Pretty Little Liars #15: Toxic Read online

  Ella swept up to her. “Guess who had two more sales today?” she chirped happily. She waved some faxed papers in Aria’s face. “A buyer from Maine and someone in California. Not for as much as the Ali painting sold for, but still—congratulations!”

  Aria blinked. Her mother’s excited demeanor was heartbreaking. This was even worse: She didn’t know yet.

  Wordlessly, Aria passed over the phone and pushed the icon for Safari. The Post article was still up. “You should see this.”

  Ella glanced at it, then shrugged. “I already have.” She straightened Aria’s hair behind her shoulders. “Your agent told me. I hope that’s okay—she was trying to reach you, but you weren’t picking up, and your voice mail was full. Is this the real reason you ran off last night? You should have just told me, Aria.”

  Aria blinked, then nodded. She had found out last night. It seemed like as good an excuse as any to explain her mysterious absence.

  Ella looked at the phone again. “Your first Post article—and front page, too! I’m so proud.”

  “Mom!” Aria cried. She couldn’t believe how oblique her mom was being. “The story is awful. And untrue. I didn’t pose as Carruthers’s assistant or get anyone else to. I had nothing to do with that sale at all—to be honest, I’m horrified that Ali painting sold. I was going to burn it.”

  Ella looked at her intently. “Aria, of course I know you didn’t have anything to do with it.” She placed the papers back on the desk. “Are you truly worried about that article? If you’re serious about being an artist, you’re going to have all kinds of crazy things written about you, a lot of it negative criticism, much of it lies. My guess? Someone used Carruthers’s name because he or she didn’t want to admit who they were. Maybe it’s someone notorious. Or maybe it’s a celebrity!”

  Aria stared at her mother. Well, Ali was both those things. “S-so you’re not mad?” she finally eked out.

  Ella walked to the corner of the gallery and straightened a crooked landscape of the Brandywine River. “The transaction has nothing to do with you, honey. We all know that. Besides, your agent told me that this scandal has actually drummed up more interest in your paintings. The buyer in Maine specifically bought something after that Post article came out. Sasha was there when he came in—said he was a youngish guy, mid-thirties, super-artsy. His name was Gerald French.”

  Aria blinked hard. So Ali’s plans to ruin her actually hadn’t worked? She almost couldn’t swallow it. She looked around, waiting for the gallery to explode or Ella to drop to her knees, severely food-poisoned. Something. But Ella just smiled at her warmly, then moved into the back room, where they kept the inventory.

  The bells on the door chimed again, and Aria turned. “Oh my God,” she blurted, her mouth moving before her brain. Standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, was Noel.

  A nervous expression flashed across Noel’s face. Aria felt the blood rushing to her cheeks once more. The memory of their kiss in the bathroom pulsed in her mind. With all of the Ali and art stuff, she’d pushed it to the back burner.

  “Uh, hey,” Noel said. He licked his lips. “I wanted to see if you were, like, okay. They were looking for you at the party last night. No one could find you.”

  “I’m fine,” Aria said. She stared at the floor. “Thanks for checking in.”

  “Of course I was going to check in.”

  Aria whipped her head up, filled with a sudden confusion—and anger. “What do you mean, of course? I’ve been pretty much dead to you.”

  “Yeah, well, I think that was a mistake.” His eyes were crinkled and filled with remorse. He seemed serious. A crack opened inside her. Did he want her back?

  Aria wanted that to be enough, but suddenly she felt so exhausted. “Noel, you’ve put me on a roller coaster the last few weeks,” she said. “I’ve been up, then down, then miserable. I was just starting to feel better about things when last night happened.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, first you want to be apart, then you’re with Scarlett, then you kiss me, then you run away, and—”

  “I know,” Noel interrupted. He took a tentative step forward. “Not to mention what I did to you before all that.”

  “You basically . . . dropped me,” Aria said, feeling choked up.

  “I never really dropped you,” Noel said gently. “And I’m sorry—for everything.”

  “But what about Scarlett?”

  “We broke up. She’s just . . . not you.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Look, I thought putting some distance between us would give us time to . . . think, maybe. Process. But I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve followed your art success, you know. It’s so amazing. And then that story that came out today—I know what that’s about, too.”

  Aria looked at him sharply. “What do you mean, you know?”

  Noel’s mouth twitched. “I think I know who’s behind it. Am I right?”

  Aria glanced over her shoulder, but Ella was still in the back.

  She gave Noel the tiniest nod. “She has a lot of fans,” was all she said.

  Noel nodded back. “Well, I hope you know I’m not one of them.”

  Aria drew in a breath. That hadn’t even occurred to her . . . but maybe it should have. He had been manipulated by Ali once before. Then she sighed. “Well, just because you know about it doesn’t mean you’re getting involved.”

  “I hope you’re not getting involved, either.”

  Aria shrugged. It wasn’t worth explaining to him right now. Hopefully it was over.

  Noel shuffled his feet. “But aside from that, I miss you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Aria felt a lump in her throat. “I can’t stop thinking about you, either. But, I mean—”

  Noel cut her off. With the tip of his finger, he tilted her chin up so she was looking at him. “Isn’t that enough for us to try again?” he asked.

  Aria pulled her bottom lip into her mouth. Noel’s skin smelled like the oatmeal soap his mom always put in the family’s powder room. And when she looked at his fingers, still on her chin, she realized she knew every inch of his hands by heart—the scar on the side of his thumb from the time he’d cut himself carving a Halloween pumpkin, how his palms got chapped in the winter, the raised bump on the back of his hand from an old burn he didn’t remember getting. She thought she knew him by heart, too—but he had surprised her lately. And they weren’t good surprises, either. How would he surprise her in the future?

  If only she lived in a world with no surprises—no Ali coming back to life, no evil A notes, no horrible secrets that a boyfriend kept from her for years. But would that also mean she’d miss out on good surprises, too? Like Typical Rosewood Noel Kahn turning out to be not Typical Rosewood at all. Like the art world accepting her anyway, despite Ali’s best efforts.

  Like Noel coming to his senses and wanting the space between them to close.

  Aria lifted his fingers from her chin. After a breath, she leaned forward, as she’d done so many times before.

  Yes, her mind said as they kissed. This was right. This was home.

  34

  SPENCER BOOKS IT

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  Spencer’s email in-box was chiming nonstop. She picked up her phone for the sixth time that minute and glanced at the screen, anxious that it might have something to do with whatever the police had found at the pool house. She’d set up Google Alerts for “Alison DiLaurentis,” “Nicholas Maxwell,” even the property’s address. But over and over, it was another email from people who’d contributed to the bullying site, congratulating her for being part of the anti-bullying group’s video. Last night, the organization had sent out a press release talking about the film. Spencer’s name and credentials had been mentioned.

  She clicked over to the press release, which linked to a YouTube video. Stand Up: Youths Speak Out Sneak Peek, read the title. Spencer pressed PLAY, watching clips of herself and the others answering questions. The camera
panned on the audience, pausing on Greg. Her heart jumped in her chest. Imagine what the organizers would do if they knew he was the ultimate bully, an Ali Cat.

  She typed his name, Greg Messner, into Google. The Facebook page she’d looked at plenty of times appeared; it said he lived in Delaware, but it didn’t list a high school and certainly didn’t mention an address. Spencer culled through kids he was friends with; he’d known people from New York, Massachusetts, Maine, Indiana, California, and New Mexico. Not a single person on his friends list was from Delaware—did he live there at all? Then Spencer thought about his story about his stepmother berating and bullying him. Had that been a lie, too?

  It was possible his whole persona was a lie, just like he’d made up Dominick. She could just imagine Greg and Ali plotting the whole thing out together, chuckling about how Spencer would most definitely fall for it. But here was the million-dollar question: Why had Greg turned to Ali in the first place? Because of some twisted, psychotic affliction? Had Ali promised him something?

  The church bell chime she’d set as her ringtone began to blare, and she lunged for her phone, eager for answers. The caller ID listed a 212 number. Spencer picked up.

  “Spencer!” a familiar voice rang out through the receiver. “It’s Alyssa Bloom! How are you?”

  Spencer blinked. It took her a moment to remember that Alyssa was the editor from HarperCollins. “I-I’m fine,” she said, sitting up straighter. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing really well.” Ms. Bloom sounded like she was smiling. “And it seems like you are, too. I saw that you were part of an anti-bullying video. And your blog is doing incredibly well.”

  “Thanks,” Spencer said shakily. “I’m really glad you think so.”

  “That’s not all I think,” Bloom said. “Listen, I’ve spoken to some other people at the office, and we really think the concept you created in your blog could be turned into a book. If you’re interested, I’d like to offer you a two-book contract.”

  “What?” Spencer’s legs felt shaky. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m not one to joke around about these sorts of things. It’s the right time to come out with something like this, Spencer. And you’re the right person to tell these stories. Now, as for an advance . . .”

  She rattled off an astonishing sum of money, so surprising that Spencer plopped down on her butt and stared blankly across the room. It was happening. Really happening. She was going to get to write a book—two books, actually. Hopefully they would be meaningful and helpful, and something good could come out of all of A’s abuse.

  But suddenly, the images of the other kids on the stage for the anti-bullying video swam into her mind. And then she thought of the kids who’d emailed their tales. Some of them were in such horrible living situations. A lot of them were lower-class. A lot of them wanted the right clothes or shoes or accessories to fit in but couldn’t afford them—and that was the stupid reason why bullies targeted them.

  The trust they’d put into her. The honest, earnest support they’d given her when they found out she was in that video. They didn’t have to. They could have felt jealous that they hadn’t gotten the attention instead. Which made her think of Dominick’s—or, really, Greg’s—words: You’re just doing this to capitalize off of what happened to you.

  Was she?

  “Spencer? Are you there?”

  Spencer cleared her throat and pressed the phone to her ear. “This all sounds wonderful,” she said. “B-but I’m wondering. Maybe everyone who contributes could be coauthors, too. I can’t accept all that advance money for myself.”

  Alyssa Bloom chuckled. “You can split up the money however you like.”

  She gave Spencer some more details, mostly about deadlines and on-sale dates and possible book tours. Spencer barely heard her, her heart was pounding so hard. She probably said “thank you” a hundred times before she hung up. Then she sat quietly on her bed, taking even breaths. She was already thinking of the stories she wanted to include on the pages. She couldn’t wait to tell the contributors that they’d profit from this, too. After all they’d been through, they deserved it.

  Take that, Ali, she thought with satisfaction. She thought she was so smart with her minions and her video loops and her quick-escape tricks. But here was something wonderful that had happened, and Ali hadn’t squelched it. Maybe she was losing her touch.

  Ping.

  She glanced at her phone again, wondering if it was from Ms. Bloom—she’d said she was going to follow up with an email. But it was a Google Alert for “Ashland, PA.”

  She shot up and looked closer. Google didn’t link to the pool house story. Instead, a headline read YOUNG MAN FOUND DEAD BEHIND ASHLAND’S TURKEY HILL MINI-MART.

  With shaking hands, Spencer opened the link to a website for the Ashland Herald: OFFICIALS FOUND THE BODY OF A YOUNG MAN FACEDOWN AT THE CREEK BED BEHIND THE TURKEY HILL MINI-MART IN SOUTHWEST ASHLAND EARLY THIS MORNING AFTER GETTING A 911 CALL FROM A MAN WALKING HIS DOG. POLICE DESCRIBED THE MAN AS DARK-HAIRED AND DRESSED IN A JACKET, A SHIRT AND TIE, AND WINGTIP SHOES, AND WITH A TATTOO OF A BIRD ON THE BACK OF HIS HAND. A DRIVER’S LICENSE WAS FOUND ON HIM, BUT FAMILY MEMBERS HAVE NOT BEEN REACHED TO IDENTIFY THE BODY. CAUSE OF DEATH IS UNCLEAR.

  Spencer was so horrified she threw the phone across the room. A shirt and tie. Wingtips. A tattoo of a bird on the back of his hand. It was Greg.

  She stood and paced around the room.

  What had happened after he left Spencer? Maybe he’d wanted to see Ali in person, finally—and he knew where she’d be. After all, he’d said he was in love with her.

  Spencer stopped in her tracks, realizing something huge. Maybe it was Greg’s blood all over that pool house. It totally made sense. Ali had killed him because Greg had broken a cardinal Ali Cat rule.

  Never kiss and tell.

  35

  THE MASTER PLAN

  That morning, Emily sat in her bedroom, the box of Jordan’s possessions in front of her on the mattress. She ran her hands over its smooth cardboard sides, then thought about what she was about to do. After she looked at whatever was inside, she was going to tape the box back up and bury it in the backyard. It was just like how she and her friends had buried things that reminded them of Their Ali.

  It wasn’t that Emily wanted to forget Jordan—not at all. There would be a real funeral for Jordan next week, in New Jersey, and Emily planned on attending. But the funeral would be strange and impersonal: Other people would be at the pulpit, giving speeches about who they thought Jordan was. None of Jordan’s family would know Emily; none of them had any idea what Emily and Jordan meant to each other. Emily would merely be another mourner, a stranger. She needed a way to honor Jordan in her own way, right here, all alone, just her. Burying the box just seemed right.

  Taking a deep breath, she lifted the lid and removed the Bubble Wrap. A carefully folded T-shirt was on top, followed by a pair of jeans. Emily pulled them out and felt a whoosh of pain, for they still smelled like Jordan, even though it was clear they’d been washed. She pressed them to her nose, inhaling again and again. The fabric felt so soft against her skin, as soft as Jordan had been. She ran her fingers along the hem of the jeans, the button at the waist. It was almost too much to handle.

  But she kept going. Underneath the jeans, she found the earrings she feared she’d see, little diamond studs Jordan had worn since the first day Emily met her. They were in a plastic Baggie, and Emily was too choked up to even take them out. Below that was a small pouch containing some money, a key card to a Marriott hotel, and a receipt from McDonald’s for a six-piece chicken nugget meal and a small Diet Coke.

  But it was what was at the very bottom of the box that made her heart stop. There, folded several times, the creases worn, the paper wrinkled as though it had been through the washer a few times, was a drawing Emily had given to Jordan when they were on the cruise. She’d done it on cruise ship stationery, penning a picture of herself and Jordan as stick figur
es, standing on a boat and holding hands. Our trip, she’d written, and then she’d described, in words and pictures, their adventures on the zip line, and the long walk they’d taken on the secluded beach, and the time they’d stolen the boat in Puerto Rico for a joyride around the harbor. Emily had drawn herself and Jordan kissing—their first kiss—adding Amazing! and drawing a little heart around the two of them in red pen.

  Emily’s eyes welled. The little drawing had survived the dive into the harbor. It had survived Jordan’s travels south and all her hiding spots. And there was something else, too: a second heart around the red one, a newer one drawn in blue. Jordan must have drawn it after she’d escaped off the boat—the ink didn’t seem as faded. Which meant that even after Jordan thought Emily had betrayed her, she’d drawn the heart and carried the drawing with her anyway, not throwing it out. Maybe she, like Emily, knew that someday they’d work everything out.

  The tears ran hot down Emily’s cheeks, blurring her vision. She cried for a long time, the sobs convulsive but also cathartic. Finally, once she felt drained, she placed everything back in the box except for the drawing Jordan had saved. She taped up the top, then hefted it into her arms and started downstairs.

  A pang hit her halfway down. How could she say good-bye? How did you let someone like this go? She hated that Ali had done this. But she hoped with all her heart that the cops had actually found some evidence—or Ali herself. And that soon enough, Ali would be behind bars. Somewhere dark. And miserable. And totally hopeless.

  Something out the window caught her attention. Aria had pulled up to the curb. Spencer’s car was behind hers, and Hanna drove up in her Prius and parked in the driveway. Slowly, the girls got out and stepped toward Emily’s front door with all the sobriety of government officials coming to a family’s door to tell them that their child had died in an overseas battle.

  Emily swallowed hard. None of them had announced they were coming. Had they found out something she hadn’t? Was there news about Ali?