Deadly (Pretty Little Liars #14)

Carolyn’s brow crinkled. “I threw it away. I couldn’t stand it being in my room.”

“Was it handwritten? Did it have a postmark?”

“No, it was typed. I don’t remember where it was mailed from.” Carolyn gazed at her curiously. “Do you know who might have written it?”

Emily ran her tongue over her teeth. A Concerned Friend. Ali? Her helper? Who else could it be?

Mrs. Fields popped her head into the hall. “Dinner’s ready!” she crowed.

Emily and Carolyn turned toward the kitchen. Emily’s heart was still banging from the argument, but at least it was all finally out in the open. She snuck a look at Carolyn as they walked into the hall. Carolyn shot her a small, tentative smile. When Emily moved toward her and spread out her arms for a hug, Carolyn didn’t dart away. The hug was kind of stiff and awkward, but it felt like a step in the right direction.

Mrs. Fields passed around plates. Then, something out the window caught Emily’s eye. The black SUV was parked alongside the curb. Clarence sat in the front seat, reading the newspaper. A car drove past, and he lowered the paper and stared hard at it until it rounded the bend.

None of Emily’s family noticed it there. They would, eventually—Emily would have to tell Clarence to park in a more secluded location. But for now, she appreciated his close range. Stay out, Clarence was telling Ali, who was surely watching. From now on, she’s off-limits.

That felt like a step in the right direction, too.

10

A BRAND-NEW DAY

When the squad car pulled up to Aria’s mother’s house, the mowing service was just finishing up. Two brawny, college-age boys loaded the lawn mowers onto the trailer behind their truck. The boys waved to Aria like it was completely normal that she was getting out of a police car on a Tuesday evening.

“Do you want an escort to your door, Miss Montgomery?” the cop who had driven her asked, looking right and left cautiously.

“That’s okay,” Aria answered.

“Well, if you need anything at all, just signal Buzz.” The cop gestured to a minivan parked on the street. Though it had a bumper sticker that read MY CHILD IS A ROSEWOOD ELEMENTARY HONOR STUDENT and a pair of Mickey ears on the antenna, a brawny guy in sunglasses who looked like The Rock’s stunt double sat in the driver’s seat.

“Got it.” Aria smiled. She felt almost airy as she walked across the front lawn.

“Aria?”

Ella stood on the porch. She was wearing the yellow, zigzagged tunic she’d owned since her days in art school, and her silvery-black hair was tied up on top of her head in a bun. There was a horrified expression on her face. “Why did the police just drop you off?” she asked, staring at the cruiser that disappeared down the street.

“Oh, that.” Aria waved her hand. “It’s nothing. I’m not in trouble.”

Ella blinked hard. “You had your interview today, right? Did something happen at the college?”

“Hey, it smells really good in here!” Aria said loudly as she walked into the foyer, hoping to change the subject. “Did you just bake some bread?”

Ella pushed the door closed. “Aria, tell me what’s going on. Now.”

Aria let out a long sigh. “It’s a long story, but I’m not in trouble. Really. And I did have the interview . . . but I blew it.”

Ella cocked her head. “What happened?”

Aria shrugged. “I wasn’t the right fit.” She slumped down on the couch. “I really wanted to go, too.”

Ella sat down next to her and gathered Polo, the family’s cat, into her arms. “Why did you want to go, exactly?”

Aria gave her mom an uh-duh look. “Because art is the field I want to go into. Because I’d get to meet amazing people and help out with cool projects. Because . . .”

Ella placed her hand on Aria’s knee. “But couldn’t you do those things in New York? Philly? Rosewood, even? Why did you have to go all the way to Holland?”

Aria studied Ella’s piercing blue eyes and questioning expression. “Does this have anything to do with Noel?” Ella went on. “Mike told me you two broke up. That Noel lied to you.”

Aria’s jaw twitched. Said like that, it sounded so . . . harsh. Awful. But then, maybe it was kind of the truth. Even if Noel hadn’t done anything with Ali, he’d still lied.

She shut her eyes, thinking yet again of Noel. Sometime between when she’d gone to the police station and when she’d been released, he’d sent her a message that said, How are you? She doubted he had any idea what was happening to her; it was just a coincidence. On the ride home, she’d composed a text back.

But she hadn’t sent it. She needed to move on, right?

She stared across the room at a table that held framed family photos. Long ago, Ella had removed the ones that had Byron in them, so now they were mostly of Aria and Mike, with a random one of Aria’s ancient great-grandma Hilda. “How did you feel when you found out about Dad’s thing with Meredith?” she asked.

Ella groaned and sat back against the pillows. “Awful. I wanted to run away, too. But I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t. You had me and Mike.”

“You have me and Mike, too,” Ella said firmly. “And your dad and Lola. We still need you.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve heard some other things, too, honey.” She took Aria’s hands. “You’re not thinking of . . . hurting yourself, are you?”

There were tears in her eyes. Her voice was so tender. Aria lowered her shoulders, hating those stupid suicide rumors. “Of course not,” she said softly. “I’m stronger than that.”

“I thought so,” Ella said, her voice trembling a little. “I just wanted to make sure.”

Aria snuggled into her shoulder. Ella’s gauzy blouse smelled like patchouli oil. She stroked Aria’s hair, the same way she used to do when Aria was younger and afraid to go to sleep because she thought a giant eel lived in her closet.

“I’m sorry about Noel, honey,” her mom said softly. “And I know not going to Holland seems like a setback. But you’re resilient. And you don’t need to go to some faraway country to be happy. You can find an amazing art scene here in Rosewood.”

Aria sniffed. “Yeah, right.” Rosewood’s idea of cutting-edge art was painting the apples in a still life slightly off-red, the pears a marginally unnatural shade of green.

“I think I know of something that might cheer you up. There’s an opening for a part-time assistant at the gallery. If you want the job, it’s yours.”

Aria resisted the urge to snicker. Her mother worked at an art gallery in Hollis that sold tame, tepid landscapes of old Pennsylvania barns and detailed paintings of local birds. Aria got a headache every time she went in there because the place smelled overwhelmingly like the Yankee Candle store that was next door.

“It’ll be good for you to be around people,” Ella urged. “And bring your portfolio—maybe Jim will frame one of your pieces and give you a mini-show.”

Maybe Ella had a point. A job would give her something to do in the afternoons—she had so many hours to fill now that she and Noel weren’t together. And though Aria hated the idea of someone buying one of her paintings and hanging it next to a hokey Amish hex sign, she did like the idea of selling her work.

“Okay, I guess I could do that,” she said.

“Great.” Ella went to stand, then paused and looked at Aria again. “And you’re positive I don’t have to worry about the cop car?”

Aria pretended to be interested in the psychedelic swirls on the couch. “Of course not,” she mumbled.

“Good!” Ella pretended to wipe her brow. “I’ve got enough gray hairs as it is!”

Aria managed a chuckle. Ella was using that gray-hair line on the kids long before Aria was ever getting tormented by A. But this time, she was pretty sure she could hold up her side of the bargain. From now on, there would be no drama. No trouble. No lies.

And maybe, now that A was out of her hands, Ella would get her wish.

11

ONE MAN’S TRASH . . .

On Wednesday afternoon, Spencer and Chase stood on the lawn of Mr. Pennythistle’s model home. It had carefully trimmed hedges and a weed-free front walk. Daffodils exploded out of ceramic pots by the door. Birds chirped from the branches of the big oak on the front lawn. The only eyesore was the yellow police tape across the front door.

Spencer walked up to it and moved it aside. Then she looked at Chase. “Are you sure you want to help? It’s a huge mess in there.”

“Of course,” Chase insisted, walking up to the house and gingerly stepping over the police tape. “That’s why I’m here, Spencer.” Chase had called her this morning, asking what she’d been up to, and the whole story of her arrest had spilled out of Spencer before she could stop herself. He had insisted on driving out to Rosewood to comfort her, which Spencer had to admit felt . . . well, comforting.

Spencer reached for the keys Mr. Pennythistle had left for her earlier that day, but as she was about to push them into the lock, the door swung open. She froze, listening for whoever might be inside. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the tough-looking security guy behind the wheel of the SUV. He was staring straight ahead, impassive behind his dark sunglasses.

“Hello?” Spencer called into the house, her heart pounding.

“Hello?” a voice called back.

There were footsteps, and Officer Gates stepped into the living room, navigating around the four couch cushions that lay on the floor and the tipped-over furniture. He blinked at Spencer. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to clean up,” Spencer answered. “What are you doing here?”

“Dusting for prints.” Gates held up his palms; he was wearing plastic gloves. “The forensic team just left. I’m heading out, too.”

Spencer’s heart lifted. Fuji was taking her seriously. Gates was searching for Ali.

“Did you find anything?” she asked eagerly.

Gates ran his hand over his bristly red hair. “A few prints here and there, but nothing conclusive.” His cell phone bleated out a calypso ringtone, and he held up a finger to Spencer. “Hello?” he said into the speaker. After a moment, he added, “I’m on my way.”

He turned back to Spencer. “Family emergency, sorry. I bagged a couple of things as evidence, but I’m not sure it’s going to give us much.” He cast an uncertain look at Chase. “Anyway, we’re done here. You can start cleaning up the place.” He nodded at Spencer and strode out of the house.

Spencer shut the door behind him, leaned against the wall, and heaved a huge sigh. “Well, that’s disappointing.” She looked around the room. Though she’d come and gone from this place several times while the girls were investigating Ali, it looked so different now. Desk drawers hung open, and there were crayon slashes all over the walls. There was a big crack in the glass on the grandfather clock. A ceiling light had been pulled out of the plaster, the wires dangling. “How is it that there’s no trace of Ali anywhere?”