Byron’s cell phone vibrated, scooting across the scuffed coffee table. He stared at the screen, frowning, then picked it up. “Ella?” His voice cracked.
Aria tensed. Byron’s eyebrows knitted together. “Yes…she’s here.” He passed the phone to Aria. “Your mother wants to talk to you.”
Meredith cleared her throat awkwardly, standing up and drifting toward the bathroom. Aria stared at the phone as if it were a piece of putrefied shark, which someone in Iceland had once dared her to eat. After all, the Vikings used to eat it. She put the phone tentatively to her ear. “Ella?”
“Aria, are you all right?” Ella’s voice cried from the other end.
“I’m…fine,” Aria said. “I don’t know. I guess. I’m not hurt or anything.”
There was a long silence. Aria pulled out her father’s little antenna and pushed it back in again.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” Ella gushed. “I had no idea you were going through this. Why didn’t you tell us someone was threatening you?”
“Because…” Aria wandered into her tiny bedroom off Meredith’s studio and picked up Pigtunia, her pig puppet. Explaining A to Mike had been hard. But now that it was over, and Aria didn’t have to worry about A’s retaliation, she realized the real reason didn’t matter. “Because you guys were caught up in your own stuff.” She sank onto her lumpy twin bed, and the bedsprings let out a mooing groan. “But…I’m sorry, Ella. For everything. It was terrible of me not to say anything about Byron for all that time.”
Ella paused. Aria snapped on the tiny TV that sat in the windowsill. The same press conference images emerged on the screen. “I get why you didn’t,” Ella finally said. “I should’ve understood that. I was just angry, that’s all.” She sighed. “My relationship with your dad hadn’t been good for a long time. Iceland stalled the inevitable—we both knew this was coming.”
“Okay,” Aria said softly, running her hands up and down Pigtunia’s pink fur.
Ella sighed. “I’m sorry, sweetie, and I miss you.”
An enormous, egg-shaped lump formed in Aria’s throat. She stared up at the cockroaches Meredith had painted on the ceiling. “I miss you too.”
“Your room is here if you want it,” her mother said.
Aria hugged Pigtunia to her chest. “Thanks,” she whispered, and clapped the phone shut. How long had she been waiting to hear that? What a relief it would be to sleep in her own bed again, with its normal mattress and soft, downy pillows. To be among all her knitting projects and books and her brother and Ella. But what about Byron? Aria listened to him coughing in the other room. “Do you need a Kleenex?” Meredith called from the bathroom, sounding concerned. She thought about the card Meredith had made for Byron and pinned up on the fridge. It was a cartoon elephant saying, Just stamping by to say I hope you have a great day! It seemed the kind of thing that Byron—or Aria—would do.
Maybe Aria had been overreacting. Maybe Aria could convince Byron to buy a comfier bed for this little room. Maybe she could sleep here every once in a while.
Maybe.
Aria glanced at the TV screen. The press conference on Ian had just ended, and everyone stood to leave. As the camera swung wide, Aria noticed a blond girl with a familiar heart-shaped face. Ali? Aria sat up. She rubbed her eyes until they hurt. The camera panned over the crowd again, and she realized the blond woman was at least thirty. Aria was obviously hallucinating from lack of sleep.
She wandered back into the living room, Pigtunia still in her hand. Byron opened his arms and Aria slid into them. Her dad patted Pigtunia absentmindedly on the head as they sat there, watching the press conference aftermath on TV.
Meredith emerged from the bathroom, her face a bit green. Byron slid his arm from Aria’s shoulders. “You still feeling sick?”
Meredith nodded. “I am.” There was an anxious look on her face, as if she had a secret she needed to spill. She raised her eyes to both of them, the corners of her lips spreading into a tiny smile. “But it’s okay. Because…I’m pregnant.”
40
ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT A GOLDEN ORCHID
Later that evening, after the police had finished raiding the Vanderwaal mansion, Wilden arrived at the Hastingses’ house to ask Melissa a few final questions. He was sitting on their leather living room couch now, his eyes puffy and tired. Everyone looked tired, actually—except for Spencer’s mother, who wore a crisp Marc Jacobs shirtdress. She and Spencer’s father were standing on the far side of the room, as if their daughters were covered in bacteria.
Melissa’s voice was monotone. “I didn’t tell you the truth about that night,” she admitted. “Ian and I had been drinking, and I fell asleep. When I woke up, he wasn’t there. Then I fell asleep again and he was there when I woke.”
“Why didn’t you say anything about this before?” Spencer’s father demanded.
Melissa shook her head. “I went to Prague that next morning. At that point, I’m not sure anyone really knew Alison was missing. When I got back and everyone was frantic…well, I just never thought Ian would be capable of something like that.” She picked at the hem on her pale yellow Juicy hoodie. “I suspected they’d hooked up all those years ago, but I didn’t think it was serious. I didn’t think Alison had given him an ultimatum.” Like everyone else, Melissa had learned of Ian’s motives. “I mean, she was in seventh grade.”
Melissa glanced at Wilden. “When you started asking questions this week about where Ian and I were, I started to wonder if maybe I should’ve said something years ago. But I still didn’t think it was possible. And I didn’t say anything then because…because I thought I’d somehow get in trouble for concealing the truth. And, I mean, I couldn’t have that. What would people think of me?”
Her sister’s face crumpled. Spencer tried hard not to gape. She’d seen her sister cry plenty of times, but usually out of frustration, anger, rage, or a ploy to get her own way. Never out of fear or shame.
Spencer waited for her parents to rush over to console Melissa. But they sat stock-still, judgmental looks on their faces. She wondered if she and Melissa had been dealing with the exact same issues all this time. Melissa had made impressing their parents look so effortless that Spencer never realized that she agonized about it, too.
Spencer plopped down at her sister’s side and threw her arms around Melissa’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” she whispered in her ear. Melissa raised her head for a moment, noted Spencer confusedly, then set her head on Spencer’s shoulder and sobbed.
Wilden handed Melissa a tissue and stood up, thanking them for their cooperation throughout this ordeal. As he was leaving, the house phone rang. Mrs. Hastings walked primly to the phone in the den and answered. Within seconds, she poked her head into the living room. “Spencer,” she whispered, her face still sober but her eyes bright with excitement. “It’s for you. It’s Mr. Edwards.”
A hot, sick feeling washed over Spencer. Mr. Edwards was the head of the Golden Orchid committee. A personal phone call from him could mean only one thing.
Spencer licked her lips, then stood. The other side of the room, where her mom was standing, seemed a mile away. She wondered what her mom’s secret phone calls were about—what big gift she’d bought for Spencer because she’d been so certain Spencer would win the Golden Orchid. Even if it was the most wonderful thing in the world, Spencer wasn’t sure she’d be able to enjoy it.