Byron turned the ignition, and the old diesel engine grumbled to life. One of his acid jazz tapes blared through the speakers. Aria stared at the blackened and twisted trees in her backyard. Little curls of smoke rose from the woods, the fire still smoldering in places. An entire roll of yellow DO NOT CROSS tape had been strung up along the tree line, as the woods were now too brittle and dangerous to enter. Aria had heard on the news this morning that cops were combing through the woods in search of an answer as to who might have set the fire, and last night she’d received a call from the Rosewood PD, wanting to know about the person she’d seen in the woods with the can of gasoline. Now that the person definitely wasn’t Wilden, Aria didn’t have much to tell them. It could have been anyone under that enormous hood.
Aria held her breath as they rolled past the large colonial that belonged to Ian Thomas’s family. The lawn was covered with morning frost, the red mailbox flag was up, and a couple of coupon circulars were scattered on the Thomases’ driveway. There was fresh graffiti on the garage door that said Murderer, the paint an exact match to the KILLER graffiti someone had painted on Spencer’s garage door. On instinct, Aria reached into her yak-fur bag and felt for Ian’s class ring in the inside pocket. She’d been tempted just to give it to Wilden yesterday—she didn’t want to be responsible for it—but Spencer had a point. The Rosewood PD had missed the ring entirely during their massive search through the woods; they might assume Aria had planted it there. But why hadn’t they found the ring? Maybe they hadn’t searched the woods at all.
And where was Ian, anyway? Why had he given them the wrong information in his IMs? And how had he not noticed that his ring was gone? Aria doubted that it had just slipped off his finger—the only time that had happened to her was when she washed out brushes after painting, and she always noticed her rings falling off right away. Was it possible that Ian was dead, and that the ring had fallen off him as someone roughly dragged his body away when Aria and the others had run back to find Wilden? But if that was the case, then who was speaking with them on IM?
She sighed loudly, and Byron gave her a surreptitious look. He was extra disheveled today, his dark hair standing up in thinning tufts. Despite the cold, he wasn’t wearing a coat, and there was a big hole in the elbow of his heavy wool sweater. Aria recognized it as one he’d bought when the family had been living in Iceland. She wished her family had never left Reykjavik.
“So how are you doing?” Byron asked gently.
Aria shrugged. At the corner, they passed a bunch of public school kids waiting for the bus. They pointed at Aria, instantly recognizing her from the news. Aria pulled her faux-fur hood around her head. Then they passed Spencer’s street. A big tree service vehicle was parked at the curb, a police car behind it. Across the street, Jenna Cavanaugh and her German shepherd service dog walked daintily to Mrs. Cavanaugh’s Lexus, avoiding patches of ice. Aria shivered. Jenna knew more about Ali than she’d let on. Aria even wondered if Jenna was keeping a burgeoning secret—on the day of Meredith’s baby shower, Jenna had been standing in the middle of Aria’s yard as if she needed to tell Aria something. But when Aria asked Jenna what was wrong, Jenna turned and fled. She seemed to know Jason DiLaurentis pretty well, too—but why would Jason have barged into her house last week and started arguing with her? And why did A want them to know it, if Jason truly had nothing to do with Ali’s death?
“Officer Wilden said you guys were trying to figure out who really killed Ali,” Byron said, his gravelly voice so loud and booming that Aria jumped. “But, honey, if Ian didn’t kill her, the cops will figure out who did.” He scratched the back of his neck, something he only did when he was stressed. “I’m worried about you. Ella is, too.”
Aria winced at Byron’s reference to her mother. Aria’s parents had separated this fall, and both had moved on to new relationships. Ever since Ella began dating Xavier, a lecherous artist who’d hit on Aria, Aria had been avoiding her. And while her dad certainly had a point, Aria was in too deep to unwind herself from the Ali investigation now.
“Talking about it might help,” Byron tried when Aria still didn’t answer, turning down the jazz CD. “You can even tell me about . . . you know. Seeing Alison.”
They passed a farm that had six stout white alpacas, then a Wawa. Stop saying you saw Ali, Wilden’s voice reverberated in Aria’s mind. Something about it continued to bother her. He sounded so . . . aggressive. “I don’t know what we saw,” she admitted weakly. “I want to believe that we just inhaled a lot of smoke and that’s the end of it. But what are the odds of us all seeing Ali at the exact same time, doing the exact same thing? Isn’t that kind of strange?”
Byron put his blinker on and shifted to the right lane. “It is strange.” He sipped from his Hollis College coffee mug. “Remember how a few months ago you asked me if ghosts could send text messages?”
The conversation was blurry in Aria’s mind, but she remembered talking to Byron after receiving the first message from Old A. Before Ali’s body was found in her old backyard, Aria had wondered if Ali’s ghost had been sending those messages from beyond the grave.
“Some people believe that the dead can’t rest until they impart an important message.” Byron braked at a stoplight behind a Toyota Prius that had a VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS bumper sticker.
“What do you mean?” Aria sat up straighter.
They swept past Clocktower, a million-dollar housing development with its own golf club, and then the little township park. A few brave souls were out in heavy down parkas, walking their dogs. Byron breathed out through his nose. “I just mean . . . Alison’s death was a mystery. They’ve arrested the killer, but no one really knows for sure what happened. And you girls were right where Alison died. Her body had been there for years.”
Aria reached over and took a sip from her dad’s mug. “So you’re saying . . . it could’ve been Ali’s ghost?”
Byron shrugged, making a right. They pulled into the drive at Rosewood Day and slowed to a crawl behind a line of buses. “Maybe.”
“And you think she wants to tell us something?”
Aria asked incredulously. “So you don’t think Ian did it either?”
Byron shook his head vehemently. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that sometimes, certain things can’t be explained rationally.”
A ghost. It sounded like he was channeling hippy-dippy Meredith. But as Aria glanced at her dad’s profile, there were taut lines around his mouth. His eyebrows were knitted together, and he was doing that neck-scratching thing again. He was serious.
She turned to Byron, suddenly filled with questions. Why would Ali’s ghost be here? What was her unfinished business? And what was Aria supposed to do now?
But before she could say a word, there was a sharp knock on the passenger door. Aria hadn’t realized they’d already pulled to the curb of Rosewood Day. Three reporters swarmed around the car, snapping photos and pressing their faces against the window. “Miss Montgomery?” a woman called, her voice loud through the glass.
Aria gaped at them and then looked desperately at her dad. “Ignore them,” Byron urged. “Run.”
Taking a deep breath, Aria pushed the door open and barreled her way through the throng. Cameras flashed. Reporters babbled. Behind them, Aria saw students gaping, perversely fascinated by the commotion. “Did you really see Alison?” the reporters called. “Do you know who set the fire?” “Did someone set that fire in the woods to cover up a vital clue?”
Aria swiveled around at the last question but kept her mouth shut.
“Did you set the fire?” a dark-haired thirtysomething man shouted. The reporters moved in closer.
“Of course not!” Aria shouted, alarmed. Then she elbowed past them, scampering up the walk and bursting through the first available door, which led to the back stage of the auditorium.
The doors banged shut, and Aria let out a held breath and looked around. The big, high-ceilinged theater was empty. Boat sets from South Pacific, the school’s recent musical, were stacked in a corner. Sheet music was strewn haphazardly on the floor. The red velvet auditorium chairs spread out before her, every single seat folded up and unoccupied. It was too quiet in here. Eerily quiet.
When the wood floor squeaked, Aria stiffened. A shadow disappeared behind the curtain. She whipped around, a horrible possibility darting through her mind. It’s the person who set the fire. The person who tried to kill us. They’re here. But when she moved closer, there was no one there.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was Ali’s spirit, lurking close, desperate. If what Byron said was true—if a dead person couldn’t rest until her message had been heard—then maybe Aria needed to figure out how to communicate with her. Maybe it was time to hear what Ali had to say.
Chapter 6
Down the Rabbit Hole
Emily slammed her locker door Monday afternoon and hefted her biology, trig, and history books into her arms. A piece of paper slid out from inside one of her notebooks. HOLY TRINITY YOUTH GROUP BOSTON TRIP said big, curly letters.
She scowled. This paper had been lodged in her notebook since the week before when her then-boyfriend, Isaac, had asked her to come. Emily had even gotten permission from her parents—she’d thought it would be the perfect way to spend time with Isaac alone.
Not anymore.
Her chest tightened. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, Emily had really and truly thought she and Isaac were in love—enough, in fact, to sleep with him, for her very first time. But then everything had gone horribly, dreadfully wrong. When Emily tried to tell Isaac about his mom’s evil glares and hurtful remarks, he’d broken up with her on the spot, more or less telling Emily she was psycho.
A few sophomores passed behind her, giggling and comparing lip glosses. How could Emily have thought he loved her? How could she have slept with him? By the time Isaac had found her at the Radley party on Saturday night and apologized, she wasn’t sure if she wanted him back anymore. Since the fire, he’d texted and called her several times, wanting to know if she was okay, but Emily hadn’t replied to those messages either. Things felt ruined between them. Isaac hadn’t even listened to her side of the story. Now, whenever she thought about what they’d done that day after school in Isaac’s bedroom, she wished she could grab a big bar of soap and scrub the deed off her skin.
Balling up the flyer in her hands, she tossed it in the nearest trash can and continued down the hall. The classical between-classes music lilted through the overhead speakers. Red-and-pink posters for the upcoming Rosewood Day valentine’s Ball wallpapered the halls. There was the usual traffic jam on the stairs, and someone had farted in the stairwell. It was a status quo Monday at school . . . except for one thing: Everyone was staring at her.
Literally everyone. Two senior boys on the baseball team mouthed freak as she passed. Mrs. Booth, Emily’s creative writing teacher from the year before, poked her head out of her classroom door, widened her eyes at Emily, and then scuttled back inside, like a mouse darting back into a hole. The only person who didn’t stare was Spencer. Instead, Spencer pointedly turned her head in the opposite direction, obviously still annoyed that Emily had told the police they’d seen Ali in her backyard.
