Sara Shepard - Twisted

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.

“The made-for-TV movie,” Aria groaned. “Some idiot is messing with us.”

“Hold on.” Emily pointed to the other item in the envelope. “What’s that?”

Hanna pulled it out. It was a postcard. On the front was a gleaming, crystal-blue ocean surrounded by rocky cliffs. On top of the cliffs was a resort with a huge pool, lounge chairs, tiki huts, and a roof deck and restaurant.

Hanna gasped. “Is that . . . ?”

“It can’t be,” Spencer whispered.

“It is .” Emily pointed at the pineapple mosaic pattern on the bottom of the pool. “The Cliffs.”

Aria stepped back from the postcard as if it were on fire. She hadn’t seen an image of The Cliffs in almost a year. She’d deleted every photo from spring break. She’d untagged herself from Mike and Noel’s Facebook postings of them on the beach, at dinner, in an ocean kayak, or snorkeling on the reefs. The ones where she was pretending they were having a good time. Hiding the dark, awful truth.