“Are you here on business or pleasure?” the officer asked.
His thin, high voice disarmed her. She stared at him, almost wanting to laugh—did she look like someone here on business? “P-pleasure,” she stammered.
“For how long?”
“A week.” It was an arbitrary length of time, but the officer nodded, seemingly placated. Aria could feel a thin bead of sweat trickling down her back. She felt the sudden urge to pee. She glanced toward the doors, horrified that the police dog was still staring at her.
Stamp.
To her amazement, the officer was handing back her passport. “There you go, Miss Montgomery. Have a nice stay.”
Aria took it from him slowly, not quite believing it was happening. But as soon as she got the passport back, she scurried toward the huge door marked EXIT. And then, finally, blissfully, she was in the regular terminal, on official French soil, people streaming around her and noises blaring from every direction. She was instantly lost in the crowd. Aria headed toward an escalator, locating a taxi-stand sign overhead. She wasn’t staying in the city, though. Or even this country. The police would track this flight in no time. Her plan was to get out of France on a train, or in a hired cab that wouldn’t ask for ID.
Her heart began to pound again—but this time, from excitement. Where would she end up? She wasn’t even sure—anywhere within the EU that didn’t ask for passports at the borders. Milan, maybe. Or perhaps a sleepy Spanish town. Or maybe Denmark, or Switzerland. It thrilled her to be in Europe again. The whole world had opened up once more.
Screw you, Ali, she thought giddily. And she wondered, too; even though that girl in the terminal hadn’t been Emily in the flesh, perhaps Emily was watching over her from beyond the grave. Maybe she’d supernaturally guided Aria here, making sure no one caught her, paving the way for Aria to get into the country without incident. After all, what Emily wanted more than anything in the world was for all of them to beat Ali and walk free.
And by some crazy twist of fate, at least for Aria, that was exactly what was happening. If only she could have brought her friends with her.
11
YOU SHOULDA PUT A LACROSSE BRACELET ON IT
“So what are you going to go with, the gray suit with the pinstripes, or the basic black?”
Hanna looked up from her vanity. It was Tuesday, and Mike was standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, holding two of her outfits up to his body and pivoting back and forth like a beauty queen. “Personally, I’d like you to show off your legs,” he said. He hung the demure suits back in the closet and pulled out a tight, sparkly, ultra-short dress Hanna had worn out with Hailey Blake. “This would wow the jury, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, especially with this.” Hanna held up her leg, showing off her ankle monitor. The thing was so annoying: She had to wrap a plastic bag around it to take a shower, she couldn’t turn over in bed without it clunking around, and she couldn’t pull a single pair of skinny jeans over it. Still, she couldn’t help but crack the tiniest smile. Mike was just trying to make her feel better, but it was tough on today of all days.
On cue, the morning news on the TV in her room resumed after a commercial break. Hanna’s own face from the last time they were in the courtroom, for Tabitha Clark’s murder, appeared on the screen. “The murder trial of the Pretty Little Liars begins this morning,” the reporter said.
The image switched from Hanna’s face to Aria’s and Spencer’s, and then a picture of Emily. “After Emily Fields’s tragic suicide on Saturday, there was talk of delaying the proceedings, but the prosecution team wants to push forward.”
The pointy-nosed district attorney named Brice Reginald popped up. Hanna already hated his slicked hair and penchant for bow ties. “I feel for Ms. Fields’s family, but there’s another family who needs answers—the DiLaurentis family,” he said in a smooth, nasal tone. “We expect Mr. DiLaurentis at the trial this morning, and I’ve assured him that it will be a quick procedure with favorable results. Justice will be done for his murdered daughter.”
Hanna scoffed. If she were Ali’s dad, she wouldn’t show her face in that courtroom. He had to know Ali was a coldhearted killer and liar. Then again, he actually wasn’t Ali’s dad—that was Mr. Hastings. And he was attending . . . supporting Spencer. Her head started to hurt with how messed up it all was.
She wondered, too, where Jason was in all this. It was clear Mrs. D was wallowing at home, too overwrought to attend, but what was Ali’s brother’s excuse? Maybe he was smart and didn’t believe the hype.
“What about the defense’s position that Alison DiLaurentis is still alive?” a reporter asked the lawyer.
The DA sniffed. “It’s very clear Ms. DiLaurentis was murdered.”
Hanna made a small eep. Mike muted the TV. “There’s no use watching this.” He walked over and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. I’ll be there the whole time.”
Hanna was about to answer him when his phone beeped. He glanced at the screen, and his face clouded.
“Is it a reporter?” Hanna asked, feeling jumpy. She’d gotten so many calls from nosy people in the past twenty-four hours that she’d had to clear out her voicemail twice. Mike had mentioned they’d gotten his number, too.
“No,” Mike murmured, his eyes still on the screen. “My mom still can’t get ahold of Aria.”
Hanna cocked her head. “Since when?”