Pretty Little Liars #15: Toxic (11 page)

Ella seemed skeptical. She raised a finger, ready to probably make a point about how college was invaluable and if she let too much time lapse after high school, she might never go. But then a tall, young guy in a slightly rumpled plaid shirt and olive-green skinny pants appeared in the doorway. He carried a leather bag on his shoulder and had a pair of Ray-Bans propped on his head, and he was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running.

“Um, hello?” the guy said in a sonorous, not-too-high but not-too-deep voice. “Are you Aria Montgomery?”

“Yes . . . ,” Aria said cautiously, standing up straighter.

The guy stuck out his hand. “I’m, um, Harrison Miller from
Fire and Funnel
. It’s an art blog that—”

“I know it!” Aria interrupted, her eyes wide. She was a frequent visitor of
Fire and Funnel
, a Philadelphia-based indie art site, and was impressed by the blogger’s keen eye and intuition—he seemed to know what was going to be hot months before it hit the mainstream. She hadn’t known the blogger was so young.

Harrison smiled. “Well, cool. Anyway, I’d like to do a piece on you and your artwork. Do you have a sec to chat?”

Aria tried not to gasp. Ella thrust out her hand. “I’m her mother, Ella Montgomery—
and
I’m the assistant director at this gallery.” She used the brand-new title her boss, Jim, had given her yesterday. “I was the one who facilitated the sale of Aria’s painting.”

“Good to meet you.” Harrison looked uncomfortable. “So . . . is it okay if I talk to Aria alone? I’ll try to put the gallery in the story if I can, though.”

“My little girl is growing up!” Ella crooned, pretending to wipe away a tear. Then she waltzed out of the room. “Of course you can talk to Aria. Take all the time you need.”

Then she shut the door so swiftly the Monet calendar hanging on the back rose in the air before settling softly back down. Aria turned back to Harrison. He smiled at her, then perched on a small, cluttered table in the corner and rummaged through his leather bag. “I heard about the purchase of your painting on
Art Now
yesterday. It’s a huge deal.”

“No,
this
is a huge deal.” Aria couldn’t control the starstruck tone in her voice. “I’m really flattered you thought of me.”

“Are you kidding?” Harrison’s face brightened. “Selling a piece to John Carruthers at eighteen years old? That’s unheard of.” He tapped his notepad. “I’m an art history major at Penn, and I do a little painting myself. A big buyer like Carruthers taking an interest in you is huge.”

Aria ducked her head. “I hope he didn’t buy it just because I was, like, on the news and whatever.”

Harrison waved the notion away. “Carruthers buys based on talent, not celebrity.” He paused, studying her intensely. “
Sometimes
he buys a painting if the artist is pretty, though. Did he come here himself?”

Aria blushed, her mind sticking on the word
pretty
. “No, it was his buyer—and he was on the phone. I wasn’t even here.”

“Interesting.” Harrison’s blue eyes gleamed. He held Aria’s gaze for a moment, and her stomach flipped over. To be honest, he was cute.
Really
cute.

Then he looked back down at his pad. “Okay. I want to know everything about you. Not the Alison stuff, but
you
. What you’re into, who your influences are, where you’ve traveled, what your plans are, if you’ve got a boyfriend . . .” His cheeks flushed.

Aria giggled. She was pretty sure he was flirting. For a split second, Noel’s face flashed through her mind, but then she thought of his awkward expression outside the gallery.
I need my space
.

“No boyfriend,” she said softly. “Not anymore.”

“Aha,” Harrison said, scribbling on his notepad. “Very good.”

Then Aria told him about her creative process, her parents’ artistic background, and her travels to Iceland—though she left out the last trip, where she’d gotten mixed up with Olaf/Nick. It was easy to talk to Harrison. She loved the way he stared at her as she spoke, like she was the most important person he’d ever talked to. He laughed at all her jokes, and he asked all the right questions, too. She also liked how sexy and artsy he looked as he snapped pictures of her work with his long-lensed SLR camera, checking the screen after every shot to make sure he got what he’d wanted.

“And what are your future plans?” Harrison asked, setting the camera back down.

Aria breathed in. “Well . . .” Suddenly, what she said next seemed so permanent and definitive.
Should
she move to New York and try to make it as an artist? What if she did and it was a horrible failure?

Her phone rang. Aria’s stomach lurched, wondering if it might be Fuji—they hadn’t heard anything yet about the hoodie’s DNA results. But it was a 212 number.
NEW YORK CITY
, said the caller ID.

“Do you mind if I grab this?” she asked Harrison. He nodded, and she answered tentatively.

“Aria Montgomery?” said a gruff woman’s voice. “This is Inez Frankel. I own the Frankel-Franzer Gallery in Chelsea. I just heard on
Art Now
about your painting selling. You’re hot, girl—but you probably already know that. Do you have any other pieces to show?”

“Uh . . .” Aria’s mind spun. “Well, I have other pieces
completed
.”

“And I’m sure they’re awesome. Listen, send me some JPEGs of them, could you? If we like them—and I’m sure we will—I want to offer you a three-day show starting next Tuesday—we can move some stuff around and squeeze you in. We’ll make it worth your while, honey. Lots of promo. Tons of press. A big party during the opening. Everything will sell—at my gallery, it always does.”

“Ex
cuse
me?” Aria squeaked, astonished. A
gallery
show? In New York City?

Her other line beeped. Aria glanced at the caller ID again; this time, a call was coming in from a 718 area code: Brooklyn. “My name is Victor Grieg, from the Space/Think Gallery in Williamsburg—I saw your story on
Art Now
,” a fast-talking man with a heavy foreign accent said. He asked the same questions about Aria having other works for sale. Then he said, “We want to give you a show, like,
now
. Who’s your agent?”

“I—I don’t have an agent,” Aria stammered. “Can I call you back?”

She hung up on both galleries. Harrison looked at her curiously, and Aria grinned. “Two galleries in New York want to give me shows!” she announced gleefully. The statement hardly seemed real.

Harrison gave her a knowing look. “This is your start!” He leaned forward like he wanted to hug her, then seemed to change his mind and hung back. “So when do they want to show you?”

“N-next week. Starting on Tuesday.” The reality struck her. Aria glanced at her other paintings stacked in the corner. Did she have enough? She couldn’t sell the ones of Noel—that would just be too weird. Then her gaze settled on the all-black canvas, Ali’s sixth-grade smirk covered over. She couldn’t use
that
one, either. She definitely needed to paint more over the next few days.

Harrison beamed. “Well, I’ll let you finish up with the galleries—I think I’ve got all I need for my post. But hey, I never like to miss a gallery show of the artists I feature—maybe I could snag an invite?”

“Of course!” Aria cried, wondering if she should ask him if he’d be her date. She’d only just met him, though.

Harrison looked pleased. He stood, rummaged in his pocket, and handed her a slim white card. The swirly
Fire and Funnel
logo was at the top, and below was his name in gray ink. Her fingers brushed his as she took his card. Aria moved toward him, wanting to get in that hug after all, but now Harrison was fiddling with his bag. When he looked at her again, she felt shy.

So she stuck out her hand. “Great to meet you.”

“Absolutely.” Harrison shook her hand, his fingers pressed against hers for an extra beat. Aria was pleased to note that her stomach did a little flip. “See you soon,” he added.

When he was gone, Aria turned back to her phone, eager to call the galleries back. Which should she go with? Who would give her a better show? She felt like a princess who had too many suitors to choose from. It was crazy to think that just moments before, in her interview, she’d been unsure about how to answer the question about her future. Now it was like it had been served to her on a silver platter, every detail falling into place.
This is your start
, Harrison had said to her excitedly.

And suddenly it felt like the truth.

12

NOTHING SAYS SEXY LIKE A GUARD-SUPERVISED DATE

The Ulster Correctional Facility rose above a forest of dark green trees, gray and bland against the cloudy sky. On Tuesday afternoon, Emily pulled her car through a set of electronic gates toward a sign that said
GUEST PARKING
. The lot was desolate, save for a rusty Toyota pickup truck in the last spot. A gust of wind pushed a Coke can across the pavement. Even though it was summer, the trees on the prison lot were bare.

Emily cut the engine and sat for a moment. Her head pounded from all the coffee she’d had to get her through the long drive to the prison outside New York City. Her heart was beating fast, too, though she doubted it was from caffeine. In moments, she was going to walk into a prison. And see Jordan.

Deep breath
.

She climbed out and glanced over her shoulder into the scrubby woods. The whole drive, she’d felt like someone was following her, but whenever she’d checked her rearview mirror, she’d always seen a different car—or no car at all. Ali could be anywhere right now, though. Why had she run off without killing Emily? Why hadn’t Fuji gotten back to them with the DNA results? How long did testing take, anyway?

She thought, too, about a blog post she’d read this morning on one of the most popular Ali Cat sites. The poster, whose name was an androgynous WeWillAlwaysRemember, had written:
Any enemy of Alison is an enemy of mine. She was a VICTIM. If you hate her, I hate you. I think you know who I’m talking about.

The post worried Emily. What if Ali Cats were more than twisted freaks who worshipped a psychopath? What if they actually had it out for people who didn’t like Ali—namely, Emily and the others? She’d forwarded it to the others . . . and, after some thought, to Fuji. Of course Fuji hadn’t responded.

She crossed the lot and pulled open a heavy metal door marked
ENTRANCE
. The latch caught loudly behind her, and she was greeted by a sad-sounding country song on a tinny radio. A woman in a navy uniform looked up from behind a gated window. “ID,” she said to Emily in a bored voice.

Emily slipped her driver’s license through a small opening. The woman inspected it, her eyes droopy and tired.

“You’re here to see Jordan Richards?” the woman asked. Emily nodded, too afraid to speak.

She was given a guest pass with her name on it. There was a loud buzzing sound, and the woman directed Emily into another hall, where a guard who looked like a weathered, hardened version of Tina Fey patted her down. Emily had done a little reading on the prison last night; unlike the prison
she’d
been stuck in for a day when she’d been falsely arrested for Tabitha’s murder, the Ulster Correctional Facility was only for women and only employed women. The only other information she could get out of the place was that it provided educational services to inmates, which meant it couldn’t be all
that
bad, right?

Then again, the air smelled like a mix of mustiness and ammonia. Fluorescent lights buzzed loudly over Emily’s head, and everything from the slamming doors to Emily’s footsteps to the sound of one guard’s furious gum-chewing had a hollow, lonely echo. Haggard Tina Fey gestured for Emily to follow, and they passed through a series of unadorned halls with puke-green cinder-block walls. As they passed one door, Emily caught a whiff of what she could only describe as rotten mashed potatoes. Jordan had once told her that her family was so well-off and she was left alone for so much of the time as a girl that she usually ordered takeout from the five-star French restaurant down the block. How on earth was Jordan surviving?

The guard punched a set of numbers into a keypad, and after another loud
buzz
, the latch gave way. They walked into a large, windowless room peppered with tables and chairs. A water fountain sat in one corner. A door to a bathroom was on the far wall.

A burly, red-haired girl in an orange prison jumpsuit was sitting at a table with a girl in a denim jacket and a hood pulled tight around her head. Both stood up as soon as Emily arrived and rushed in opposite directions. The hoodie girl used the door through which Emily had just come; a frizzy-haired guard took the redhead’s arm and led her toward an interior door, presumably back to her cell. But before she made the turn into the hall, the redheaded prisoner pivoted and stared at Emily, her eyes moving up and down her body. She was eyeing her up, maybe . . . or checking her out. Emily wasn’t sure she liked either prospect.

“Sit.” Emily’s guard pointed to one of the tables. Emily did, and the guard crossed the room to a second interior door. Then, a familiar figure stepped through. Emily drew in a breath. Yes, Jordan was in an orange prison uniform, and yes, her hair looked a little greasy and her face was a little drawn, but she was still the beautiful girl Emily remembered.

All sorts of memories rushed back at once. The two of them floating on that stolen boat in the San Juan harbor. Snuggling in the bed in their stateroom as the cruise ship drifted toward another port. How good it felt to kiss her. How wrenched she’d felt when Jordan jumped overboard.

Jordan met Emily’s eyes and smiled. Emily shot to her feet, unable to control her excitement. She never thought she’d see Jordan again. She never thought Jordan would
want
to see her. And here she was. It was just so . . .
incredible
.

“Fifteen minutes,” Haggard Tina Fey said gruffly. “Time starts now.”

Jordan rushed over to Emily. “H-hey,” she eked out, her mouth wobbling. Up close, she smelled like soap. The same tiny freckles were sprinkled across her cheeks. Emily wanted to touch each one. “You’re . . . here.”