“Huh?” Aria turned around. On the screen was a banner that read ROSEWOOD RALLIES FOR YOUTHS. Then came a shot of the outside of the Rosewood Country Club; Aria used to spend a lot of time there because Spencer’s dad was a member.
A woman with light blond hair held back in a black headband popped up on the screen. The name Sharon Winters appeared under her face. “We’ve had a lot of tragedy happen in this town, but it’s time to turn it into something positive,” she said. “Next Friday, we’re throwing a fund-raiser for all the disadvantaged and troubled youth in Rosewood and its surrounding areas. My hope is that everyone comes out and supports the cause.”
Meredith looked at Aria excitedly. “Didn’t you get an invite for this?”
“Maybe,” Aria mumbled, staring at the string cheese in her hands.
Byron stopped to look at the screen. “Hmm. Perhaps we should all go.”
“Are you kidding?” Aria cried. Her dad usually hated big parties.
Byron shrugged. “They should throw you a party after all you’ve been through. And you can take Noel.”
He smiled at her dopily. Aria looked at the floor. “Noel’s busy that night,” she muttered, thinking about their conversation outside the gallery the other day.
Her phone buzzed, and Hanna’s name appeared on the screen. Aria squinted at the text. I just saw Ali.
Aria’s blood ran cold. She shot up and walked out of the room, dialing Hanna’s number.
Hanna picked up right away. “What are you talking about?” Aria whispered.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Hanna whispered back. “But she’s on the set—she was in a crowd scene I was in. I looked across the room and saw this blond head . . . and I had this sense. It was her.”
Aria sank into the window seat in the living room. “But you’re not sure.”
“Well, no, but . . .”
Aria jumped up nervously and started pacing around. “Let’s try to think about this logically. Could Ali actually get onto a movie set? Isn’t there lots of security?”
“Yeah . . .” Hanna sounded uncertain. “But she’s a master at sneaking in and out.”
“But why would she risk mixing with people who might recognize her? And she’d be on camera.”
“True,” Hanna said. She exhaled loudly. “Okay. Maybe it was my imagination. I mean, that has to be it, right? Ali wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“She wouldn’t,” Aria assured her.
But when she hung up, she wandered into the kitchen and stared blankly out the stained-glass window over the sink. Past the flat expanse of grass was a long, gradual slope leading to thick, dark woods. Ali had set fire to those woods the year before, nearly killing Aria and the others and decimating Spencer’s family’s barn. What if Hanna was right? What if Ali was somewhere close, ready to torment them again?
She stared at her phone, figuring it was the perfect time to receive a text from A. On cue, her phone bleated. The device fell from her hands and clattered to the wood floor. A 610 number flashed on the screen.
It took Aria a moment to realize it was her mom at the gallery. “Aria?” Ella said when Aria answered. “Are you sitting down?”
“Yeah . . . ,” Aria said uncertainly, her heart starting to thud all over again as she sat at the breakfast table. Maybe Ella had seen Ali?
“You aren’t going to believe this”—Ella’s voice swooped—“but we got a call from a very wealthy New York collector today. Mr. John Carruthers.”
“Wait, the John Carruthers?” Aria asked. There’d been a profile of him in Art Now magazine—he’d recently bought two Picassos at auction because his wife wanted one for each of their kids’ rooms. He was the collector every artist and gallery owner wanted to woo.
“Yep,” Ella chirped. “His assistant called and had me describe the paintings we had. I almost fell out of my chair. Then he asked me to send a few pictures. He hung up, but he called back a little while later saying Mr. Carruthers was interested in purchasing one. And guess what? It’s one of yours.”
“W-what?” Aria shot to her feet. “You’re kidding!”
“Nope!” Ella screamed. “Honey, you’ve been discovered!”
Aria shook her head. “I can’t believe it,” she murmured.
“Well, you should,” Ella insisted. “You’ve been so prolific in the past few weeks, and your work is fantastic. Apparently, Mr. Carruthers thinks you’re luminous and a huge talent to watch. And, honey, that’s not all. You know what he bought the painting for? A hundred thousand dollars.”
Aria’s mind went blank. She tried to picture that figure in a bank account, but she felt as if her head might explode.
“That’s . . . amazing,” she finally managed to say. Then she cleared her throat. “W-which painting did he buy? One of the dark abstract pieces? One of the portraits of Noel?”
Ella coughed awkwardly. “Actually, no. It was the portrait of Alison. That big one in the corner.”
Aria flinched. It wasn’t even her best work, the brushstrokes crude, Ali’s face so creepy. Ella had sent a photo of that? And someone had bought it? What if he bought it only because it was of Ali—and because she was a Pretty Little Liar?
Then again, maybe she shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. A hundred thousand dollars was a hundred thousand dollars. “Well, that’s great,” she murmured to her mom, trying to sound unruffled.