She stepped back. “Excuse me?”
Noel brought his cocktail, a reddish drink that looked a lot like Red Bull and vodka, to his lips. Liquid dribbled down his shirt and pooled on the seat of the chair. A few Quaker school girls sitting on paisley-upholstered footstools nudged one another, giggling. How could they think Noel was hot? If this were really Versailles, Noel wouldn’t be the Louis XIV. He’d be the French version of the village idiot.
“The whole lax team had a bet going to see who Mike could get to take him to the prom,” Noel explained. “You or your hottie stepsister. We made the bet after you started throwing yourselves at him. I’m going to give Mike half my winnings for being such a good sport.”
Hanna ran her hands along the piece of her Time Capsule flag, which she’d tied to the chain of her Chanel purse. She felt the color drain from her face.
Noel nudged his head toward the door. “If you don’t believe me, ask Mike yourself.”
Hanna turned. Mike was leaning against one of the Grecian-style columns, smiling at a girl from Tate Prep. Hanna let out a low growl and made a beeline to him. When Mike saw her, he grinned sheepishly.
“Your teammates bet on us?” Hanna screeched. The Tate girl quickly skittered away.
Mike sipped his wine, shrugging. “It’s no different than what you girls were doing. Except the other guys on the lax team were playing for money. What were you playing for? Tampons?”
Hanna ran her hand over her forehead. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Mike was supposed to be vulnerable and weak, a victim. And all along, he’d known they’d been competing. All along, he’d been playing her.
She sighed, weary. “So I guess our prom date is off?”
Mike looked surprised. “I don’t want it to be.”
Hanna searched his face. “Really?” Mike shook his head. “So then…you don’t care that you were just some…bet?”
Mike glanced at her bashfully, then looked away. “Not if you don’t.”
Hanna tried her best to hide her smile—and her relief. She nudged him hard in the ribs. “Well, you’d better give me half your winnings.”
“And you’d better give me half your…” Mike stopped, making a face. “Never mind. I don’t need half your tampons. We’ll use the winnings for a bottle of Cristal for the prom, how’s that?” And then, he brightened even more. “And for a motel room.”
“A motel?” Hanna glared at him. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“Honey, with me, you won’t care where we’re at,” Mike said in the slimiest voice Hanna had ever heard. She stifled a groan, leaning into him. He leaned into her too, until their foreheads touched. “Honestly?” Mike whispered, his voice softening and becoming almost tender. “I always liked you better.”
Hanna’s insides turned over. Giddy shivers scampered up her back. Their faces were very close, with only a small column of air hanging between them. Then Mike reached forward and pushed the hair out of Hanna’s eyes. Hanna giggled nervously. Their lips met. Mike’s mouth was warm, and he tasted like red wine. Tingles shot from Hanna’s head to all ten toes.
“Yeah!” Noel Kahn bellowed from across the room, nearly tumbling off the throne. Hanna and Mike shot apart. Mike pumped his fist, his blazer sliding down his arm. He was still wearing his yellow rubber Rosewood Day lacrosse bracelet. Hanna sighed, resigned. There were all kinds of queer things she’d have to get used to, now that she was dating a lacrosse boy.
There was a loud crunch of static, and a fast, upbeat song blared over the loudspeakers. Hanna peeked into the ballroom. The orchestra section had vanished, and there was a DJ booth in its place. The DJ was dressed up in a long, Louis XIV–style curly wig, pantaloons, and a long robe. “Shall we?” Mike asked, offering his hand.
Hanna stood up and followed him. Across the ballroom, Naomi, Riley, and Kate were lined up on a chaise, watching. Naomi looked annoyed, but Kate and Riley had little smiles on their faces, almost as if they were happy for Hanna. After a moment, Hanna shot Kate a small smile back. Who knew, maybe Kate really did want to be friends. Maybe Hanna could let bygones be bygones too.
Mike started writhing around her, practically humping her leg, and she kicked him away, laughing. When the song ended, the DJ leaned into the microphone. “I’m taking requests,” he said in a smooth voice. “Here’s one right now.”
Everyone froze in anticipation. A few chords filled the air. The beat was slower, more subdued. Mike waved his hand. “What loser requested this?” he scoffed, marching toward the DJ booth to find out.
A few notes filled the room. Hanna stopped, cocking her head. She recognized the singer, but she didn’t know why.
Mike was back. “It’s someone called Elvis Costello,” he announced. “Whoever that is.”
Elvis Costello. At the same time, the chorus began. Alll-i-son, I know this world is killing you…
Hanna’s mouth dropped open. She knew why this song was familiar: A few months ago, someone had been singing it in her shower.
Al-i-son, my aim is true…
When Hanna emerged in the hall that day, she saw Wilden wrapped in her favorite white Pottery Barn towel. Wilden had looked startled. When Hanna asked why he was singing that song—only a crazy person would sing that within a hundred square miles of Rosewood these days—Wilden had reddened. “Sometimes, I don’t notice I’m singing.”
A spark caught fire in Hanna’s brain. Sometimes, I don’t notice I’m singing! Ali had said that in the dream this morning. She’d also said, If you find it, I’ll tell you all about it. The two of them. Was Ali trying to say that Wilden was somehow linked with Ali’s murder?
And then the déjà vu feeling she’d had when Wilden had backed out of the driveway slammed back to her. It was because of Wilden’s car, the old black thing he was driving around while his cruiser was in the shop. She’d seen that car before, many years ago. It was the car parked at the DiLaurentises’ the day Hanna and the others had tried to steal Ali’s flag.
“Hanna?” Mike said, gazing at her curiously. “You okay?”
Hanna shook her head faintly. Ali’s dream looped through her mind. Go fish, Ali had said over and over again when Hanna asked who she was talking about. The words stood for Wilden…and Hanna understood that too. That sticker in the foot well, the one that had the fish logo on it. Hanna knew where she’d seen the sticker last: The DiLaurentises had one exactly like it. The pass granted them access to their gated community at the Poconos. But so what? Lots of people vacationed there; maybe Wilden’s family had too. Why had Wilden tried to hide the sticker? Why had he been so secretive about it?
Unless Wilden needed it to be a secret.
Hanna staggered crookedly to the nearest chair and sank down. “What is it?” Mike kept asking. She shook her head, unable to answer. Maybe Wilden did have a secret. He’d been acting so strange lately. Skulking around. Having hushed conversations on his cell phone. Not being where he said he would be. So quick to blame the girls for Ian’s disappearance. Sneaking around Ali’s old yard. Driving like a maniac to get Hanna home, practically killing her. Wearing that hood like the figure that had hovered over Hanna in the woods the night they’d discovered Ian’s body. Maybe he was the figure.
What if I told you there’s something you don’t know? Ian had said to Spencer on her porch. Something big. I think the cops know about it, too, but they’re ignoring it. They’re trying to frame me. And then his IMs: They found out I knew. I had to run.
The ballroom whirled with people. There were security guards at each entrance and more than a few Rosewood cops, but Wilden wasn’t among them. Then a reflection in one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors caught Hanna’s eye. She saw a familiar face, with blue eyes and blond hair. Hanna stiffened. It was the Ali from her dream. But when she looked again, the face had morphed. Kirsten Cullen stood there instead.
Mike was still staring at Hanna, his eyes wide and scared. “I have to go find your sister,” she said, touching his hand. “But I’ll be back. I promise.”
And then she shot across the ballroom. Somebody was hiding something, all right. And this time, they couldn’t turn to the cops for help.
28
CREEPIER AND CREEPIER
By the time Aria finally fought through the snarl of traffic in line to park at the Radley opening, she was over an hour late. She tossed her keys to the valet and searched the crowd of bouncers, formally dressed partygoers, and photographers for Emily, but she wasn’t anywhere.
After Jason had found Aria in his apartment earlier today and demanded she leave, Aria hadn’t known what to do. Finally, she’d driven to St. Basil’s cemetery and walked up the hills to Ali’s grave. The last time Aria was here, Ali’s casket wasn’t yet in the ground—Mr. and Mrs. DiLaurentis had held off on burying her, in denial that their daughter was truly dead. And although the DNA evidence still hadn’t come in that it truly was Ali’s body in the half-dug hole in the DiLaurentises’ backyard, the family must have faced reality, because Aria had heard that they’d finally interred Ali quietly last month, without a ceremony.
Alison Lauren DiLaurentis, the headstone said. There was a new layer of freshly planted grass around her grave site, already stiff and frosty from the cold. Aria stared hard at the slab of marble, wishing Ali could talk. She wanted to tell Ali about the yearbook she’d found in Jason’s apartment. She wanted to ask about the inscription Wilden had written over Ian’s picture. What did Ian do that was so awful? And what happened to you? What don’t we know?
A girl in a tight black tube dress stopped Aria at the Radley’s grand, double-doored entrance. “Do you have an invitation?” she asked, her voice nasal and condescending. Aria produced the invite Ella had sent her, and the girl nodded. Pulling her coat around her tight, Aria strode down the stone entrance and walked into the hotel. A bunch of Rosewood Day kids, including Noel Kahn, Mason Byers, Sean Ackard, and Naomi Zeigler, were on the dance floor, wriggling around to a remixed Seal song. After grabbing a flute of champagne and downing it in a few quick gulps, she started darting around the clusters of people, searching for Emily. She had to tell her about the yearbook.
When she felt a tap on her shoulder, she turned. “You made it!” Ella cried, giving Aria a big hug.
“H-hi.” Aria tried to smile. Ella wore a lacy sea green wrap around her shoulders and a sleek black silk sheath. Xavier was right next to her. He wore a pin-striped suit over a blue button-down and held a glass of champagne.
“Nice to see you again, Aria.” Xavier’s eyes moved from Aria’s eyes to her boobs to her hips. Aria’s insides curdled. “How’s life at your father’s house?”
“Fine, thank you,” Aria said stiffly. She tried to shoot Ella a private, pleading look, but her mom’s eyes were glassy. Aria wondered if she’d had a couple of drinks before they arrived. Ella often did that before a show.