Pretty Little Liars #15: Toxic (24 page)

“Not because they want to support troubled youth,” Hanna said sourly. “It’s probably because they can sneak free cocktails.” Then her face paled at something across the room.

Aria tried to follow her gaze, but Hanna leapt up and stood in her way. “Um, we should mingle. Introduce Harrison around, don’t you think?”

Aria frowned. Hanna’s voice was so squeaky all of a sudden. She craned her neck around her friend’s skinny frame and stared at the lacrosse table. Then she saw what Hanna was trying to block. Noel was sitting at the lacrosse table, too. With Scarlett.

You’re not supposed to be here!
Aria wanted to scream. Hadn’t Noel told her he was busy tonight? Then again,
busy
could have meant “I already have a date.”

She peeked at Scarlett. The little blonde was wearing a black dress that fit her lean frame perfectly, and her hair was twisted into a complicated updo. Noel leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. Scarlett tilted her head back and laughed, touching Noel’s hand.

Then Noel glanced up. His gaze found Aria instantly, and his eyes narrowed. His lips parted. He didn’t drop Scarlett’s hand. Aria turned quickly to Harrison, who was leafing through the program that described the Rosewood Rallies charity. She grabbed his hand tightly, squeezing it hard, then slid even closer to him and pretended to hang on every word of the story he was telling Hanna about the private high school he’d attended in Montgomery County.

After a decent amount of time, she peeked at the lacrosse table again; to her frustration, Noel’s attention was on Scarlett and the pasta she’d gotten from the buffet. All of a sudden, Aria felt overheated. There was no way she could take another moment in this room. She shot up and fumbled into the hall. “I have to . . . ,” she mumbled to Harrison and Hanna, but then darted toward the door without finishing her sentence.

There was no line for the women’s room, and the little dressing area at the front was empty, too. Aria flung herself on the paisley-printed couch and rubbed her temples hard.
Don’t be mad about stupid Scarlett
, she told herself sternly. But it was beyond painful to see Noel with someone else. Someone so different. Someone so much prettier.

The door whooshed open, and Aria lifted her head. At first, she thought she was seeing things.

Noel was standing in the doorway.

He gaped at her, arms at his sides. He looked out of breath, his cheeks flushed.

Aria shot up from the couch. “You can’t be in here!”

Before Aria knew what was happening, Noel had stepped forward and taken her by the shoulders, pressing his lips to hers. Aria shut her eyes, the familiar sensation washing over her as she kissed him back.

Then she pushed him away, her eyes wide. “What are you
doing
?” she snapped.

Noel was too out of breath to answer. He kept staring at her lips.

“We’re
over
,” Aria added. “You said so yourself. And what about that girl?”

Noel looked tormented. “I don’t know what I want,” he blurted, and darted for the door. Then, with a swoosh, he was gone.

Aria sank back onto the couch, her pulse hammering in her throat. She could still taste Noel’s lips on hers. Her whole body felt invigorated and flushed. Part of her wanted to run after him, but another part of her held back. Noel was probably already with Scarlett, regretting their kiss. And somehow, that made her feel even worse.

The door swished open again, and Aria half rose, hoping it was Noel . . . and hating herself for hoping. But Spencer walked in, dressed in a twenties-style, fringed black dress, looking down into her oversize envelope clutch. She stopped when she saw Aria, and her expression turned to worry. “Are you okay?”

Aria blinked. There was no way she could explain what had happened. “Where have you been?” she asked instead.

Spencer squirted some lotion on her palms. “I’ve spent all morning trying to figure out who Dominick is. I called about fifty private investigators to see if they’d help, but they actually need a full name before they can do anything. I even called the bullying organization who made that video to see if they got everyone’s names from the audience. But no one’s gotten back to me yet.”

“That sucks,” Aria said faintly. But her mind was still on Noel. He’d followed her in here and
kissed
her. Had he been thinking about her all this time? Or had seeing her across the room, in a dress she’d worn once on a date with him, brought back memories and longings?

“Aria?”

She snapped back to attention. Spencer pointed at Aria’s purse. “Your phone’s ringing.”

The screen was lit up; she’d been so lost in her thoughts she’d completely tuned it out. A 212 number was on the screen. Aria swallowed hard, then answered.

“Aria Montgomery?” came an unfamiliar voice. “My name is Frank Brenner. I’m calling from the
New York Post
.”

Aria ran her hand over the top of her head. “I’m sorry, I’m not really in the position to do an interview right now.”

“Oh, I’m not calling for an interview, per se.” There was a smarmy tone to Mr. Brenner’s gravelly voice. “I’m calling for a quote from you about the stunt Mr. John Carruthers is claiming you pulled.”

Aria blinked. For a moment, she forgot who Mr. Carruthers was. Then she remembered:
the Ali portrait
. “I’m sorry?” she said. “What stunt?”

“He’s saying he didn’t buy your painting.” Mr. Brenner sounded amused.

“What?”

“He was in Africa when that painting sold. Apparently, someone posing as his assistant bought it. But it wasn’t his
real
assistant.”

Aria paced around the little room. “But I was paid. Presumably from Carruthers’s account.”

“Nope. Carruthers checked his books. There’s no transaction for it. He claims that someone else paid for it and just used his name. He said he’d never buy a portrait like that—I believe his exact words were ‘garish and disturbing.’”

Aria’s stomach twisted. “He
said
that?”

“Indeed he did!”

It bothered Aria how gleeful the reporter sounded. She struggled to put all the pieces together, her mind still confused over everything that had happened with Noel, and now this. What was going on? “But . . . why would someone
else
pay all that money for that painting and claim that Mr. Carruthers had bought it?” she asked slowly. “Why didn’t they give their own name?”

Mr. Brenner’s laugh was sharp and a little nasty. “I was hoping
you
could tell
me
, Aria. Is it true you placed the call and the order yourself, posing as Mr. Carruthers’s assistant? And you paid for it out of a private account?”

“Of course not!” Aria cried. “I don’t have that kind of money. And anyway, my mom took that call from the assistant. I had no idea until she told me about it later.”

The reporter chuckled. “I guess this is why they call you a Pretty Little Liar. So can I put down here that you orchestrated the whole thing?”

“No!” Aria gripped the phone hard. Her mind was doing somersaults. “Wait. Start from the beginning. What was the name of the assistant who ordered the transaction? What account was supposedly used to pay for the painting?”

Mr. Brenner clucked his tongue. “I think
I
should be asking
you
the questions, not the other way around.”

“Please tell me!” Aria cried, a hot, fizzy feeling bubbling up inside her. “Let’s just say I
don’t
know about this account. What’s the name on it? Do you know?” She had a feeling she knew where this was going. But she needed to know for sure, right now.

The reporter sighed. Then came the sound of papers flipping. “It’s Maxine Preptwill,” he read, stumbling over the syllables. “That ringing any bells?”

Aria’s knees went weak. “Say that again?”

Mr. Brenner repeated it. A thin, low buzz took over Aria’s thoughts, and she hung up the phone without saying anything else. She sank to the ground, staring dazedly at the huge, slightly psychedelic roses on the carpet.

Spencer dropped down beside her. “Aria!” she hissed. “What the hell is going on?”

“Maxine Preptwill,” Aria repeated in a whisper as the room started to spin. She knew that name. It was the secret code name Noel and Ali had used to communicate when Ali was in The Preserve.

Ali had been behind Aria’s success all along. And now she was behind her downfall.

27

MEOW MEOW MEOW!

Spencer picked Aria up off the floor and helped her out of the bathroom. For a few minutes, Aria was unable to talk, so they sat on a bench away from the noise while Spencer rubbed her back. Finally, Aria told her everything.

“It was Ali,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “She was the assistant on the line with my mom that day in the gallery—well, either her or an Ali Cat, in case she thought Ella would recognize her voice. And the money came from
her
account. Nick has so much money. He must have left her some.”

Spencer swallowed hard. It didn’t seem fair that Ali had a hundred thousand dollars to throw around willy-nilly. “Maybe we could trace the bank account,” she said. “That could lead us back to her, right?”

“Or it will lead us to another Ali Cat who won’t talk,” Aria grumbled.

Spencer thought about Dominick again. Maybe
he
’
d
been the assistant on the line.

“Hey.”

Greg stood above them, dressed in a crisp blue oxford and dark khakis. “Hi!” Spencer cried, jumping up. “Y-you’re here!”

His gaze fell to Aria, who now was bent over, head in her hands. “Am I interrupting?” he asked softly.

Spencer smoothed down her skirt. “Greg, this is my friend Aria. Aria, Greg. We met at the anti-bullying taping.”

Aria raised her head and shook his hand limply. Then she slumped back on the seat, saying nothing. An awkward few seconds passed, and then Spencer said, “Aria, why don’t we get food.”

“No,” Aria answered in monotone, staring straight ahead. “Go. Have fun. Enjoy life while you can.”

Spencer pulled her bottom lip into her mouth. After a moment, she turned to Greg. “I’ll be right back.”

She took Aria by the arm and walked her through the crowd toward the girls-of-honor table at the front—Hanna was still there, talking to a tall guy in an expensive-looking blazer who must have been Aria’s blogger date. But Aria shook her head. “Do you know where my dad is?” she asked in a small voice.

“Of course,” Spencer said, putting an arm around Aria’s shoulder and guiding her to Byron and Meredith’s table at the back. Meredith looked worried when she saw Aria’s stricken face. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Boy troubles,” Spencer said, patting Aria on the shoulder and gently sitting her down. It was the perfect excuse.

Once Aria was safely surrounded by her family, Spencer returned to Greg, who was still waiting in the hall. “Let’s grab something to eat,” she said, leading him toward the buffet room. The line for food was about twenty people long. At the front, a woman dripping in diamonds sloppily spooned pasta sauce on her plate. One of her mom’s friends, heavily Botoxed and looking rigid in a Chanel suit, plucked a canapé from a silver tray with her fingers. Sometimes, Spencer thought, rich people could be awfully uncivilized.

Greg took his place behind Spencer, but his gaze quickly found Aria at her dad’s table. “Is she really okay?”

“Sure,” Spencer answered hurriedly, grabbing a plate and silverware from the stack. She didn’t want to go into any more Ali stuff right now. “So how was traffic? You have any trouble finding the place?”

“I had GPS.” Greg craned his neck, seemingly still searching for Aria in the hall. “Does she think Ali’s after you guys, too?”

Spencer winced at the mention of Ali’s name. She pointed at a large tureen, desperate to change the subject. “Ooh, their French onion soup is amazing. You have to try some.”

She handed Greg a bowl, but he kept his arms at his sides. “I’m not an idiot, Spencer. Something happened, didn’t it?” He moved closer. “What is it? I want to help.”

Spencer shut her eyes. It felt so good to hear someone else offer their help, but she didn’t want to involve Greg more than she had to. What if Ali came after
him
? “It’s nothing,” she whispered.

“It’s not nothing. It’s something with Ali, right?”

Spencer looked around carefully, but all the glammed-up moms and golfer dads were too busy loading their plates with honey-glazed ham and salmon to notice the conversation she was having. All she’d wanted were a few Ali-free hours. But she could tell by the way Greg was looking at her that he wasn’t going to let this drop.

She placed the empty soup bowl back on the stack and took his hand. “I can’t talk here.”

She led Greg down a maze of halls and into a quiet bar with a fireplace, where she and Ali used to come after long summer days at the pool. There was an old bartender named Bert who’d leave his post for long stretches of time to use the bathroom across the hall; they would sneak themselves secret nips of vodka or white wine while he was gone. Today, not a single soul was inside except for an unfamiliar, younger bartender toweling off some martini glasses. He nodded at Spencer and Greg, then returned his gaze to the baseball game on the TV screen.

She sat on the leather couch in front of a roaring fire—a little unnecessary, given how warm it was outside—and Greg sat, too. Spencer looked at him for a long time. “Ali is closing in on us,” she finally admitted in a low voice.

Greg blinked. “What do you mean?”

She told him about the prison murder and Aria’s painting scandal. “Maxine Preptwill was a secret name Ali used to use,” she said. “She knew that we’d recognize it but no one else would. It’s, like, a code.”

Greg nodded, the worried creases on his forehead growing deeper. “Maybe you can trace the account?”

“That’s what I suggested.” Spencer shrugged. “I guess we could try.”

Greg took her hand and held it tight. “That’s not all, though. Is it?”

Outside the room, a bunch of kids thundered past, balloons that said
ROSEWOOD RALLIES!
trailing behind them. The chlorine smell of the indoor pool at the very end of the building suddenly wafted into her nostrils. Spencer sighed deeply. “It’s about Dominick,” she whispered. “He’s an Ali Cat. I’m sure of it.”