Emily scoffed. “That’s proof right there that Ali is still alive. A mother would absolutely be at that trial unless she knew her daughter wasn’t really dead.”
Spencer made a face. “Or else she’s just a complete basket case and can’t go through with it.”
“Personally, I’m glad she’s not going to be there,” Aria said quietly. The last thing she wanted was to come face-to-face with Jessica DiLaurentis. Ali’s mom had been icy on good days.
She folded up the paper, tossed it into the trash, and trotted to catch up with her friends. The sun was already bright and hot. A bunch of kids on their way to the beach, sand pails, boogie boards, and chairs in hand, brushed past them, calling happily to one another. The air smelled like sunscreen and homemade waffle cones.
Hanna looked around pensively. “My dad used to bring me and Our Ali—Courtney—here.” She kicked a pebble on the sidewalk. “We saw Mona one of the last times. Ali was ruthless to her.”
Emily sniffed bitterly. “No surprise there.” Then Emily’s face twisted, like she was in pain.
“You okay?” Aria asked worriedly.
“Uh huh,” Emily said quickly.
Maybe too quickly. Aria watched her carefully. Emily had seemed so . . . troubled from all of this Ali stuff, and it had been so unlike her to almost jump from that bridge a few weeks ago. But every time Aria asked what was wrong, Emily brushed her off.
“I came here with Courtney once, too,” Aria said. “She made fun of me for using SPF 50 sunscreen. She was like, ‘That’s why no guys like you, Aria. Because you look like a pasty freak.’ So I used her baby oil instead. I got burned, and it sucked.”
“And Courtney probably laughed, right?” Hanna muttered.
Aria stepped over a crack in the sidewalk. “She did.” Sure, Courtney wasn’t as diabolical as the Real Ali, but she had still been a manipulative bitch.
They turned onto Dune Street and looked at the numbers on the houses until they reached a two-story, green-shingled house with a front yard full of bleached-white stones. The shutters were closed, there wasn’t a car in the driveway, there wasn’t any porch furniture out, and it was the only house on the block that didn’t have a FOR RENT sign out front.
Hanna frowned. “Did anyone check if Betty Maxwell was still alive?”
“It certainly doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” Spencer agreed.
Emily took a few steps up the front walk. The others followed. Spencer pulled out a pair of plastic gloves from her pocket, slipped them on, and tried the bell. No answer. She turned the doorknob, but it was locked.
Emily pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, then yanked on her own pair of gloves, stepped off the porch, and began trying each of the windows around the house. She disappeared quickly around the side, and suddenly called out, “We’re in!”
Everyone ran to find her. Emily had hefted open a side window enough for her to squeeze through. “I’ll unlock the front door for you.”
“I don’t know, Em.” Aria glanced back at the street. “It’s broad daylight. Someone might see.”
Emily scoffed and boosted herself up onto the windowsill. “Isn’t this why we came?”
She slipped inside without waiting for an answer. Aria’s heart pounded. She waited for an alarm to blare, someone to scream out, a dog to start rabidly barking . . . but there was nothing. A few seconds later, the front door opened, Emily on the other side. Everyone hurried through.
The house was dark and smelled like sand. Aria waited for her eyes to adjust. The room was empty, and the walls bore faded, sea-horse-printed wallpaper. The navy rug was stained and threadbare. A pile of mail sat by the door, all faded circulars from the local grocery store addressed to Current Resident.
Emily wandered into the kitchen. Aria watched as she opened the fridge and peered inside. It was empty, completely cleaned out. She searched cabinets and drawers, but they were all empty, too. She tried the tap, but no water came out. Spencer opened a linen closet. “Nothing,” she called.
Aria tiptoed down the dark hall and poked her head into each of the bedrooms. In every one, she found a neatly made twin bed and little else. She checked under the beds, but there was nothing hiding there. There were no clothes left behind in the closets, either. She poked her head into the bathroom. There was no shower curtain, and the tub smelled of bleach. And yet, it seemed like a presence lingered there. Maybe the last person who’d stayed in the house. Or maybe a ghost.
Aria stared at a small closet at the back of the bathroom she hadn’t noticed at first. Something creaked—maybe from inside. All at once, goose bumps rose on her skin. Was someone in that closet? Ali?
Her hand shook as she reached out for the knob. Her stomach swirled as she slowly turned it. There was a groan as the door opened, and Aria shielded her face with her hand, ready for an onslaught.
Silence. She opened her eyes. The closet was totally empty, the shelves wiped clean.
Sighing, she returned to the living room. Spencer and Hanna were waiting, looking equally freaked out. Then, Emily called out from the door near the garage. “Come here.”
Everyone rushed over. Emily stuck her head into the small, empty garage. “Do you smell that?” she said excitedly.
Aria’s nose twitched. She looked at the others. “Is that . . . vanilla?” It was Ali’s calling card: cloying vanilla soap.
Emily’s eyes were wide. “We should call the police. This is proof she’s still alive.”
Spencer peered back into the empty house. “Em, that’s not enough to get the police here.” She sighed. “Besides, she’s not here now.”