Vicious

  But as soon as she thought that, she felt kind of bad. They would be going to trial without her. Facing an onslaught she’d run from. It was selfish, she knew. Maybe too selfish.

  “Good morning, everyone, this is your captain,” said a man’s voice. “We will be landing at Charles de Gaulle airport shortly. The local time will be 8:45 AM.”

  People started to stir. Aria’s seatmate, a businessman who’d thankfully said nothing to Aria the whole flight except for “excuse me,” wiped some drool off his cheek and stuffed some documents into his briefcase. Aria slowly put her iPod and the magazines she’d bought at the airport into her bag and watched as the Paris skyline materialized in the distance. In what felt like just seconds later, the plane thudded to a landing. Overhead lights snapped on. Elevator music blared through the cabin. People stood up and reached for their bags. Not a single person looked at her suspiciously.

  Aria’s heart pounded as she unbuckled her seat belt and waited for the line in the aisle to clear. The stewardess said a clipped “bye-bye” to the man in front of her, but skipped over Aria entirely. The terminal was fairly quiet, their flight the only one getting in at that time. Everyone streamed toward customs; Aria didn’t know what else to do but follow. If only there was a way to avoid yet another set of eyes staring at her, but short of diving out a window and running for a fence, she couldn’t think of a way around it.

  Everyone crammed through the customs door and took their places in a winding line. Aria glanced at the officials at the front, her stomach churning. She touched her phone, which was tucked in her bag, switched off—even turning it on might tip off the cops to her location. Still, she wished she could check the voicemail and the texts. How many people had called her? Noel for sure. Mike? Her parents? Hanna? The cops?

  Suddenly, looking at the passengers in front of her, something stopped the breath in Aria’s lungs. A girl with a reddish-blond ponytail bounced in place, headphones over her ears. She had a gym bag on one shoulder, and she wore a blue sweatshirt that had the words DELAWARE VALLEY SWIMMING CHAMPIONSHIPS on the back. Emily had had that same sweatshirt.

  Aria’s heart lifted. Maybe it was Emily. Maybe, somehow, she’d survived the ocean. Maybe she’d had the same idea Aria had to get the hell out of the country. How wonderful! Aria wouldn’t be so alone! They could figure out what to do together!

  Aria pushed through the crowd, never feeling so happy in her life. “Am I glad to see you!” she crowed, tugging Emily’s arm.

  The girl turned. The corners of her lips turned down, and she had no freckles. Her eyes weren’t as keen as Emily’s had been, her expression not as insightful. The girl cocked her head tiredly, taking in Aria’s disheveled black dress from Emily’s funeral, streaky makeup, and messy hair. “Sorry?” she asked in a Southern accent.

  Aria stepped back, her mouth wobbling. “O-oh,” she stammered. “Never mind.”

  The girl slipped her headphones over her ears. Aria returned to her spot in line, all at once not able to breathe. She’d hoped that escaping overseas would lessen the Emily blow a little—at least, over here, not everything would remind her of Emily. But after only a few minutes in the Paris airport, she felt more bereaved than ever.

  The customs process moved quickly, and before long, a customs officer motioned for Aria to step forward. Her legs felt wobbly and weak as she stepped forward. A police dog waiting by the door stared straight at her, ears perked.

  “Passport?” the officer said in a bored voice.

  Aria’s fingers trembled as she removed the little book from her bag. The officer stared at it, then Aria’s face. There was a long pause as he looked at something on his computer screen. A whooshing sound rushed in Aria’s ears. Was he checking a list? Silently sounding an alarm that the criminal had been located?

  “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 kil
ler 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?”

  Mike’s fingers tapped the keyboard. “Since last night. And I didn’t see her this morning, but I thought she was at Noel’s or something—it was early. But the cops came to the house just now. Aria never met them after the funeral to hand over her IDs and get her ankle monitor. And apparently she made a big ATM withdrawal at the airport.”

  Hanna wrinkled her brow. “You’re kidding.” She could hardly believe Aria would do such a thing. “Do you think she took a flight somewhere?”

  “I don’t know. But that would be really, really stupid.” Mike glanced at Hanna, his expression frantic. “I can’t believe she didn’t call anyone. You haven’t heard from her?”

  Hanna pulled her bottom lip into her mouth. “No,” she said in a small voice. She’d called Aria a million times since their fight, but it had gone straight to voicemail.

  Mike’s mouth twitched. “What did you guys fight about, anyway?”

  Hanna slapped her arms to her sides. “Emily, Ali . . . I don’t even know.”

  She’d tried to understand the fight, but it was no use. Did she blame Spencer for Emily’s plunge into the ocean? Spencer had been the one who suggested they stay the night, after all, and in hindsight, they all should have gone home—Emily would have been the safest, not to mention they might not have gotten caught for violating the terms of their bail.

  But it wasn’t like they knew that was going to happen. It reminded Hanna of the accident she’d gotten into last summer: She’d driven Madison home because Madison was too drunk to drive, but she hadn’t made A’s car come out of nowhere. She hadn’t planned to crash.

  Hanna had tried Spencer’s phone yesterday, too, but she’d hung up before the call went to voicemail. She hadn’t known what to say. I’m sorry? Was she? It was annoying, too, that Spencer hadn’t called her. She should have, at least to apologize for freaking out on Hanna at the funeral. Why did Hanna have to be the one to crack first?

  Mike sat down on the bed and turned his phone over in his hands. “Where do you think she went?”

  Hanna raised her shoulders. “Maybe nowhere? Maybe it was just to fool the police?”

  “My money’s on Europe,” Mike said softly. He rubbed his hands through his hair. “I just hope she’s safe.” Then a strange expression crossed his face. “Or you don’t think she did something horrible, do you? Like Emily?”

  “We don’t know that Emily’s dead,” Hanna said automatically.

  Mike cocked his head. “Han. We kind of . . . do.”

  Hanna shut her eyes. She wasn’t so sure. Last night, she’d looked up all kinds of articles about people who’d miraculously survived tempestuous waters and tsunamis. The human drive to persevere was astonishing. Maybe Emily had decided, once she was out there, that she didn’t want to die after all!

  Then her gaze drifted to the plushy chair in the corner of the room. The dress she’d worn to Emily’s funeral was lying there, as were her clutch and shoes and the program she’d grabbed on the way out. EMILY FIELDS, it read on the front, accompanied by several pictures of Emily through the years. There was one of Emily as a young girl, long before Hanna knew her, standing in a field of dandelions. There was another from when they’d just become friends in sixth grade—Emily at a swim competition, pulling on her goggles. Several others from junior high and high school, Emily always looking fresh and sweet and happy.

  When Hanna shut her eyes, wrenching scenarios flashed in her mind. She thought of Emily’s bed, unslept in, its covers probably pulled tight, its pillows fluffed. She thought of all the things Emily would no longer touch, no longer use, no longer be part of. She picked up her phone and began to compose a text explaining how low she felt . . . until she realized. She’d addressed the text to Emily. Of course she had: Emily was always the one she could go to with raw, vulnerable feelings.

  Her jaw wobbled. She sank to the bed and put her head between her legs. Mike’s hand pressed on her back. “Hey,” he said soothingly. “It’s okay. We’ll get through this.”

  “We will?” Hanna sobbed, feeling the tears spill down her cheeks. “I just can’t believe this is my life. All of it.” She shook her head. “Emily’s gone, Spencer’s not speaking to me, and soon enough, I’m going to jail, Mike. Prison. I have nothing. No future, no friends, no life . . .”

  “Hey.” Mike frowned and placed his hands on his hips. “You haven’t lost everything, Hanna. You still have me.”

  Hanna wiped her eyes. “But how long are you honestly going to wait for me? I might be in prison for thirty years or more. I mean, you can’t go that long without sex.” She was trying to make a joke, but when she tried to smile, she just started crying harder.

  “You’re worth the wait.” Mike’s fingers made slow circles on Hanna’s back.

  “You say that now, but . . .”

  Mike drew back. “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not that. I just . . .” Hanna stared blankly at the TV on the other side of the room. A beautiful Brazilian supermodel was sensuously drinking Diet Coke through a straw. “The world is full of girls, Mike,” she said softly. “And I wouldn’t want you to stop living because of me.”

  He looked annoyed. “Don’t even say stuff like that. You want me to prove that I’ll wait for you?”

  He shifted in front of her. When Hanna opened her eyes again, she realized he was down on one knee, staring into her eyes. “Marry me, Hanna Marin,” he said urgently. “Marry me today.”

  “Ha,” Hanna said, reaching for a Kleenex and blotting her eyes.

  Mike removed the yellow rubber lacrosse bracelet from his wrist and held it out to her. “I don’t have a ring, but take this,” he said. “I mean it. Let’s get married. Like, tomorrow.”

  Hanna blinked. “You’re serious?”

  “Of course I am.”

  She wiped her nose. “Like, with a ceremony and everything? And with a document, to make it legal? Can it be legal? Are we old enough?”

  Mike frowned. “I think so. And yes, I want it to be totally legal. I want you, Hanna. And I want you to know that I’m always going to want you, no matter what.”

  Hanna stared at the rubber bracelet in her hands. It had been awarded to him when he made varsity lacrosse. Once, in Jamaica, before their run-in with Tabitha, she and Mike got a couples’ massage. Hanna had commented on how he’d left the bracelet on even though the masseuses instructed them to remove all jewelry. Removing this would be like removing a part of myself, Mike had said, a totally serious look on his face.

  She considered being with Mike for the rest of her life, and it didn’t take long for her to realize she liked the idea. She was touched, too, by the gesture. Mike knew full well what their fate might be. He knew the pitfalls of being with someone
in prison—or at least she hoped he’d absorbed those parts in Orange Is the New Black and not just the lesbian scenes.

  She looked up at him. “Can we have a real wedding?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

  “So I’d get to wear a dress? And throw a party?”

  Mike smiled. “Is that a yes?”

  Hanna licked her lips, suddenly feeling shy. “I think it is,” she whispered, and then threw her arms around him. “Yes, Mike Montgomery, even though it’s crazy, I’ll marry you.”

  “That’s just what I wanted to hear,” Mike whispered back, and slid his lacrosse bracelet on her tiny wrist. Hanna shut her eyes and laughed. Wearing the bracelet felt better than any diamond ring on her finger. It was, literally, priceless.

  12

  COURTROOM DRAMA

  Never in her life did Spencer think she would visit the Rosewood Courthouse as many times as she had in the past several years. She knew the place like the back of her hand by now, including which side entrance to use to avoid the press, which vending machine actually spit out the correct snacks, and which bench in the courtroom had an irritating squeak when you sat on it.

  But walking up the stone steps on the first day of her murder trial, the place looked entirely different. There were so many more cameras than usual, even at the side entrances, and everyone was screaming her name as she rushed inside—including a bunch of people gathered together in a tight knot, all of them wearing T-shirts that said Ali Cats Unite. Spencer stopped cold, surprised at the sight of the Ali Cats up close—they all looked so ordinary. The woman in the front, who was overweight and had shiny red hair and bore a startling resemblance to Spencer’s old piano teacher, lunged forward, leering at Spencer. “Are you ready for prison, bitch?” The rest of the group cackled. Spencer shot away quickly, her heart thudding hard.