Vicious (21 page)

The smell of something salty and delicious woke Aria from a deep dream. She opened her eyes, expecting to feel the immediate aches and pains of sleeping on a hard prison mattress, but instead she was lying in her old, familiar bed, surrounded by a million pillows. Her art posters hung on the walls, and her pig puppet, Pigtunia, peered out from the foot of the bed. Her recently returned cell phone blinked cheerfully on her desk.

She shot up like a start, everything rushing back. A miracle had happened. She was
home.
And Ali was in jail.

Aria leapt out of bed and grabbed her phone. There were a ton of Google Alerts for Ali, all of them mentioning her capture. Aria scrolled down to the bottom, searching. There was no mention of Ali escaping from jail this morning, though. No prison attacks, no strange disappearances. Ali was behind bars, for real.

But Aria still felt uneasy. Last night before bed, she'd checked every window and door to make sure it was locked. When she'd called her friends, they'd seemed just as paranoid. It would take a little time for them to shake the Ali fear. Aria just hoped it would go away eventually.

She pulled on her favorite robe, slipped the phone in her pocket, and strode downstairs.

Her mom stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. She looked up at Aria and smiled. “Morning,” she said, pushing the hair out of Aria's eyes. “How did you sleep?”

“Really well,” Aria said in a froggy voice, still feeling a little bewildered. “I guess a sleepless night in prison will do that.”

Ella paused from making eggs to wrap her arms around Aria. “I'm so sorry you had to go through that,” she said gently.

Aria shrugged. “I'm sorry I took off for Europe without telling you.” She peeked at Ella. “Are you really mad?” she asked in a small voice.

Ella sighed. “Just don't do it again, okay?” She shook a spatula at her. “I mean it. You have nothing to hide now. Everyone believes you about Alison.”

Her gaze drifted toward the TV in the corner. Not surprisingly, Ali's face flashed on the screen. The report was a rehash of yesterday's events—Ali coming into the courthouse, the ruling overturned, the girls going free, and Ali being locked up. The latest news, though, was that Ali had been put into the prison's psych ward, and she'd suddenly changed her story, confessing to framing the girls, faking the journal, and constructing an elaborate murder scene.

The prison psychiatrist appeared on TV. “Miss DiLaurentis keeps calling herself
A
,” he told the reporter. “She has said, repeatedly,
I'm A. I did it. It was me all along.
”

“Whoa,” Aria whispered. Ali, confessing to being A?
That
was a new one.

Ella let out a
tsk.
“I guess she's trying to plead insanity. Otherwise, why would she admit to all that?”

Aria winced. “Does that mean she might get out sooner?”

Ella shook her head. “Doubtful. In prison, you serve your sentence, and then you can go. At the psych ward, they can extend your stay indefinitely.”

Aria rolled her jaw. Maybe that was so, but Ali was smart. She wouldn't have gotten herself thrown into the psych ward if she didn't think there was something in it for her. Probably she thought she could figure out how to escape from it.

Then Emily appeared on the screen, giving a brief recap of how she'd tracked down Ali in Florida. Aria beamed with pride. Emily had told them the whole crazy story yesterday, including the part about Mrs. DiLaurentis hiding Ali, and Emily confronting her, and Ali popping out with the gun. She'd also explained how she'd called 911 but left the phone in her pocket, banking on the call being recorded and the police realizing something terrible was happening. It had been a risk, Emily said, but it had paid off, as the cops arrived just in time to save Emily from Ali's wrath. Aria couldn't believe the good luck of it all. It felt like fate had intervened, like the universe had realized that Ali couldn't get away with it
again.

Then the news showed a shot of Mrs. DiLaurentis. Ali's mom's head was down, her hands were cuffed, and two police officers were leading her into what looked like a jail. “Jessica DiLaurentis is being charged with harboring a known criminal,” blared a reporter. “Her trial is set to begin next week.”

Then Ali's father, looking bewildered and exhausted, popped on camera. “I had no idea my wife was hiding our daughter,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I have nothing else to say on the matter.” For whatever reason, Aria believed him.

“So that's that,” Ella said softly as she scraped the eggs from the pan and onto a plate. She handed Aria one serving and kept another for herself, and the two of them sat down to eat. After picking at moldy prison food, the eggs were the most delicious thing Aria had ever tasted.

“So that's that,” Aria repeated, looking down.

Ella cocked her head. “You don't seem so thrilled.”

“I am . . .” Aria trailed off. “It's just . . .
weird
, you know? We were so used to no one believing us. I even got a call from Jasmine Fuji yesterday, apologizing.”
That
had been a huge surprise. It certainly felt good to hear Fuji say she was sorry. “But it's hard to actually let go,” Aria added. “I keep thinking Ali's still out there, plotting her next move against us.”

Ella chewed thoughtfully. “Are you worried about the Ali Cats?”

Aria fiddled with the napkin on her lap. “Maybe,” she admitted. “What if she gets in touch with them in prison? What if she asks them to hurt us, somehow?”

Ella shook her head. “They won't let her have visitors, and they won't let her use the internet.” She patted Aria's hand. “You can't keep being afraid of her. You have to live your life. Otherwise, she really has won.” Then Ella brightened and pushed her cell phone across the table. “And actually, I have some news for you. In the past weekend, demand for your artwork has gone up tremendously.
Everyone
wants an Aria Montgomery piece now. Which means
you
, my dear, have to get painting.”

Aria looked at the email on Ella's screen. It was from Patricia, her agent in New York, stating that six people had put bids on yet-to-be-painted Aria works. “Wow,” she breathed.

“Right?” Ella's eyes shone. “You're going to get to live the life you want after all, honey. And you shouldn't let anyone keep you from being happy.”

Aria tried to smile, but suddenly she felt another twinge. She
did
feel happy. But one thing was missing: Noel. Another Google Alert had said that Noel might receive two years in prison because he'd followed Aria to Amsterdam, but in the Ali scuffle, Aria hadn't heard anything more. She'd called him the moment her phone had been returned to her, but his phone went to voicemail every time. Was he already in jail? What did he think about all this?

She looked up at her mom, suddenly determined. “I have to go do something,” she blurted, and rose from the table. Ella looked at Aria curiously, but she didn't ask any questions as Aria, still wearing her pajamas and a robe, grabbed the car keys and headed out the door.

The gate to Noel's family's house was open, but Aria still parked on the street, feeling apprehensive about dropping in unannounced. As she walked up the path, she relived all the times she and Noel had lay in the front yard, gazing at the stars, or having a picnic, or making a snowman. It was strange to return here with the situation so changed. The grass looked the same, there were the same flowers in the beds, but she was so different . . . and Noel was, too. Maybe
too
different.

Swallowing hard, she rang the bell, praying Noel's mother didn't answer the door—Aria hadn't seen much of Mrs. Kahn after they'd reconnected, but Noel's mom hadn't been a fan of her after Noel was attacked at prom, and she probably blamed Aria for dragging Noel to Europe. Three chimes rang out, and Aria tapped her toe nervously. After a moment, she heard footsteps. Then the door flung open. Noel was on the other side.

He wore a hoodie over a faded T-shirt, and his sneakers were untied. The first thing Aria did was search for an ankle tracking bracelet peeking out from under his jeans. She didn't see one.

“Hey,” she said bashfully, suddenly not sure what to say.

“Hey,” Noel said back.

There was a long, strange pause. “Are you okay? Are you going to prison?” she blurted out, before he could slam the door in her face.

Noel shook his head. “They dropped my charges. My dad hired a good lawyer, and after all the Ali stuff . . .” He waved his hands. “I got a slap on the wrist, had to pay some fines, that sort of thing—and, I mean, my family is really pissed.” He made a face. “But I'm free. And it looks like you are, too.” His mouth twisted into an almost-smile.

“Yeah,” Aria said, her eyes filling with tears. Suddenly, she felt overcome with . . . well, she wasn't sure what. Shame, maybe. And also gratitude. And simple exhaustion. “I'm so sorry, Noel,” she said.

He held up his hand. “
I'm
the one who's sorry. You guys were going through so much, and you were so paranoid, and you were
right
to feel that way. Have you read any of Ali's confessions? She's crazy. She doesn't just talk about that journal, she talks about assembling an Ali Cat army and then
killing
some of them when she had no use for them anymore. Everything you guys worried about, everything you were running from, all those crazy fears no one believed? It was all true.”

Aria nodded shakily. She knew it was true. She'd lived it.

Noel took her hands and squeezed. “And as for what you said in Holland—look, you have to know that I don't care about Ali anymore. I don't love her, I don't think of her, I don't
anything.
All I think of is you.”

Aria's heart did a little flip. “Okay,” she said, head down.

“We've been through too many cycles of getting mad at each other over Ali and reconciling. Our argument in Holland proved it. I don't want to go through that again.”

“I don't, either,” Aria said quickly.

“So I guess I need to know.” Noel took a deep breath. “
Do
you forgive me for Ali? In your heart, for real?” He stared up at the clouds. “Because I'm
sorry
, Aria. I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything I should have. I'm sorry I was involved with her at all. If you don't forgive me, that's okay. But I don't know if we can be together, you know? It wouldn't feel . . . right. You'd always be mad at me, deep down. I'm just wondering if we can just . . . start over. Like it never even happened.”

Aria sank down onto the stone bench next to the fishpond. The fight they'd had just before they were arrested swirled in her mind. It was a hard thing for Aria to let go of—the fact that he'd sympathized with Ali for so long, kept it from Aria.

But that was exactly what Ali wanted: to remain in their consciousness, to be an obstacle between her and Noel even from behind bars. It was the perfect A strategy, actually: manipulation and mind games from afar, with Aria's own self-sabotage leading to her downfall.

Aria squared her shoulders. “Yes,” she said. “Let's start over. I'm done letting Ali take away the things—and the people—I care about the most.”

Noel grinned. “I love you, Aria Montgomery,” he said, and kissed her softly.

Eventually they just leaned their foreheads together, staring into each other's eyes. Aria glanced at the T-shirt he was wearing. All at once, she realized it was his lucky Nike University of Pennsylvania tee he'd had for years. It was the same shirt he'd had on the day she'd re-met him in Rosewood when her family had returned from Iceland.

She paused to reflect on that day. Noel had tried to strike up a conversation with Aria, but she'd blown him off, thinking there was no way he could have had a crush on her. She'd felt so . . .
above
him, she supposed, assuming he was just some Typical Rosewood who lacked culture and style. Totally not her type.

Boy, was she wrong. Who knew they'd be
here
in a few short years?

Then Aria remembered the internet search she'd done in the car, just before coming over. “I have something for you.”

“For me?” Noel looked confused.

Aria pulled up the email on her phone and showed him the screen, which had a logo for Japan Airlines.
Your upcoming itinerary
, it read. Noel's brow furrowed, but he scrolled down. The email was a confirmation for two seats on a flight to Tokyo, leaving next week.

He looked up at her. “Really?”

Aria nodded excitedly. “My accounts were unfrozen, and I've sold a few more paintings. I thought you and I could take that trip to Tokyo we were talking about.” She peeked at him shyly. “If you still want to . . .”

“Of course I'll go!” Noel said, throwing his arms around her once more. “We'll do everything we talked about, right? Touring the pagodas, eating sushi, the skiing . . .”

“Except no international incidents,” Aria advised. “No hiding in hotels.”

“No sneaking off trains,” Noel agreed.

“No strange men arresting us in dark alleys.”

Aria giggled. Looking at Noel again, she felt a rush of love. All at once, things really
were
right. “It's a date,” she said, and kissed him again.

The following evening, Spencer and Wren sat next to each other at a long dining table in the Rosewood Country Club's formal dining room. The sun was setting, the outside lights cast a pretty pink glow against the ninth green, and Spencer's skin tingled every time her knees bumped Wren's. Melissa, Darren, Spencer's mother, Mr. Pennythistle, and Amelia were there, too—and, interestingly, so was Spencer's father. Both of her parents were on their best behavior—for good reason. It was a celebration of all kinds of things: Melissa's pregnancy, her engagement, and, most of all, Spencer's exoneration. They had a million things to be thankful for, and what better way for the Hastings family to celebrate than with dinner at the club?

Spencer gazed around the dining room with a smirk. The Rosewood Country Club would never change: It had the same heavy mahogany furniture, the same sea-life mural on the wall, even the crotchety jazz band in the corner playing the same rendition of “All of Me.” The same preppy boys in their blazers and girls in their pleated skirts snuck sips of their tight-lipped parents' gin and tonics. As Spencer gazed around her own table, she half expected her family to launch into a rousing game of Star Power, comparing their accomplishments and desperately trying to one-up each other. It used to be a Country Club Dinner staple.

When
was
the last time they'd played that game, though? It seemed like a lifetime ago, and things were so different now. There was Melissa on Spencer's other side, shooting Spencer a sweet smile, all animosity between them gone. Melissa held Darren's hand—a guy who'd almost
ruined
Spencer, thinking she'd killed Courtney, and a guy
she'd
suspected, too—and Darren raised his glass to Spencer's for a toast. Mr. Pennythistle, who Spencer thought she'd never grow to like, pushed a plate of the club's famous mussels toward Spencer, urging her to have a bite. Even prissy little Amelia had poked Spencer's arm a few moments earlier to show her a funny dog video on YouTube, almost like they were friends.

Then there was her dad, at the end of the table. Spencer watched as he straightened his tie and signaled his favorite bartender for another glass of Scotch. Mr. Hastings was clearly on the fringes of the group, but she appreciated that he was part of this tonight. Still, Spencer had to wonder: Did he grieve for the monster he'd created in Ali? Was he sad that she was so crazy, and that she would probably spend her whole life in jail? Spencer didn't dare ask him—they didn't exactly talk about the fact that he was the DiLaurentis twins' secret father. But she had a feeling the grief weighed on him. Bertie, the waiter who'd been at the club ever since Spencer could remember, appeared at Mr. Hastings's elbow. “Big group tonight,” he announced, looking down the table, his brow crinkling at the obvious incongruity of Mr. Hastings, Mrs. Hastings,
and
Mr. Pennythistle. On one hand, it
was
kind of weird—definitely unprecedented for a Hastings family dinner. But as Spencer leaned back and looked at the pink cloud mural above her head, she realized that maybe the Hastings were more unprecedented than she thought.

After Bertie took their dinner orders, Spencer looked over at her sister, who was gently touching her as-yet-nonexistent belly. “Do you feel any kicks yet?” she asked hopefully.

Melissa giggled. “Not
yet
, silly—it's way too early. But don't worry. You'll be the first to know.”

“You'd better tell me, too,” Mrs. Hastings said mock-sternly from across the table.

“I'll tell you both at the same time,” Melissa said, smiling. “How about that?”

“I suppose that's fair,” Mrs. Hastings demurred. Then she rolled her eyes and touched Spencer's hand. “After all, you
are
going to be the godmother. And you'll make a good one, I'm sure of it.”

Spencer looked over at her mom, feeling a tiny twinge. Ever since she'd been released, her mom had tried really hard to apologize for the way she'd treated Spencer during the trial. What would she think, though, if she knew Spencer had almost sold off her jewels? Spencer had put them back as soon as Angela drove away, but she still felt bad for doing it in the first place. And why hadn't Amelia told on her? She'd seen the ring on Spencer's finger and the guilty look on her face. It would have been such an easy way to get Spencer in trouble. And yet, for whatever reason, she hadn't.

Spencer glanced at her stepsister across the table, then experimentally stuck out her tongue. Amelia looked up, eyes wide, and then stuck out her tongue back. Her smile was genuine. Maybe Amelia wasn't so bad after all. Spencer promised to give her more of a chance, now that she was free.

Then Mr. Pennythistle turned to Spencer. “So. What are your plans? Off to Princeton after all?”

Spencer ran her tongue over her teeth. Once again, Princeton had reinstated her place at school that fall. Alyssa Bloom from HarperCollins had called, too, re-extending her book deal. She'd received a ton of emails in the past day to start up the bullying site once more.

Which she would . . . but maybe not this week. Maybe not next week. “You know, I've been thinking about taking a gap year,” she said, glancing nervously at her mother—this was the first Mrs. Hastings was hearing about it—and then at Wren, with whom she'd discussed the plan at length. “I talked to Princeton, and they said it would be okay to defer until next year.”

Mrs. Hastings took a sip of her cocktail. “What would you do instead? I'd rather you didn't just lie around the house.”

Spencer took a deep breath and looked at her father down the table. “Well, Dad got me an internship at a Legal Aid office in Philly. I'd help represent people who don't have money to pay for lawyers.” She shifted in the plushy seat. “I guess the trial got me interested in the legal system. And I'd work on the bullying book, too.”

Mrs. Hastings crossed her arms over her chest, considering this. “Would you live here?”

Spencer couldn't tell if that was a plea for her to stay in the house or for her to get the hell out. “Maybe in the city. With roommates? I don't know.” Spencer looked at Melissa. “I want to be close to the baby when he or she is born.”

It wasn't that she didn't want to go to Princeton someday . . . just not in a few months. It was funny: Only when she'd really considered disappearing for good did Spencer truly appreciate what she had here.

“I think it sounds like a great idea,” Melissa said softly.

“Yeah, it sounds cool,” Amelia chimed in.

Wren squeezed her knee. “You'd make a great lawyer, Spence.”

“That's what I've always told her, since she loves to argue,” Mr. Hastings said, rolling his eyes.

Mrs. Hastings let out a breath. “Well, I suppose it's your decision. As long as Princeton has given their blessing about deferring.”

“Really?” Spencer cried, her whole face erupting into a smile. “Thank you, Mom!”

She circled the table to give her mother a hug, but Mrs. Hastings swished her away. “I'll wrinkle,” she said, gesturing to her linen dress. But then after a moment she smiled, and hugged Spencer anyway.

Wren touched Spencer's arm and asked if she wanted to get some air on the patio. They walked outside together, taking in the pretty vantage. The golf course was so green, the trees behind it so lush. Spencer could just make out the Hollis Spire through some of the branches.

“That went well, don't you think?” Wren murmured.

Spencer nodded. “Better than I thought.”

Wren touched the tip of her nose. “I'm so glad you're going to be in Philly. Because you know what
else
is in Philly, besides the Legal Aid office?”

Spencer put a hand to her chin, pretending to think. “Um, the Liberty Bell?”

“Not that,” Wren said playfully.

“Independence Hall?”

Wren chuckled. “How about
me
?”

Spencer's heart did a flip. “Oh, right!” she exclaimed, in mock surprise. Then she sighed. “I can't wait to spend more time with you,” she said softly. She was really excited at the prospect of getting to know Wren better.

Wren leaned in, and their lips met in a passionate kiss. Spencer shut her eyes, sinking into the sensation. Her world felt utterly right. She was so glad she hadn't disappeared. She'd remained Spencer Hastings, and she didn't have to give that up for freedom.

But then her gaze drifted back into the dining room, landing on a certain table near the window. She'd probably sat at every table in this place at one point or another, but that particular table carried a particular memory. It was shortly after Courtney had tapped them for her new clique, right after they'd all become friends, and Spencer had brought the girls to the formal dining room to show off her parents' expensive country club. They'd all dressed up, and everyone had tried to act extra-genteel, ordering complicated items off the menu and behaving with impeccable manners. Aria had even spoken with an accent.

Halfway through, however, Hanna had knocked over an enormous carafe of iced tea, which had doused their sweet potato fries, the candle in the middle of the table, and somehow even sprayed the grumpy old couple sitting to their left. For a moment, the room had been absolutely silent. The old woman stared at Hanna with disdain, her ugly white suit ruined. Spencer had glanced at Their Ali—Courtney—certain she'd blacklist all of them for Hanna's clumsiness. But to her surprise, Courtney had thrown back her head and laughed. And then the
rest
of them had laughed, hooting so loudly and uncontrollably the waiter had asked them to leave. They'd tumbled onto the golf green, holding one another, not even sure what was funny anymore. Spencer had never loved Courtney as much as she had that day. And she'd loved the others, too—just as much as she loved them now.

Spencer's attention drifted to the TV above the bar, in the casual lounge side of the restaurant. Not very coincidentally—for Ali was
everywhere
right now—the Ali story was on the news. There was a picture of an overweight brunette being led into prison in handcuffs.
Psychopath Awaits Trial in Psych Ward
, read the banner underneath.

Suddenly, the girl turned and stared straight into the camera. Her mouth was small. Her expression didn't change. Her eyes didn't look scared or sad, but angry. A shiver traveled up Spencer's spine. It felt like Ali was looking straight at
her.
And her eyes were saying,
We're not over. There's still a lot of fight left in me. You just wait.

One of the guards yanked Ali hard to turn her around, and they shoved her into prison, slamming the doors shut behind her. Heavy iron doors, Spencer was happy to note, with industrial-size locks, guarded by vicious dogs and men with high-powered rifles. Ali wouldn't be escaping any time soon.

And Spencer would never have to worry about her again.