. Nor did she know a single person here. No one would take her in and hide her, Anne Frank–style. She fumbled in her bag and pulled out her phone again. She hadn’t turned it on since she’d boarded the plane—in fact, she’d even removed the battery, as she’d heard somewhere that people could track you through GPS, even if your phone was off, if the battery was still installed. But maybe she should call someone. Surrender. Maybe the police would have pity on her if she went willingly.

  Her fingers closed around the battery. Just snapping it back into place might set up a signal by which people could find her. Was she ready?

  She was about to do it when a hand touched her shoulder. Aria whirled around, her arms protectively in front of her face. Her phone fell from her hand and skittered across the cobblestones, but she didn’t move to grab it. She stared at the person in front of her. Then she gasped.

  “I knew it,” he said breathlessly. “I knew you’d come here, just like you said.”

  Aria blinked, unsure of her senses. And she oscillated, she realized, between throwing her arms around him o
r running even farther away in order to protect him.

  Noel.

  15

  SPENCER’S UPS AND DOWNS

  “Miss Hastings?” the reporters screamed as Spencer hurried down the courthouse steps after the second day of the trial. “What are your thoughts on the proceedings?”

  “Do you have any idea where Aria Montgomery is hiding in Europe?” another reporter bellowed.

  “What do you think about Hanna Marin getting married?” someone else shouted.

  “Do you still believe that Alison is alive?” A reporter shoved a microphone with a local news logo on the base in her face.

  Spencer elbowed out of their way, somehow making it through the blue barricades to a “safe” area the cops had blocked off that was off-limits to the press. She scanned the parking lot for the car service her mom had arranged to take her home—apparently, Mrs. Hastings was far too busy to actually watch her daughter’s murder trial today. But the car wasn’t there yet. She leaned against the wall and breathed in, feeling like she might cry.

  The trial had been a disaster today. The prosecution’s witnesses were first, and the DA had expertly uncovered every single damning thing Spencer had done through the years. Like how she’d pushed her sister down the stairs when she thought Melissa was A. Or that she’d freaked out in therapy, certain she’d killed Their Ali, or how she’d plagiarized her Golden Orchid essay (it didn’t matter that she’d confessed her crime before they gave her the prize), or that she’d framed another girl for drug possession and had aided and abetted in pushing Tabitha Clark off that balcony in Jamaica, and that she was suspected to be involved in a mass-drugging at an eating club party in Princeton. She’s a violent, psychotic liar who has a Machiavellian drive to get what she wants, the lawyer had sneered to the jury. We shouldn’t believe anything she says.