A chill went up Aria’s spine. Perhaps A had sent Aria those clues to deliberately throw her off track—and take the heat off the true murderer. And maybe, just maybe, the true murderer was…A.
Aria was lost in her thoughts when suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. She flinched and turned, her heart racing. Standing behind her, wearing a ratty Hollis College sweatshirt and a pair of jeans with a hole through the left front pocket, was Aria’s father, Byron. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling awkward. She hadn’t really spoken to her father in a few weeks.
“Jesus, Aria. Are you all right?” Byron blurted out. “I saw you on the news.”
“I’m okay,” Aria said stiffly. “It was Hanna who was hurt, not me.”
As her father pulled her in for a hug, Aria wasn’t sure whether to squeeze him tight or let her arms go limp. She’d missed him since he’d moved out of their house a month ago. But Aria was also furious that it had taken a life-threatening accident and a TV appearance to motivate Byron to leave Meredith’s side and reach out to his own daughter.
“I called your mother this morning, asking how you were, but she said you weren’t living there anymore.” Byron’s voice quivered with concern. He ran his hand over the top of his head, mussing up his hair even more. “Where are you living?”
Aria stared blearily at the brightly printed Heimlich maneuver poster tucked behind the Coke machine. Someone had drawn a pair of boobs on the choking victim’s chest, and it looked like the person giving the Heimlich was feeling her up. Aria had been staying at her boyfriend Sean Ackard’s house, but Sean had made it clear she wasn’t welcome there anymore when he’d ordered a raid on Ezra’s apartment and dumped Aria’s crap on Ezra’s doorstep. Who had tipped Sean off about Aria’s affair with Ezra? Ding ding ding! A.
She hadn’t given a new living situation much thought. “The Olde Hollis Inn?” Aria suggested.
“The Olde Hollis Inn has rats. Why don’t you stay with me?”
Aria vigorously shook her head. “You’re living with—”
“Meredith,” Byron stated firmly. “I want you to get to know her.”
“But…” Aria protested. Her father, however, was giving her his classic Buddhist monk look. Aria knew the look well—she’d seen it after he’d refused to let Aria go to an arty summer camp in the Berkshires instead of Hollis Happy Hooray day camp for the fourth summer in a row, which meant ten long weeks of making paper-bag puppets and competing in the egg-and-spoon race. Byron had donned the look again when Aria asked if she could finish school at the American Academy in Reykjavík instead of coming back to Rosewood with the rest of the family. The look was often followed by a saying Byron had learned from a monk he’d met during his graduate work in Japan: The obstacle is the path. Meaning what wouldn’t kill Aria would just make her stronger.
But when she imagined moving in with Meredith, a more appropriate quote came to mind: There are some remedies worse than the disease.
2 ABRACADABRA, NOW WE LOVE EACH OTHER AGAIN
Ali sank onto one hip and glared at Spencer Hastings, who stood across from her on the back path that led from the Hastingses’ barn to the woods. “You try to steal everything from me,” she hissed. “But you can’t have this.”
Spencer shivered in the cold evening air. “Can’t have what?”
“You know,” Ali said. “You read it in my diary.” She pushed her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. “You think you’re so special, but you’re so lame, acting like you didn’t know Ian was with me. Of course you knew, Spence. That’s why you liked him in the first place, isn’t it? Because I’m with him? Because your sister’s with him?”
Spencer’s eyes boggled. The night air turned sharp, almost acrid-smelling. Ali stuck out her bottom lip. “Oh, Spence. Did you really believe he liked you?”
Suddenly, Spencer felt a burst of anger, and her arms shot out in front of her, pushing Ali in the chest. Ali teetered backward, stumbling against the slippery rocks. Only, it wasn’t Ali anymore—it was Hanna Marin. Hanna’s body flew up in the air, and she hit the ground with a sharp crack. Instead of all her makeup and BlackBerry bursting out of her purse as from a smashed-open piñata, Hanna’s internal organs spewed out of her body, raining down on the concrete like hail.
Spencer shot up, her blond hair damp with sweat. It was Sunday morning, and she was lying in her bed, still in the black satin dress and uncomfortable thong underwear she’d meant to wear to Mona Vanderwaal’s birthday party the night before. Soft gold light slanted across her desk, and starlings chirped innocently in the giant oak next to her window. She’d been awake nearly all night, waiting for her phone to ring with news about Hanna. But no one had called. Spencer had no idea if the silence was good…or terrible.
Hanna. She’d called Spencer late last night, just after Spencer had recalled her long-suppressed memory of shoving Ali in the woods the night Ali disappeared. Hanna had told Spencer she’d found out something important, and that they had to meet at the Rosewood Day swings. Spencer had pulled up to the parking lot just as Hanna’s body flew into the air. She’d maneuvered her car to the side of the road, then run out on foot into the trees, shocked by what she saw. “Call an ambulance!” Aria was shrieking. Emily was sobbing with fear. Hanna remained immobile. Spencer had never witnessed anything so terrifying in her entire life.
Seconds later, Spencer’s Sidekick had pinged with a text from A. Still shrouded in the woods, Spencer saw Emily and Aria pull out their phones as well, and her stomach flipped as she realized they must have all received the same creepy message: She knew too much. Had A figured out whatever it was that Hanna had discovered—something that A must have been trying to hide—and hit Hanna to shut her up? That had to be it, but it was hard for Spencer to truly believe it had actually happened. It was just so diabolical.
But maybe Spencer was just as diabolical. Just hours before Hanna’s accident, she’d shoved her sister, Melissa, down the stairs. And she’d finally remembered what had happened the night Ali went missing, recovered those lost ten minutes she’d suppressed for so long. She’d pushed Ali to the ground—maybe even hard enough to kill her. Spencer didn’t know what had happened next, but it seemed like A did. A had sent Spencer a text only a couple days ago, hinting that Ali’s murderer was right in front of her. Spencer had received the text just as she was looking in the mirror…at herself.
Spencer hadn’t run into the parking lot to join her friends. Instead, she’d sped home, in desperate need to think all this through. Could she have killed Ali? Did she have it in her? But after an entire sleepless night, she just couldn’t compare what she had done to Melissa and Ali to what A had done to Hanna. Yes, Spencer lost her temper, yes, Spencer could be pushed to the limit, but deep down, she just didn’t think she could kill.
Why, then, was A so convinced Spencer was the culprit? Was it possible A was wrong…or lying? But A knew about Spencer’s seventh-grade kiss with Ian Thomas, her illicit affair with Wren, Melissa’s college boyfriend, and that the five of them had blinded Jenna Cavanaugh—all things that were true. A had so much ammo on them, it was hardly necessary to start making stuff up.
Suddenly, as Spencer wiped the sweat off her face, something hit her, sending her heart sinking to her feet. She could think of a very good reason why A might have lied and suggested that Spencer killed Ali. Perhaps A had secrets, too. Perhaps A needed a scapegoat.