by Sara Shepard
The DA put his hands on his hips. “You have this young man’s name, correct?”
She nodded. “It’s Greg Messner.”
He looked at the jury. “I may mention that Greg Messner ended up dead later that night.” Everyone gasped. “Found in a creek bed in Ashland, Pennsylvania. And you know who else was in Ashland that same evening? Spencer Hastings. And her three friends.”
Rubens shot up. “This isn’t a trial for Mr. Messner’s death. And Ms. Hastings had nothing to do with that.”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
Spencer poked Rubens as he sat down. “Greg was an Ali Cat,” she whispered. “He targeted me through my anti-bullying site. He’d been working with Ali—she’d given him instructions to get close to me and get info. Can’t you tell them that?”
“You should totally tell him that,” Hanna piped up, just trying to be helpful. But Spencer just shot her an I-don’t-need-your-help look. Hanna slumped back down in her seat. So much for trying to be civil.
Rubens glanced at the girls worriedly. “Let’s just drop it, okay? We’ll concentrate on our own witnesses. That starts this afternoon.”
Hanna drew her bottom lip into her mouth. It seemed like every avenue they pursued led to a dead end. And were their witnesses really going to save the day?
She ran her hands down the length of her face, her heart thudding hard. It felt like she was trapped inside a dress that was ten sizes too small for her body. She couldn’t move her arms or her torso. She could barely breathe.
After that day’s proceedings, she somehow made her way into the hall, where she could collect her thoughts. She looked at her phone for the first time in hours. She had forty-two new messages, and they were all RSVPs to her wedding.
Her wedding. Well, at least that was something.
She scrolled through each yes, astonished that so many people wanted to come. Ramona had emailed her that the hip-hop/breakdancing group Hanna wanted to perform during cocktail hour at the reception had said yes. She also mentioned that because so many celebrities were attending—not only some of the cast of Burn It Down, but a few local newscasters and young socialites as well—she was thinking of having something of a red carpet before the reception. Us Weekly seems really into the idea.
Us Weekly? Despite the courtroom circus, Hanna felt a tiny, excited flutter. She knew this wedding was a big deal—everything surrounding their lives was these days. The trial was reported on obsessively on most of the news channels every night, there were constant updates about Aria’s whereabouts in Europe—the latest was that she was hiding somewhere in Sweden—and a few people had sent her Instagrams of mentions of her wedding in tabloids all over the globe. But Us was legit—and it didn’t sound like they were covering the wedding just to be snarky.
She dialed Ramona’s number and pressed her phone to her ear. “It’s Hanna. Red carpet’s a go. I think that sounds really fun.”
“Perfect,” Ramona squawked. “It’s all coming together, Hanna. I think it’s going to be fantastic.”
“Me, too,” Hanna said, her voice rising. “And you know what? Let’s have fireworks at the reception, too.”
“Fireworks?” Ramona paused to consider it. “I have some people I can call.”
Hanna hung up and slipped her phone back in her pocket, feeling good about her latest choice. Fireworks seemed totally appropriate for her wedding reception. Most likely, it would be her last moment of happiness—and she might as well go out with a bang.
17
INTERNATIONAL INTRIGUE
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to a euro as currency,” Noel said on Thursday afternoon as he leafed through a stack of bills in the cheap hostel room he had rented. “I mean, look at this.” He held up a ten-euro note. “It looks like Monopoly money.”
Aria plucked it from his hand. “Be careful with that. Over here, Monopoly money is freedom.”
“I’m just glad we’re free together,” Noel said, pulling Aria onto the small, stiff-mattressed hostel bed.
Aria relished it for a moment, but then she pulled away. She still felt really, really nervous about Noel being here. Especially after some of the, er, mistakes she’d made.
When she’d turned around to face him yesterday, she thought she’d inhaled stray marijuana vapors from the nearby hash bar. “What are you doing here?” she’d asked frantically.
Noel had shrugged. “The way you said good-bye like that, and then when I got calls from your mom later that night wondering where you were, I started to put things together. I knew you’d left. And I knew I had to find you. You’d mentioned Amsterdam a few days ago—remember? And the Anne Frank house specifically. I just didn’t know I was going to find you so quickly.”
Aria had looked around him anxiously, still worried someone would spot her. “Noel, you have to go. You can’t be seen with me. And aren’t people looking for you?”
“My parents think I went to their place in Vail. I bought a plane ticket in my name for there, and I even checked into that flight but just didn’t board it. I snuck back down the Jetway, bolted for the international terminal, and got on an Amsterdam flight instead.”
Aria had started to feel sweaty. “Don’t you understand?” she’d whispered. “I’m an international criminal! You need to stay away from me! The cops are on my tail!” People were streaming past. It felt like everyone was staring at her, hearing every word.
Noel had just taken Aria’s arm and walked her down the canal. “You’ve only been here for one day. You haven’t done anything to attract attention, right? Used any credit cards, shown your ID?”
Aria’s bottom lip had trembled. She had done just those things. “Maybe,” she lied. “But there are alerts about me. Interpol is looking everywhere. Anywhere I go, someone is going to recognize me.” She shut her eyes. “Maybe I should just turn myself in.”
“Nonsense.” Noel grabbed her hand. “I’ll keep you safe.”
The first thing they did was find a guy who made fake passports, who whipped up two American documents for Aria and Noel, barely looking at them and not asking if they approved of their fake names—Elizabeth Rogers for Aria and Ronald Nestor for Noel. Aria liked her fake name. Elizabeth Rogers struck her as a girl who wrote for the school paper and kept her room very neat and was too shy to have a boyfriend. A girl who would never, ever be on trial for murder.
Noel’s steady, calming presence put her at ease—maybe she really was safe with him. Knowing that Amsterdam was too dangerous, they’d boarded a train with their fake passports and headed for Brussels, Belgium, checking in at a little hostel on a quiet street. Noel had taken her on a moonlit stroll along a walkway that overlooked the city. Despite Aria’s protests that someone might recognize her, Noel had coaxed her to a little restaurant that served Belgian fries with mayonnaise, her favorite. They’d returned to their hostel room feeling almost shy as they fell into bed together. “Let’s go to Japan,” Aria had mused as she lay her head on the pillow. It sounded so foreign, so exotic, so utterly removed from anything having to do with her old life—or Ali. “We’ll teach English. And eat sushi. And ride bicycles, and learn Japanese.”
“We’ll have to get a guidebook,” Noel said. “See where we’ll want to live.”
Aria thought about this. “A beach town, maybe? Or near a mountain?”
“Ooh, I wonder if Japan has good skiing.” Noel looked excited. “I’ve never been, but Eric has.”
A wistful look crossed his face. Aria stared at her lap. Of course he’d want to call his brother and ask. But he couldn’t.
Then Noel drew her into his arms. “All this sounds perfect, Liz.”
“I only go by Elizabeth,” Aria teased. “But thank you, Ronald.”
“That’s Ron to you.” Noel laughed lightly.
And now they were packing up to leave once more. Aria had looked up flights to Tokyo and found that they were cheaper out of London, so they were planning on taking the bus through the Chunnel there.
They would board a plane for Tokyo the following day.
After they were packed they walked down the rickety stairs and through the lobby. Hand in hand, they climbed onto a trolley that would take them to the suburb’s train station. Most of the people on the trolley were either very old or looked like students. “See?” Noel whispered, squeezing her hand. “No one is looking at you strangely in the slightest.” Noel brightened and began to unzip his backpack. “I forgot.” He pulled out a plastic bag and handed it to her. “I got you something yesterday.”
Aria plunged her hand into the bag. Inside was a long, blond wig. She touched a few strands. They felt like real hair. “Whoa.”
“I got it while you were trying on that dress in the store last night,” Noel explained, mentioning the one boutique they’d popped into during their tour of Brussels. “Just in case you feel . . . worried about someone recognizing you. I thought it would be a cute disguise.”
“It’s beautiful.” Aria wished she could put it on right then, though she knew that might draw suspicion.
Noel’s gaze fell to the bag. “There’s something else in there, too.”
She felt around at the bottom, then pulled out a small, vintage-looking gold bracelet etched with tiny purple stones. “Noel,” she breathed. The name Cartier was inscribed on the inside.
“I was going to give this to you on prom night,” Noel said gently. “But then everything . . . well, you know.”
Aria thought about how she’d freaked out on Noel in the graveyard near prom—though she’d had good reason. She’d just found out all that stuff about his secret friendship with Ali. The next morning was when they’d found Noel in the storage shed. Nick and Ali had beat him up, presumably because he’d said too much.
“It was my grandmother’s,” Noel explained. “She gave it to me before she died and said that I should give it to someone really special.” His voice cracked a little. “It’s the last thing I grabbed before I took off to find you. My grandmother meant a lot to me, and you do, too.”
Aria put the bracelet on and held up her wrist, her heart swelling with love. “Thank you.”
The trolley dropped them off at the train station, and together they walked through the echoing building to find their train. They flashed their new passports, and the woman behind the glass nodded sleepily. They boarded the train quickly, swept up in the crowds and babble and movement. After ten minutes, a whistle blew, and the train chugged out of the station. Aria stared out the windows, her stomach jumping with excitement, her new bracelet encircling her wrist.
Noel laid his head back on the seat. Aria gazed blankly around the cabin, then plucked a magazine from the mesh pocket in front of her. She had a sudden, prickly premonition, and sure enough, when she turned to one of the first pages, her own face stared back at her. It was a blurry picture of her at the Philadelphia airport, still dressed in her black sheath from Emily’s funeral. Aria Montgomery on the Lam, it said.
This article didn’t say much more than the one Aria had read in Amsterdam, though this one had interviewed several people who claimed to be “Aria’s closest friends.” One of them, laughably, was Klaudia Huusko, the exchange student who lived with the Kahns. “Aria push me off ski lift,” they quoted Klaudia as saying—it was just like a trashy paper to play up her fakey pidgin English. “She also spy on me. She very sneaky girl. I hope she not in Finland, she might hurt my family.”
Another was Ezra Fitz. Aria almost dropped the paper when she read his name. It included a picture, too—Ezra looked kind of bloated, and he was wearing an unflattering pair of black-framed glasses. “Aria always spoke of her love of Europe, so I have no doubt she went there,” he said. Then there was a line about how Ezra’s book, See Me After Class, was coming out next October. Publicity whore.
Aria looked up. Someone was staring—she could just feel it. She glanced around, then spotted a man standing at the back of the car. He wore a trench coat and had his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Even when she met his gaze, he didn’t look down.
Aria pretended to busy herself with the buttons on her coat. When she peeked at him again, he was still looking. Her breathing quickened. The man looked older, professional. He took out his phone and started saying something inaudibly into the receiver. Every so often, he glanced at her again, his expression more and more punishing.
Sweat pricked her forehead. Slowly, casually, she tapped Noel’s shoulder. “Um, I think we need to get off this train.”
Noel looked confused. “Huh? Why?”
Aria put her finger to her lips. “Just follow me into the next car in a few minutes, okay?”
She stood up, slinging her purse over her shoulder. She could feel the man’s eyes on her as she pushed through the door into the next car. The door slammed, and she wobbled up the aisle. Swallowing hard, she ducked into the bathroom and locked the door.
She stared at herself in the mirror, then smashed the blond wig on her head. Instantly, she was transformed into someone else—but was it enough? She fumbled for her sunglasses in her bag, then put on a hat, too.
Noel was waiting for her when she came out of the bathroom door. Aria could tell he wanted to ask questions, but she didn’t say a word, instead looking around him for the guy. He was in the next car, still on the phone. Would he soon realize she wasn’t coming back?
Blessedly, the train screeched into a station. A clipped voice called out the station name in Dutch, French, and German, and Aria grabbed Noel’s hand and yanked him to the platform. She ran all the way to the stairs, then glanced over her shoulder. The man wasn’t following.
“Now can you tell me what’s going on?” Noel cried as they clambered down the steps.
“I felt like someone was watching me,” Aria said under her breath. “Did you see him? That guy at the end of the car?”
Noel’s mouth twitched. “That guy came up to me and asked if I had a light for his cigarette. H-he heard my accent, asked where I was from.”
Aria gawked. “And what did you say?”
Noel’s throat bobbed. He glanced at the train again. “I said the U.S. That’s it. Then I got away from him. Excused myself.” He shook his head. “Aria. It was probably nothing. You’re being paranoid.”
Aria felt an uneasy pull in her stomach. “I kind of have a reason to be.”
Noel nodded. Then, a curiously excited smile danced across his lips, and he touched a strand of her wig. “You’re sexy when you’re an international criminal.”
“Stop.” Aria smacked him playfully. But she appreciated Noel’s attempt at making light of the moment. Maybe the man wasn’t after her. And now, in the swirl of people, she felt anonymous once more. It sort of was sexy—she felt like a character in Murder on the Orient Express. And suddenly, she felt so overcome that she took Noel’s hand and pulled him under the stairwell. She kissed him like it was their last day on earth.
Or like it was their last day of freedom.
18
THE JEWEL IN THE CROWN
Later on Thursday, after Spencer had suffered through yet another long, horrific court day, Rubens motioned for her and Hanna to speak to him in the hall. Spencer kept her head down, avoiding the reporters who were clamoring just past the courtroom doors. A bunch of their witnesses were there, too. Like Andrew Campbell, who Spencer hadn’t seen in months, but who’d given a sweet testimonial on the stand that she was a good person. Kirsten Cullen was there, too, as were a few of Spencer’s teachers, and there was even a representative from the Golden Orchid essay committee. Spencer had plagiarized her sister’s paper, but it had taken a great deal of fortitude and character to come forward to say that she’d lied. It was not, the representative said, the behavior of a murderer.
Spencer could sense them all there, and she wanted to take the time to thank each one of them. But Rubens was motioning her and Hanna forward. She shot them cursory smiles, then hurried after him.
Rubens led them into a conference room with a long wooden table and a huge oil
painting of a snub-nosed man in an old-timey George Washington wig. He sat down and folded his hands, then let out a long sigh.
“I’m going to level with you.” Rubens looked back and forth between the two of them. Spencer and Hanna were sitting as far apart as they possibly could, not looking at each other. “I’ve heard rumors that the DA is bringing in a surprise witness. It’s unusual, since they’ve already presented all their witnesses, but it can be done if someone doesn’t agree to testify until late in the game. It’s someone whom they claim will put the nail in the coffin.”
Hanna wrinkled her nose. “Who would that be?”
“Yeah, aside from Ali’s ghost coming in and saying we killed her,” Spencer added drily, fiddling with a button on her blazer.
Rubens tapped his pen on the table. “I’m not really sure who it might be, but it seems like the DA has something up his sleeve—something not good. I’m wondering if it makes the most sense for you girls to enter a plea bargain.”
Spencer flinched. “What?”
The lawyer didn’t look like he was joking. “We make a deal. It’ll mean a very high fine. And it’ll still mean prison time. But it might mean less prison time.”
Spencer stared at him. “But we didn’t do it.”
“We shouldn’t have to go to prison at all,” Hanna added.
Rubens rubbed his temples. “I understand that. But what you girls are looking for—absolute exoneration—it might not happen. I just want to manage your expectations.”
Spencer sat back. “You’re supposed to prove to the jury that this crime can’t be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. All the cops have are a tooth and some blood and us at the scene when we weren’t supposed to be there. Emily freaking out, all this stuff about our pasts—it doesn’t make us killers. Why are we giving up?”
Rubens shrugged. “It’s true that the lack of Alison’s body should be important, and I’m going to emphasize that in my closing statements. I’m not giving up, okay? I’m just throwing this out there as an option.” Then he stood. “Think about it, okay? We’re in recess for another few hours. We could end this today.”
