Vicious (12 page)

There was an awkward pause; it was clear no one knew what to say. Then Melissa touched Spencer's hand. “How does it feel, knowing you're going to be an aunt?”

Spencer tried to smile and shift gears. “Great. I'm so excited for you. And I'll try to be the best aunt ever.”

“Actually, I was hoping you'd be
more
than an aunt,” Melissa said cautiously, twisting her new ring around her finger. “Maybe a godmother, too?”

“
Me?
” Spencer touched her chest. “Are you
sure
?” She might very well be a godmother in
jail
, after all.

“Of course.” Melissa squeezed Spencer's thigh. “I want you in our baby's life, Spence. You're the strongest person I know, especially given all you've been through.” She glanced at her mother, who had jumped up from her seat and was rushing into the kitchen. “Don't pay attention to Mom, okay?” she whispered. “I'll give you half the jewels I inherit. But only the ugly ones.” She nudged her playfully.

Spencer wiped away a tear, overwhelmed by her sister's kindness. “Thanks,” she mustered. “I'll take the ugliest ones you get.”

Melissa dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “I heard you're back in touch with Wren.”

Even though Spencer had been forewarned, she still felt her cheeks burn. “It's just because he's my doctor,” she said quickly. “We're not, like,
you
know.”

“Even if you were, that would be okay.”

Spencer stared at her, surprised. “Really?”

Melissa nodded. “Wren used to talk about you all the time. And what happened at the end there . . . well, I can't say I didn't sort of orchestrate it, you know?” She looked down at the ultrasound picture next to her plate. “I just want you to be as happy as I am.”

“Thanks,” Spencer bleated.

As she said it, she realized she kind of
was
happy. Not with the predicament she was in, obviously, but in this moment. She thought of a baby coming into their lives and how much joy that would bring. She thought of how pleasant it was to have a real, true, precious relationship with Melissa. And then she thought of Wren. Leaning toward her. Kissing her lightly. That contented look on his face afterward, as he'd stared at the trees.

She grabbed her phone, suddenly charged with purpose. Wren's text from the other day was still in her inbox; she hit a button and composed a reply.
Thanks for coming over today
, she typed quickly.
I hope I can see you again.

She hoped he hoped so, too.

By Thursday, Hanna had begun to notice that the judge who was presiding over their trial, the Honorable Judge Pierrot, secretly picked his nose when he thought no one was looking. And that the bailiff played Candy Crush Saga during breaks, and that Juror #4, an older woman who wore square, dark-framed glasses and seemed utterly oblivious to current events—which was probably why they had chosen her—tapped her fingers on the desk to the rhythm of “Ding, Dong! The Witch Is Dead.” Hanna began to make a little superstitious game out of it: If Judge Pierrot dug around in his nose five times before lunch, she got ten points. If Juror #10 spun her engagement ring around her finger ten times in the day, she got twenty. It was easier to focus on that stuff than what was actually happening during the trial.

The testimony this morning was all about various witnesses who'd seen Hanna and the others skulking around Ashland before Ali's alleged death. Apparently they'd been much less sneaky than they all thought, because the prosecution had found
seven people
to come forward. Most of them were just random citizens who didn't have much to say, but the last woman, who wore a navy-blue suit and heels, was someone Hanna remembered. It was the lady Emily had accosted near the Maxwells' property. Emily had been so worked up, in fact, that they'd had to practically pull her off the woman to calm her down.

Which, of course, was what the woman told them. “The girl who sadly took her life seemed very troubled,” she said in a dramatic voice. “I truly feared for my safety.”

Hanna wrinkled her nose. It hadn't been
that
bad.

The DA called another witness, a well-dressed woman with bright-red lipstick. When she stated her name for the court, she said in a clear voice, “Sharon Ridge.”

Hanna gasped. It was the woman who'd organized the Rosewood Rallies function at the Rosewood Country Club. What was
she
doing up there, testifying against them?

“Tell us about the Rosewood Rallies event,” the DA said.

Sharon Ridge rolled back her shoulders, then described the event as a gala at the country club to support disadvantaged youth in the Rosewood area. “It was a very special night,” she said. “A lot of people from the community came out, and we raised a lot of money.”

“And you had distinguished guests, correct?” the DA asked.

Ridge gazed into the courtroom. “Yes, Ms. Marin.” She pointed to Hanna. “And Ms. Hastings. As well as Ms. Fields and Ms. Montgomery, who are not here.”

“And did those girls seem grateful to be there?”

She adjusted her collar. “Well, not exactly. They seemed quite distracted all night. I wanted to introduce them to people, but all of them just looked right through me. And we wanted to have a little ceremony for the girls—they'd been through so much, or so we'd thought. But when we called them to the stage, they weren't there.”

“Not a single one?”

The woman shook her head. “The cameras at the main entrance show them leaving the premises around 9
PM
.”

“And when you say the girls were distracted, what do you mean?”

Ridge pushed a flyaway hair out of her face. “Well, I noticed Aria Montgomery flee into the ladies' lounge. Emily Fields was positively catatonic, as was Hanna Marin. And Spencer Hastings, well . . .” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“What?” the DA goaded.

“I'm not sure if this has anything to do with anything, but a few people said that Ms. Hastings had a very heated fight with the boy she brought as her date. They heard the name
Alison
mentioned.”

The DA put his hands on his hips. “You have this young man's name, correct?”

She nodded. “It's Greg Messner.”

He looked at the jury. “I may mention that Greg Messner ended up dead later that night.” Everyone gasped. “Found in a creek bed in Ashland, Pennsylvania. And you know who else was in Ashland that same evening? Spencer Hastings. And her three friends.”

Rubens shot up. “This isn't a trial for Mr. Messner's death. And Ms. Hastings had nothing to do with that.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

Spencer poked Rubens as he sat down. “Greg was an Ali Cat,” she whispered. “He targeted me through my anti-bullying site. He'd been working
with
Ali—she'd given him instructions to get close to me and get info. Can't you tell them that?”

“You should totally tell him that,” Hanna piped up, just trying to be helpful. But Spencer just shot her an
I-don't-need-your-help
look. Hanna slumped back down in her seat. So much for trying to be civil.

Rubens glanced at the girls worriedly. “Let's just drop it, okay? We'll concentrate on our own witnesses. That starts this afternoon.”

Hanna drew her bottom lip into her mouth. It seemed like every avenue they pursued led to a dead end. And were
their
witnesses really going to save the day?

She ran her hands down the length of her face, her heart thudding hard. It felt like she was trapped inside a dress that was ten sizes too small for her body. She couldn't move her arms or her torso. She could barely breathe.

After that day's proceedings, she somehow made her way into the hall, where she could collect her thoughts. She looked at her phone for the first time in hours. She had forty-two new messages, and they were all RSVPs to her wedding.

Her wedding.
Well, at least that was something.

She scrolled through each
yes
, astonished that so many people wanted to come. Ramona had emailed her that the hip-hop/breakdancing group Hanna wanted to perform during cocktail hour at the reception had said yes. She also mentioned that because so many celebrities were attending—not only some of the cast of
Burn It Down
, but a few local newscasters and young socialites as well—she was thinking of having something of a red carpet before the reception. Us Weekly
seems really into the idea.

Us Weekly?
Despite the courtroom circus, Hanna felt a tiny, excited flutter. She knew this wedding was a big deal—everything surrounding their lives was these days. The trial was reported on obsessively on most of the news channels every night, there were constant updates about Aria's whereabouts in Europe—the latest was that she was hiding somewhere in Sweden—and a few people had sent her Instagrams of mentions of her wedding in tabloids all over the globe. But
Us
was legit—and it didn't sound like they were covering the wedding just to be snarky.

She dialed Ramona's number and pressed her phone to her ear. “It's Hanna. Red carpet's a go. I think that sounds really fun.”

“Perfect,” Ramona squawked. “It's all coming together, Hanna. I think it's going to be fantastic.”

“Me, too,” Hanna said, her voice rising. “And you know what? Let's have fireworks at the reception, too.”

“Fireworks?” Ramona paused to consider it. “I have some people I can call.”

Hanna hung up and slipped her phone back in her pocket, feeling good about her latest choice. Fireworks seemed totally appropriate for her wedding reception. Most likely, it would be her last moment of happiness—and she might as well go out with a bang.

“I don't think I'll ever get used to a euro as currency,” Noel said on Thursday afternoon as he leafed through a stack of bills in the cheap hostel room he had rented. “I mean, look at this.” He held up a ten-euro note. “It looks like Monopoly money.”

Aria plucked it from his hand. “Be careful with that. Over here, Monopoly money is freedom.”

“I'm just glad we're free together,” Noel said, pulling Aria onto the small, stiff-mattressed hostel bed.

Aria relished it for a moment, but then she pulled away. She still felt really, really nervous about Noel being here. Especially after some of the, er, mistakes she'd made.

When she'd turned around to face him yesterday, she thought she'd inhaled stray marijuana vapors from the nearby hash bar. “What are you
doing
here?” she'd asked frantically.

Noel had shrugged. “The way you said good-bye like that, and then when I got calls from your mom later that night wondering where you were, I started to put things together. I knew you'd left. And I knew I had to find you. You'd mentioned Amsterdam a few days ago—remember? And the Anne Frank house specifically. I just didn't know I was going to find you so quickly.”

Aria had looked around him anxiously, still worried someone would spot her. “Noel, you have to go. You can't be seen with me. And aren't people looking for
you
?”

“My parents think I went to their place in Vail. I bought a plane ticket in my name for there, and I even checked into that flight but just didn't board it. I snuck back down the Jetway, bolted for the international terminal, and got on an Amsterdam flight instead.”

Aria had started to feel sweaty. “Don't you understand?” she'd whispered. “I'm an international criminal! You need to stay away from me! The cops are on my tail!” People were streaming past. It felt like everyone was staring at her, hearing every word.

Noel had just taken Aria's arm and walked her down the canal. “You've only been here for one day. You haven't done anything to attract attention, right? Used any credit cards, shown your ID?”

Aria's bottom lip had trembled. She had done just those things. “Maybe,” she lied. “But there are alerts about me. Interpol is looking everywhere. Anywhere I go, someone is going to recognize me.” She shut her eyes. “Maybe I should just turn myself in.”

“Nonsense.” Noel grabbed her hand. “I'll keep you safe.”

The first thing they did was find a guy who made fake passports, who whipped up two American documents for Aria and Noel, barely looking at them and not asking if they approved of their fake names—Elizabeth Rogers for Aria and Ronald Nestor for Noel. Aria liked her fake name. Elizabeth Rogers struck her as a girl who wrote for the school paper and kept her room very neat and was too shy to have a boyfriend. A girl who would never,
ever
be on trial for murder.

Noel's steady, calming presence put her at ease—maybe she really
was
safe with him. Knowing that Amsterdam was too dangerous, they'd boarded a train with their fake passports and headed for Brussels, Belgium, checking in at a little hostel on a quiet street. Noel had taken her on a moonlit stroll along a walkway that overlooked the city. Despite Aria's protests that someone might recognize her, Noel had coaxed her to a little restaurant that served Belgian fries with mayonnaise, her favorite. They'd returned to their hostel room feeling almost shy as they fell into bed together. “Let's go to Japan,” Aria had mused as she lay her head on the pillow. It sounded so foreign, so exotic, so utterly removed from anything having to do with her old life—
or
Ali. “We'll teach English. And eat sushi. And ride bicycles, and learn Japanese.”

“We'll have to get a guidebook,” Noel said. “See where we'll want to live.”

Aria thought about this. “A beach town, maybe? Or near a mountain?”

“Ooh, I wonder if Japan has good skiing.” Noel looked excited. “I've never been, but Eric has.”

A wistful look crossed his face. Aria stared at her lap. Of course he'd want to call his brother and ask. But he couldn't.

Then Noel drew her into his arms. “All this sounds perfect, Liz.”

“I only go by
Elizabeth
,” Aria teased. “But thank you, Ronald.”

“That's Ron to you.” Noel laughed lightly.

And now they were packing up to leave once more. Aria had looked up flights to Tokyo and found that they were cheaper out of London, so they were planning on taking the bus through the Chunnel there. They would board a plane for Tokyo the following day.

After they were packed they walked down the rickety stairs and through the lobby. Hand in hand, they climbed onto a trolley that would take them to the suburb's train station. Most of the people on the trolley were either very old or looked like students. “See?” Noel whispered, squeezing her hand. “No one is looking at you strangely in the slightest.” Noel brightened and began to unzip his backpack. “I forgot.” He pulled out a plastic bag and handed it to her. “I got you something yesterday.”

Aria plunged her hand into the bag. Inside was a long, blond wig. She touched a few strands. They felt like real hair. “Whoa.”

“I got it while you were trying on that dress in the store last night,” Noel explained, mentioning the one boutique they'd popped into during their tour of Brussels. “Just in case you feel . . . worried about someone recognizing you. I thought it would be a cute disguise.”

“It's beautiful.” Aria wished she could put it on right then, though she knew that might draw suspicion.

Noel's gaze fell to the bag. “There's something else in there, too.”

She felt around at the bottom, then pulled out a small, vintage-looking gold bracelet etched with tiny purple stones. “Noel,” she breathed. The name
Cartier
was inscribed on the inside.

“I was going to give this to you on prom night,” Noel said gently. “But then everything . . . well, you know.”

Aria thought about how she'd freaked out on Noel in the graveyard near prom—though she'd had good reason. She'd just found out all that stuff about his secret friendship with Ali. The next morning was when they'd found Noel in the storage shed. Nick and Ali had beat him up, presumably because he'd said too much.

“It was my grandmother's,” Noel explained. “She gave it to me before she died and said that I should give it to someone really special.” His voice cracked a little. “It's the last thing I grabbed before I took off to find you. My grandmother meant a lot to me, and you do, too.”

Aria put the bracelet on and held up her wrist, her heart swelling with love. “Thank you.”

The trolley dropped them off at the train station, and together they walked through the echoing building to find their train. They flashed their new passports, and the woman behind the glass nodded sleepily. They boarded the train quickly, swept up in the crowds and babble and movement. After ten minutes, a whistle blew, and the train chugged out of the station. Aria stared out the windows, her stomach jumping with excitement, her new bracelet encircling her wrist.

Noel laid his head back on the seat. Aria gazed blankly around the cabin, then plucked a magazine from the mesh pocket in front of her. She had a sudden, prickly premonition, and sure enough, when she turned to one of the first pages, her own face stared back at her. It was a blurry picture of her at the Philadelphia airport, still dressed in her black sheath from Emily's funeral.
Aria Montgomery on the Lam
, it said.

This article didn't say much more than the one Aria had read in Amsterdam, though this one had interviewed several people who claimed to be “Aria's closest friends.” One of them, laughably, was Klaudia Huusko, the exchange student who lived with the Kahns. “Aria push me off ski lift,” they quoted Klaudia as saying—it was just like a trashy paper to play up her fakey pidgin English. “She also spy on me. She very sneaky girl. I hope she not in Finland, she might hurt my family.”

Another was Ezra Fitz
.
Aria almost dropped the paper when she read his name. It included a picture, too—Ezra looked kind of bloated, and he was wearing an unflattering pair of black-framed glasses. “Aria always spoke of her love of Europe, so I have no doubt she went there,” he said. Then there was a line about how Ezra's book,
See Me After Class
, was coming out next October.
Publicity whore.

Aria looked up. Someone was staring—she could just feel it. She glanced around, then spotted a man standing at the back of the car. He wore a trench coat and had his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Even when she met his gaze, he didn't look down.

Aria pretended to busy herself with the buttons on her coat. When she peeked at him again, he was
still
looking. Her breathing quickened. The man looked older, professional. He took out his phone and started saying something inaudibly into the receiver. Every so often, he glanced at her again, his expression more and more punishing.

Sweat pricked her forehead. Slowly, casually, she tapped Noel's shoulder. “Um, I think we need to get off this train.”

Noel looked confused. “Huh? Why?”

Aria put her finger to her lips. “Just follow me into the next car in a few minutes, okay?”

She stood up, slinging her purse over her shoulder. She could feel the man's eyes on her as she pushed through the door into the next car. The door slammed, and she wobbled up the aisle. Swallowing hard, she ducked into the bathroom and locked the door.

She stared at herself in the mirror, then smashed the blond wig on her head. Instantly, she was transformed into someone else—but was it enough? She fumbled for her sunglasses in her bag, then put on a hat, too.

Noel was waiting for her when she came out of the bathroom door. Aria could tell he wanted to ask questions, but she didn't say a word, instead looking around him for the guy. He was in the next car, still on the phone. Would he soon realize she wasn't coming back?

Blessedly, the train screeched into a station. A clipped voice called out the station name in Dutch, French, and German, and Aria grabbed Noel's hand and yanked him to the platform. She ran all the way to the stairs, then glanced over her shoulder. The man wasn't following.

“
Now
can you tell me what's going on?” Noel cried as they clambered down the steps.

“I felt like someone was watching me,” Aria said under her breath. “Did you see him? That guy at the end of the car?”

Noel's mouth twitched. “That guy came up to me and asked if I had a light for his cigarette. H-he heard my accent, asked where I was from.”

Aria gawked. “And what did you say?”

Noel's throat bobbed. He glanced at the train again. “I said the U.S. That's it. Then I got away from him. Excused myself.” He shook his head. “Aria. It was probably nothing. You're being paranoid.”

Aria felt an uneasy pull in her stomach. “I kind of have a reason to be.”

Noel nodded. Then, a curiously excited smile danced across his lips, and he touched a strand of her wig. “You're sexy when you're an international criminal.”

“
Stop
.” Aria smacked him playfully. But she appreciated Noel's attempt at making light of the moment. Maybe the man
wasn't
after her. And now, in the swirl of people, she felt anonymous once more. It sort of
was
sexy—she felt like a character in
Murder on the Orient Express
. And suddenly, she felt so overcome that she took Noel's hand and pulled him under the stairwell. She kissed him like it was their last day on earth.

Or like it was their last day of freedom.