Vicious (11 page)

“Of course I know,” Mr. Marin said softly, maybe regretfully.

Hanna rolled her eyes. She wasn't going to give in to that tone of voice. “Anyway, I just called to let you know I'm getting married to Mike Montgomery.”

“You're . . .
what
?”

She bristled. Was that judgment she sensed? “We're very happy. The wedding is next Saturday at Chanticleer.”

“How long have you been planning this?”

She ignored his question. “I just called to tell you that you
aren't
invited,” she said loudly, saying the words quickly before she lost her nerve. “Mom and I have got it covered. Have a nice life.”

She pressed
END
fast, then cupped the phone between her hands. All at once, she felt even better. The gentle, Emily-like warmth in the room returned. For the next few days, Hanna would surround herself with exactly who
she
wanted—and no one else.

Aria sat up as daybreak streamed through the long, slanting windows of her room. She pushed back the curtains and peered out. It was Wednesday morning, and bicyclists traversed the picturesque canals. The air smelled like
pannenkoeken
, the famous Dutch pancakes. A man was standing on the next street corner playing the loveliest little melody on his violin. And then, from the next room over, Aria heard one of the raucous boys let out the loudest burp ever. “I am so hungover,” someone bellowed.

“Yeah, well, I think I'm still stoned.”

Aria flopped back down on the bed. She
was
in a youth hostel in Amsterdam—what did she expect? At least she'd ponied up for a private room.

Even the pile of vomit in the hallway and the unpredictable hot-cold stream of water in the shower didn't dull her spirits. An hour later, she was clean, bright-eyed, and optimistic, strolling out of the Red-Light District. The streets were mostly empty, all of the tourists who flooded this neighborhood probably sleeping off their hangovers. It was like she had the whole city to herself. She'd forgotten how much she loved Amsterdam! The slower pace, the foreign signs, the
putt-putt
of motorbikes, Amsterdam's funny trolley system, all of the quaint art and architecture . . . every detail made her realize how glad she was that she'd had the cab driver bring her here. It had been an impulse decision—Holland was lenient and tolerant—and it had been a long, boring drive through France and Belgium, Aria refusing to make eye contact or small talk with the hopefully oblivious, chain-smoking French driver and remaining slumped down so none of the other drivers could see her through the window. But it had been worth it.

The cool morning air felt good on her skin as she turned down a series of alleyways toward the Anne Frank house, which she planned on visiting that day. Might as well get some culture in, right? As Aria rounded a corner, a group of kids passed her going in the opposite direction. One of them had Emily's same copper-colored hair.

Aria flinched. She was seeing versions of Emily
everywhere.
Like the girl with the strong swimmer's shoulders she'd noticed through the windows of a touring bus yesterday, or the girl who'd thrown her head back and laughed the same way Emily did while Aria's cab driver had pulled over at a rest stop to pee, or the girl who knitted her brow, Emily-like, when someone told her something interesting—Aria had spied her at the hostel last night. It was uncanny . . . and kind of awful. Sort of like Emily's ghost was following her around, trying to tell her something.

She pressed on, passing a gift shop, a restaurant, and a little place that sold cell phones. A newsstand was next on the block, and a tabloid headline in the window caught her eye.
Pretty Little Liar trouwen
, it read. Aria blinked hard. She didn't know Dutch, but by the swirly writing and the picture of Hanna with a bridal veil superimposed on her head, she was pretty sure it meant
getting married.

Aria ran into the shop, snatched up a copy of the paper, and flipped to the article on page eight. Not that she could understand it—the whole paper was in Dutch—but she tried to glean as much as she could from the pictures. There was one of Hanna and Mike slow-dancing at the Valentine's Dance last year. Another of Hanna on the set of
Burn It Down
before she was fired. And then images of various diamond wedding rings with a big question mark next to each.

Aria's mouth dropped open. Were they having an actual
wedding
, with guests? Did her parents approve of this? She thought of the time
she'd
gotten married—to Hallbjorn, a boy she'd known from Iceland, in a whirlwind justice-of-the-peace ceremony mainly so that Hallbjorn could stay in the country. Her parents hadn't even known about it, would have killed her if they did. She'd gotten the union annulled long before they could have found out.

But Mike and Hanna . . . they were different. Aria could actually
see
them being married. She felt a pang. She was going to miss her little brother's and her best friend's wedding. She was going to miss
everything
about Mike's life, in fact—and Lola's, and she was just a baby! Tears came to her eyes. She thought she could handle being away, but she'd focused only on the negatives—the trial, going to prison, having everything taken away from her. But here, halfway around the world, so much was
still
taken away from her. It was such a high price to pay for freedom.

Then, her gaze focused on another front page on a newspaper two rows down. This paper was in English, and Aria's face was on the cover.
Pretty Little Liar in the EU?
read the headline.

Aria's blood ran cold. She looked around the little shop. The shopkeeper behind the counter was looking at something on his phone. A teenage boy stood in front of a refrigerated case full of soda. Heart pounding, Aria picked up a Dutch sailing magazine and slid the incriminating newspaper within the pages. Terrifying phrases jumped out from the page.
Authorities report that Miss Montgomery boarded a flight to Paris . . . Interpol searching for her everywhere, with an EU-wide alert at hotels, restaurants, and transport stations . . . several tips say she is in Northern Europe, perhaps the Scandinavian countries.

Northern Europe. That
was
where she was—sort of, anyway. Aria's hands started to tremble. She hadn't expected them to find her so soon . . . but maybe that was naive. This was
Interpol
, not the Rosewood PD.

Someone cleared his throat, and Aria looked up. The shopkeeper was suddenly staring at her, a strange expression on his face.

She slipped her sunglasses over her eyes and backed away quickly, almost stumbling over the stoop onto the street. Her chest felt tight. The shopkeeper had recognized her, hadn't he? She started walking as fast as she could down the street without breaking into a dead sprint. Any minute, the guy was going to follow her. Any minute, police cars were going to roar up and snatch her from behind.

Just keep going
, she told herself. She picked up the pace and noticed other people staring at her, too. A man on a bicycle. A teenager sitting on a bench, earbuds in her ears. What if they
all
knew who she was? What if there were tons of calls to Interpol right this minute? Should she go to the American embassy? Except that was insane—they'd ship her back, and she'd go to jail.

She cut through an alley and burst onto another, busier street, blinded with panic. She ran as fast as she could, veering around bikes, cutting around open shop doors, eliciting more strange looks from passersby. Her bag thumped imposingly against her hip, but she was glad to have it—there was no way she could go back to that hostel now. Good Lord: She'd used her
own ID
to check in. When had that alert about her gone out? Had the hostel she'd stayed in received it, and did they cross-reference it with her name?

How could she have been so stupid?

The Anne Frank house loomed ahead of her, though she couldn't imagine going inside now—it was far too cramped; she'd be too exposed. She stopped at the stairs and placed her hands on her thighs, panting. She needed a second before she pressed on.

Tons of people streamed past her. Tourists. Workers. Students. All at once, this felt like the worst idea in the world. She was in a foreign country—she didn't even know the language. Nor did she know a single person here. No one would take her in and hide her, Anne Frank–style. She fumbled in her bag and pulled out her phone again. She hadn't turned it on since she'd boarded the plane—in fact, she'd even removed the battery, as she'd heard somewhere that people could track you through GPS, even if your phone was off, if the battery was still installed. But maybe she should call someone. Surrender. Maybe the police would have pity on her if she went willingly.

Her fingers closed around the battery. Just snapping it back into place might set up a signal by which people could find her. Was she ready?

She was about to do it when a hand touched her shoulder. Aria whirled around, her arms protectively in front of her face. Her phone fell from her hand and skittered across the cobblestones, but she didn't move to grab it. She stared at the person in front of her. Then she gasped.

“I knew it,” he said breathlessly. “I knew you'd come here, just like you said.”

Aria blinked, unsure of her senses. And she oscillated, she realized, between throwing her arms around him or running even farther away in order to protect him.

Noel.

“Miss Hastings?” the reporters screamed as Spencer hurried down the courthouse steps after the second day of the trial. “What are your thoughts on the proceedings?”

“Do you have any idea where Aria Montgomery is hiding in Europe?” another reporter bellowed.

“What do you think about Hanna Marin getting married?” someone else shouted.

“Do you still believe that Alison is alive?” A reporter shoved a microphone with a local news logo on the base in her face.

Spencer elbowed out of their way, somehow making it through the blue barricades to a “safe” area the cops had blocked off that was off-limits to the press. She scanned the parking lot for the car service her mom had arranged to take her home—apparently, Mrs. Hastings was far too busy to actually watch her daughter's murder trial today. But the car wasn't there yet. She leaned against the wall and breathed in, feeling like she might cry.

The trial had been a disaster today. The prosecution's witnesses were first, and the DA had expertly uncovered every single damning thing Spencer had done through the years. Like how she'd pushed her sister down the stairs when she thought Melissa was A. Or that she'd freaked out in therapy, certain she'd killed Their Ali, or how she'd plagiarized her Golden Orchid essay (it didn't matter that she'd confessed her crime before they gave her the prize), or that she'd framed another girl for drug possession and had aided and abetted in pushing Tabitha Clark off that balcony in Jamaica, and that she was suspected to be involved in a mass-drugging at an eating club party in Princeton.
She's a violent, psychotic liar who has a Machiavellian drive to get what she wants
, the lawyer had sneered to the jury.
We shouldn't believe anything she says.

And as for the case the defense had on Ali? All the prosecution had to do was bring up that damn journal the cops found in the woods.
She's a different person on these pages
, the lawyer said.
Alison isn't the girl we think she is.

The doors to the courtroom slammed again, and Spencer watched as Hanna, flanked by her mom and Mike, emerged onto the steps. She felt a pang. All day, Hanna had sat stiffly and stoically as the lawyer went through the various things
she'd
done in the past two years. But Spencer could tell by the way she spun the yellow lacrosse bracelet around and around her wrist how much the accusations got to her. A huge part of her wanted just to take Hanna's hand, but there was never an appropriate moment—whenever there was a break, Mike rushed to Hanna's side immediately, whisking her away. Spencer wondered if they were really getting married, like the reporters had said. Would Hanna actually do such a thing?

“Spencer?”

A man in a white jacket and blue scrub pants hurried toward her. Spencer's mouth dropped open. It was Wren.

“Hi,” Wren said breathlessly when he approached. “How are you feeling?”

Spencer's whole body tensed. “Were you in the courtroom?” she squeaked. She hated the idea of him hearing all those horrible things about her.

“No, no. I just got off work. I thought I'd pop down here and see how you're doing—I haven't heard from you. Are you sleeping better? How are your wounds?”

Wren had driven all the way here just to give her a checkup? “Um, I'm fine,” Spencer said softly. “Healing nicely.”

“Good.” Wren's smile was twitchy. “Well, okay then. Unless . . .” He licked his lips nervously. “Unless you'd like to get coffee with me?”

“What, like now?” Spencer blurted.

Wren raised one shoulder. “I have the afternoon off. Unless you have other plans?”

Spencer lowered her shoulders. “I already told you this isn't a good idea.”

“Listen, I spoke to your sister,” Wren said.

“You did
what
?” Spencer shrieked. “You had no right!” Had Wren implied something happened between them? Did Melissa hate her now? Spencer glanced at her phone, wanting to call her sister that instant.

Wren held up his hand. “I just said that I'd like to take you out for coffee as a friend and I wanted to know if it was okay with her. She said it was fine. Honest.”

Spencer blinked slowly. That didn't sound so extreme. All of a sudden, she felt exhausted. She didn't want to argue with Wren anymore. And honestly, it would be kind of nice if someone took her out for coffee after such a horrendous day. It would certainly beat another stiflingly silent dinner at her house, Mr. Pennythistle and Amelia staring at her like she was an alien and her own mother acting like she didn't exist.

But then she looked at the ankle bracelet. Technically, she wasn't allowed to go anywhere except for home, the courthouse, and the doctor unless she had her parents' permission. Spencer's dad would probably say yes, but he was in a work meeting all day. Spencer's mom probably wouldn't even pick up her phone.

“Would you mind coming to my house?” she asked shyly, showing him her ankle bracelet. “It would be a lot easier.”

Wren didn't bat an eye. “Of course. Want me to drive you?”

Spencer shaded her eyes and watched as her car service pulled into the lot. “I'll meet you there,” she said, figuring her mom would get mad if she didn't use it.

The house was empty when Spencer arrived, a good thing. Talking to Wren would be easier without her mom nosing around. Minutes later, Wren pulled up to the curb and got out. Spencer stood on the lawn, smiling at him goofily. “Want to, um, sit out back?” she asked.

“Sure,” Wren answered.

She led him around the side yard to the patio, then pulled out a chair at the table for him to sit. “Um, do you want something to drink?” she fumbled. “Lemonade, maybe? Coke?”

“Whatever you have is fine.” He looked at her bemusedly, like she was stressing over something unimportant.

“Oh,” Spencer said. “Well, okay.”

She retrieved some Cokes from the fridge and sank down in a chair opposite him. A lawn mower grumbled. The Hastings's gardener quietly pruned the bushes in the side yard. The pool glistened invitingly, and the hot tub bubbled. Spencer couldn't help but remember when she and Wren had been in that hot tub together, after hockey practice. Had that really been her life?

Wren must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “Things are a bit different than when I stayed here, huh?”

Spencer gazed out at the property. The grass still hadn't grown in properly where the converted barn apartment had once stood. “I should say so,” she said quietly.

“I heard you were in the barn when that fire happened.”

Spencer nodded, recalling that horrible night. If only someone had caught Ali
then.
“Let's not dwell on that,” she said. “I do too much thinking about the past as it is.”

For a while, they talked about Rosewood, and Wren's residency program, and new music that they both liked. Then Wren folded his hands. “Did I hear you'd gotten into Princeton?
And
that you'd gotten a book deal?”

Spencer sipped her soda. “Yes on both counts, not that they're happening now.”

Wren made a face. “Pretend, for a moment, you aren't going to prison on a false murder charge. What's your book about?”

It still surprised Spencer that someone wanted to know this stuff—but then, Wren had always taken a genuine interest in who she was. Taking a deep breath, she began to describe the bullying blog. “I think it would have made a great book,” she said wistfully. “There are so many stories that deserve to be told.”

“You can still write it, you know,” Wren reminded her. “After all, Cervantes wrote
Don Quixote
in prison.”

Spencer looked up at him, surprised. “Really?”

“And O. Henry wrote tons of his short stories while incarcerated for embezzlement.”

Spencer's eyes lit up. “I love his stories.”

“Me, too.” Wren placed his chin in his hands. “I was always kind of sheepish to admit it, though. O. Henry was uncool with my classmates.”

Spencer snickered. “My AP English class always tried to outdo one another with obscure writers. I'm sure it would've been even worse at Princeton.”

“So what would your major be, if you were to go?” Wren asked.

Spencer sat back and thought for a moment. “When I first got in, it was going to be history, or maybe economics—my dad always thought I'd be good at business school.” She shrugged. “It's probably not worth talking about, though. I'm not going.”

Wren laced his fingers. “I have a feeling that you will, if you want to.”

“So you think I
won't
go to prison?”

He leaned forward. “I just believe that certain things have a way of working out.”

Spencer's eyes widened. And then, before she knew it, Wren was leaning forward even more and kissing her lightly on the mouth. His lips tasted like sugar. His skin was warmed from the sun.

She pulled away fast, staring at him with her mouth open. As much as she tried to tear her gaze away from Wren's face, all she could focus on was a tiny droplet of Coke on his upper lip that she suddenly felt the urge to brush away.

“Anyway,” Wren said in a small voice. And then he sat back in his seat and turned toward the woods, watching the trees, as if it hadn't happened at all.

A few hours later, Spencer opened her eyes. She was lying on her bed in her bedroom, feeling groggy—she must have dozed off after Wren left, which hadn't been long after the kiss.

The kiss.
It had been only a second long, but she'd thought about it quite a bit since it happened. What had it meant? Had it just been a friendly, sympathetic peck . . . or something more? And was it a good idea for her to even get into something right now?

There were clinking noises of pots banging together and silverware being pulled from drawers coming from the kitchen. Spencer rose and padded into the hall, surprised to hear Melissa's lilting voice downstairs. Her sister was laughing about something, clearly in a good mood. Apparently she hadn't seen the trial recap on CNN.

She walked downstairs and found Melissa and Darren already seated at the table. Her mother, Mr. Pennythistle, and Amelia were seated as well. “What's up?” she asked everyone.

“Spence!” Melissa's eyes lit up. “I tried calling you! I was wondering where you were!”

Spencer frowned. “I was just upstairs.” She glanced at her mother, who probably knew that, but Mrs. Hastings just shrugged.

“Sit, sit,” Melissa said, gesturing at an empty seat next to her. “We have big news.”

Spencer slid into a seat. Melissa's attention had turned to Darren again. It was then that Spencer noticed he was in a dark suit and a gray tie. She wasn't sure if she'd ever seen him so dressed up in her life. He was also nervously fiddling with his fork. “Did I miss something?” Spencer asked.

“Well, we were just about to tell everyone.” Darren looked moonily at Melissa. “I've asked Melissa to marry me. And Melissa's said yes.”

Spencer almost burst out laughing, quickly clapping her hand over her mouth before she did. Darren and Melissa were such a mismatched couple, but who was she to judge? She watched as Darren brought out a velvet ring box from his pocket and placed it in Melissa's hands. All at once, she felt a little twinge: Had Mike proposed to Hanna like this? It sucked that she wasn't speaking to Hanna and hadn't gotten the story.

“I'll do a reenactment, if you like,” Darren said. “Melissa Hastings,” he began in a far-too-sappy voice, “will you marry me?”

Melissa's eyes widened. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “I will!”

Mrs. Hastings whooped. Mr. Pennythistle clapped his hands. Everyone was hugging, Melissa even grabbing Spencer and pulling her into the fold. “There's more news, though,” she said over the din, then took a deep breath. “I'm also pregnant!”

Spencer's jaw dropped. Darren beamed. Mr. Pennythistle clapped again. “How delightful!”

“H-how far along?” Mrs. Hastings stammered.

Melissa's gaze fell bashfully to her midsection. “Nine weeks,” she said. “We just had an ultrasound, and everything looks great.” She pulled out a black-and-white picture and passed it around. Amelia and Mr. Pennythistle oohed.

When the picture made its way to Spencer, she focused hard, trying to discern where the little blob's head and feet might be. She also felt a rush of love for her sister. Perhaps
this
was why Melissa didn't want to get too involved with the Ali stuff—professing she was alive to the press, et cetera. Maybe she wanted to protect her unborn child from Ali's wrath.

“Well, then, the wedding has to happen quickly,” Mrs. Hastings said primly, folding her hands. It was pretty clear the baby had been a surprise to her, too. “Good thing I gave Darren one of my rings for the engagement.”

On cue, Melissa pulled the ring from the box. The huge, square-cut diamond sparkled magically around the room, throwing prismatic shapes on the walls. Spencer almost burst out laughing again. “That was
your
old engagement ring from Dad, wasn't it?” she asked her mom.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hastings said, a defensive edge to her voice. “Your father is a jerk, but he has exquisite taste in jewels.”

Melissa tilted her hand back and forth. “It was so nice of you to let us have this, Mom.”

Mrs. Hastings sliced at her meat. “Oh, you girls are set to inherit a treasure trove of things from your father. None of it means anything to
me
anymore.” Then she looked up sharply at Spencer. “Well,
you
won't get anything
.
You'll be in jail—it'll be no use to you there. Amelia can take your half.”

Spencer's mouth fell open. It felt as though her mother had just kicked her in the stomach. She'd always known her mom could be tactless, but come
on.