Twisted (9 page)

Mr. Roland waved away her offer. “So Chloe told me about your swimming conundrum. You’re serious about competing at the college level?”

“Of course.”

He paused on her for a moment, studying her face. “Good. I have a lot of pull at UNC. If you give me your times, I can get in touch with the recruiter. I know they’re still looking for kids to fill out the team.”

Emily pressed her hand to her chest. “
Thank
you so much.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Mr. Roland handed her a twenty. His piercing blue eyes twinkled. “Is this enough?”

Emily pushed it away. “That’s way too much.”

“Please.” Mr. Roland placed the bill in her hand and closed her fist. Then, as he steered her toward the door, his hand snaked up her arm, slid down her shoulder, and rested on her hip.

Emily stopped walking, her mouth falling open. She wanted to tell Mr. Roland to stop it, but the nerves around her lips felt paralyzed.

Then Mr. Roland moved away and nonchalantly pulled out his BlackBerry. “Well, see you around, Emily. I’ll be in touch.” He spoke like nothing inappropriate just happened. All of a sudden, Emily wasn’t sure.
Had
it?

She staggered out of the house, skidded down the driveway, and leaned against her car. The night was still and cold. The wind gusted, making the tree branches shake. Then, something shifted along at the border of the Hastingses’ house and the DiLaurentises’ old house. Emily shot up. Was that a person sneaking around? Who?

Beep.
Emily jumped. It was her cell phone, buried deep in her bag. She dug it out and looked at the screen.
ONE NEW TEXT
. Emily blinked in surprise. The sender was Spencer Hastings
.
She quickly pressed
READ
.

Meet me in front of Ali’s mailbox. I have something for you.

Chapter 8

You’ve got mail!

Aria sat cross-legged on the floor of her father’s den, listening to a podcast called
Find Your Inner Zen
she’d downloaded from Ella’s computer. “Envision your third eye,” a gravelly voiced man whispered in her ears. “Let your past blow away in the breeze. Be in the moment,
now.
”

The past is blowing away in the breeze
, Aria repeated silently, willing herself to believe it was true. After Jamaica, she’d listened to tons of relaxation recordings, but none of them did the trick. Maybe she didn’t have a third eye. Or maybe the past was just too heavy to blow away.

“
Damn
it!” Her brother, Mike, said next to her, gripping the PlayStation controller. He was playing Gran Turismo, and every time he crashed his Lamborghini Murcielago into a chicane, he swore violently and beat the controller on the couch.
That
certainly wasn’t helping Aria find her third eye, either.

“I hope you don’t drive like that in real life,” Meredith, her father’s fiancée, murmured as she passed down the hall. Lola, her baby, was strapped to a BabyBjörn holder that wound around her arms and connected at her lower back. It looked like a torture device.

“Shut up, both of you,” Mike snapped.

“Got something on your mind, Speed Racer?” Aria asked.

“No,” Mike said agitatedly. “I’m fine.”

But Aria knew better—something was definitely up with him. For one thing, Mike had gotten a ride with her this morning instead of waiting for Hanna to pick him up. Then, on her walk from biology to photography, Aria noticed that the little couch in the lobby where Mike and Hanna snuggled between periods was glaringly unoccupied.

When the game ended, Mike laid down his control paddle. “So you’ve met the Nordic goddess, right?”

Aria glanced up at him warily. “Excuse me?”

Mike rolled his eyes. “
Duh.
Klaudia, which I’m pretty sure is Scandinavian for
sex vixen
.”

“Scandinavian isn’t a language.” Aria groaned.

Mike reached to the coffee table and took a big handful of Smartfood popcorn from the ceramic bowl. “You have to tell me everything about her. Take a picture of her in the gym showers . . .”

Aria wound her iPod headphone around the device, trying not to overreact. “I don’t think she’d appreciate that. And anyway, no one showers after gym.”

“They don’t?” Mike looked disappointed, and Aria stifled a laugh. Why did every guy have a secret fantasy of a bunch of butt-naked girls frolicking under the school’s communal shower spray? Like girls ever
did
that!

“Well, whatever,” Mike said, undeterred. “Get invited to Noel’s for a sleepover and take pictures there. I bet Klaudia walks around the house naked twenty-four/seven. I heard Finns do that. They’re huge sex addicts, too—there’s nothing else to do there.”

“Mike, ew.” Aria threw a piece of popcorn at him. “And what would Hanna think about your new little obsession?”

Mike shrugged and didn’t answer.

A-ha.
“Did something happen with you and Hanna?” Aria pressed.

Mike started a new race, this time driving a Ferrari. “I couldn’t believe it when Klaudia got out of Noel’s car this morning,” he said. “That dude seriously hit the jackpot. But he’s not telling me anything. He’s acting like he doesn’t even realize Klaudia’s a babe, but come on. You’d have to be blind not to want to hit that.”

Aria balled up her fists. “Have you forgotten Noel’s my boyfriend?”

One of Mike’s shoulders rose. “It’s not a crime to appreciate the view. It doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen between them.”

Aria slumped back on the couch and stared at the growing crack around the light fixture in the ceiling. This whole Klaudia thing made her feel itchy and unsettled. Klaudia
was
a Nordic sex goddess—she had white-blond hair, full, pouty lips, cornflower blue eyes, and the body of a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit model. Everyone had stared at her yesterday as they walked through the international terminal toward baggage claim. Several guys looked like they were about to drop to one knee and propose marriage—or, at the very least, a night of wild sex.

As Klaudia had waited for her luggage, Aria poked Noel’s side. “Did you know Klaudia was a girl?” Perhaps that was why Noel hadn’t wanted Aria to come with him to the airport. Perhaps he’d seen pictures of his new exchange student and wanted a few moments with her to himself.

“Of course not!” Noel seemed sincere. “I’m just as shocked as you are!”

Before Aria could say anything more, Klaudia returned dragging two oversized suitcases on wheels and carrying two duffels on her shoulder. “Oof, I bring so much!” she said with a heavy accent. Aria frowned. She’d met a few Finns during her years in Iceland, and their English was a million times better than Klaudia’s. With her throaty voice and bubbleheaded delivery, she sounded like she’d grown up in a Finnish Barbie factory.

Noel and Aria helped Klaudia bring her crap to the car. After they loaded it in, Klaudia gave Aria a polite nod and said thank you. Then she turned to Noel and double-kissed him on the cheek, European-style, saying, “I so happy we roommates!” Instead of correcting Klaudia—over Aria’s dead body were they staying in the same room—Noel just blushed and laughed. Like he thought it was funny. Like he wanted it to be true. Suddenly, Aria felt very, very nervous. Maybe she should have slept with him earlier—several
months
earlier. What if Noel got tired of how Aria said
no, no, no
and wanted someone who said
ja, ja, ja
?

Now, Aria shook out her shoulders, letting that memory of the past blow away in the wind. She was just letting her jealous mind run rampant. She’d thought Noel had a thing for Ali—
Real
Ali, the girl who’d returned to Rosewood and tried to kill them—but that hadn’t been true. There’d also been that night in Jamaica: Aria had turned her back for one minute during dinner, and suddenly Noel was by the bar with a sexy blond girl all over him. “Jesus,” she’d whispered, feeling the old jealous pull in her stomach.

She marched to the bar to break up the flirting, but when Noel’s companion turned, Aria found herself staring into the face of the girl Emily had seen in the doorway. The one she’d thought was Ali.

The girl smiled broadly. “Hey, Aria. I’m Tabitha.”

A shiver wriggled up Aria’s spine. “How do you know my name?”

“Your boyfriend told me.” She patted Noel’s shoulder playfully. “Don’t worry, he’s a good boy. Not like the rest of us cheaters.”

Aria flinched. Tabitha winked knowingly at Aria, almost as if she knew Aria’s life story. Byron had cheated on Ella with Meredith. And Aria had cheated, too—on Sean Ackard with Ezra Fitz. But how could Tabitha know that? Certainly Noel wouldn’t have told her. And though a lot of information had come out about Aria in the press, none of the stories mentioned anything about her parents or her affair with Ezra.

Aria stared warily at the burns up and down the girl’s arms. Clearly, Tabitha had been through some sort of massive disaster. Something horrible—maybe even a fire. But it didn’t mean Emily was right.

Beep.

Aria looked down. It was her Droid phone on the coffee table. When she picked it up and looked at the screen, it said
TEXT FROM HANNA MARIN
.

Aria frowned. Hanna? They hadn’t spoken in months.

She opened the text.
Meet me in front of Ali’s old mailbox. It’s important.

Driving down the DiLaurentises’ old street still filled Aria with the sense that she was visiting an old graveyard. Mona Vanderwaal’s old house stood at the beginning of the road, the windows dark, the doors shut tight, a tipped-over
FOR SALE
sign in the front yard. The Hastings house was lit up like a birthday cake, but Aria couldn’t help glance at the backyard and the decimated woods, which would take years to recover from the fire Real Ali had set. Aria would never forget running frantically through the smoke that January night and coming upon someone trapped under a log. When she’d pulled the girl to safety, she’d realized it was Ali.

But not
their
Ali. Not the Ali who’d chosen them to be her new BFFs. Not the Ali they’d worshipped, resented, and loved. It was Real Ali, who’d been locked up in the Preserve since sixth grade.

Aria shook the memory away as her headlights swept across the DiLaurentises’ old driveway. A figure stood at Ali’s old mailbox, hopping from one foot to the other in a clear effort to keep warm. Aria pulled to the curb and got out. It wasn’t Hanna, though, but Emily. “What are
you
doing here?” Aria asked.

Emily looked just as surprised as Aria was. “Spencer texted me. Did she text you, too?”

“No, Hanna did.”

“I did what?”

They turned and saw Hanna stepping out of her Prius, her auburn hair wound into a bun. Aria held up her phone. “You told me to come here.”

“No, I didn’t.” Hanna looked confused. “I’m here because Emily texted
me
.”

Emily frowned. “I didn’t text you.”

A crack sounded behind them, and everyone whipped around. Spencer burst through the bushes that separated her house from the DiLaurentises’. “You told everyone to come, Aria?”

Aria let out an uncomfortable laugh. “I didn’t tell
anyone
to come.”

“Yeah, you did.” Spencer thrust her phone in Aria’s face.
Meet me in front of Ali’s mailbox. I have something to show you.

A cloud passed in front of the moon, blotting out the light. The snowdrifts on the lawn glistened eerily, crusted over with ice. Aria exchanged a worried glance with the others. Her stomach twisted with the familiarity of it—this was a look that had passed between them many, many times before.

“I was babysitting down the street.” Emily’s voice shook. “When I got my text, I looked at Ali’s mailbox and saw someone here. I thought it was you, Spencer, since you’d written me the text.”

“It wasn’t me,” Spencer said in a hoarse voice.

The girls stared at one another for a moment. Aria could tell they were all thinking the same thing. The very worst possible thing.

“Okay, ha ha.” Spencer spun and faced the DiLaurentises’ dark backyard. “Very funny! You can come out now, loser! We’re onto you!”

No one answered. Nothing moved in the yard or in the woods beyond. Aria’s heart began to pound. It felt like something—or someone—was lurking close by, watching, waiting, preparing to strike. The wind gusted, and Aria suddenly caught a whiff of smoke and gas. It was the same horrible odor she’d smelled the night Ali burned down the woods. The same odor as the night the house had caught fire in the Poconos.

“I’m leaving.” Aria reached for her keys. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

“Wait!” Emily cried. “What’s that?”

Aria turned. A piece of paper stuck out of the DiLaurentises’ old mailbox, flapping in the wind.

Emily walked over and pulled it out. “That’s not yours!” Hanna hissed. “It’s probably just junk mail they forgot to pick up!”

“Junk mail that has our names on it?” Emily waved a white envelope in their faces. Sure enough, it said
SPENCER, EMILY, ARIA, AND HANNA
on the front in large block letters.

“What the hell?” Spencer whispered, sounding more annoyed than afraid.

Hanna grabbed the envelope from Emily. Everyone gathered close, the closest they’d been to one another in months. Aria inhaled Hanna’s sugary Michael Kors perfume. Spencer’s silky blond hair brushed against her cheek. Emily’s breath smelled like Doublemint gum.

Spencer turned on her iPhone’s flashlight app and directed it at the envelope’s contents. Inside was a folded-up piece of glossy paper, seemingly ripped from a magazine. When flattened out, it showed the latest photo of Real Ali when she’d returned from the Preserve last year.
PRETTY LITTLE KILLER
,
read the fancy script at the bottom.
THIS SATURDAY. 8 P.M.