dropped hints that she would tell Aria’s secret any minute unless Aria did exactly what Ali wanted. Aria had reached a boiling point and, in the weeks before Ali’s death, had started to avoid her as much as possible.
It made her very sad, the medium said. Could Ali have known how much Aria wanted her gone? A memory had popped into Aria’s mind, suddenly: The day after Ali went missing, Mrs. DiLaurentis had invited Aria and her friends over and grilled them about where Ali might have gone. At one point, Mrs. DiLaurentis leaned forward on her elbows and asked, “Did Ali ever seem . . . sad?” The girls immediately protested—Ali was beautiful and smart and irresistible. Everyone adored her. Sad wasn’t in Ali’s emotional vocabulary.
Aria had always thought of herself as the victim and Ali the predator, but what if Ali had been going through stuff of her own? What if Ali needed someone to talk to—and Aria just pushed her away?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, starting to weep. Clumps of mascara skidded down her cheeks. “Ali, I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to die.”
There was a sharp sfft sound, like steam escaping from a radiator. Then the bulb over the mirror flicked off, bathing the room in darkness. Aria froze, her heart in her throat. Then, her nose twitched. There was a sudden fragrance in the air, chokingly pungent. Vanilla soap.
Aria grabbed the sides of the sink to steady herself. Then, without warning, the light snapped back on with a sizzle. Aria’s frightened eyes stared back at her in the mirror. But her face wasn’t the only one reflected there.
In the space behind her own ice blue eyes was a girl with a heart-shaped face, two wide, blue eyes, and a dazzling smile. Aria gasped and whirled around. Tacked to a corkboard on the back of the bathroom door, layered on top of other posters for upcoming poetry slams, futons for sale, and available rooms for rent, was a color photo of Ali.
Aria leaned closer, Ali’s eyes drawing her in. Her breath caught in her throat. It was the Missing Persons flyer from when Ali vanished, the same picture that was splashed across milk cartons and local public service announcement commercials. MISSING , 72-point font said. ALISON DILAURENTIS. BLUE EYES, BLOND HAIR, 5'0'', 90 POUNDS. LAST SEEN JUNE 20 . Aria hadn’t seen it in years. She searched frantically along every inch of the poster, even turning it over, for a clue as to why it was here—and who had put it up. But there was nothing.
Chapter 10
The Simplest Life
Later that same day, Emily stood in front of a black-and-white clapboard farmhouse in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Instead of a car in the driveway, there was a black buggy with giant wheels and a red triangular SLOW-MOVING VEHICLE sign on the back. She fingered the cuffs of the gray cotton dress A had given her and adjusted the white cloth cap on her head. Next to her was a hand-painted wooden sign that said ZOOK FARM .
Emily bit her lip. This is crazy. A few hours earlier, she’d told her parents she was going on the youth group trip to Boston. Then she’d boarded a Greyhound for Lancaster, changing into the dress, cap, and boots in the tiny, chemical-scented bathroom at the back of the bus. She sent her old friends short texts to let them know she’d be in Boston until Friday—if she told them the truth, they’d think she was nuts. And just in case her parents became suspicious, she’d turned off her cell phone so they couldn’t activate its GPS child-tracking function and discover she was in Lancaster pretending to be Amish.
Emily had been idly curious about Amish people her whole life, but she knew nothing about what it was like to really be Amish. From what she understood, the Amish just wanted to be left alone. They didn’t like tourists to take their pictures, they didn’t take kindly to non-Amish trespassing on their land, and the few Amish people Emily had seen up close looked humorless and stern. So why was A sending her to
It made her very sad, the medium said. Could Ali have known how much Aria wanted her gone? A memory had popped into Aria’s mind, suddenly: The day after Ali went missing, Mrs. DiLaurentis had invited Aria and her friends over and grilled them about where Ali might have gone. At one point, Mrs. DiLaurentis leaned forward on her elbows and asked, “Did Ali ever seem . . . sad?” The girls immediately protested—Ali was beautiful and smart and irresistible. Everyone adored her. Sad wasn’t in Ali’s emotional vocabulary.
Aria had always thought of herself as the victim and Ali the predator, but what if Ali had been going through stuff of her own? What if Ali needed someone to talk to—and Aria just pushed her away?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, starting to weep. Clumps of mascara skidded down her cheeks. “Ali, I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to die.”
There was a sharp sfft sound, like steam escaping from a radiator. Then the bulb over the mirror flicked off, bathing the room in darkness. Aria froze, her heart in her throat. Then, her nose twitched. There was a sudden fragrance in the air, chokingly pungent. Vanilla soap.
Aria grabbed the sides of the sink to steady herself. Then, without warning, the light snapped back on with a sizzle. Aria’s frightened eyes stared back at her in the mirror. But her face wasn’t the only one reflected there.
In the space behind her own ice blue eyes was a girl with a heart-shaped face, two wide, blue eyes, and a dazzling smile. Aria gasped and whirled around. Tacked to a corkboard on the back of the bathroom door, layered on top of other posters for upcoming poetry slams, futons for sale, and available rooms for rent, was a color photo of Ali.
Aria leaned closer, Ali’s eyes drawing her in. Her breath caught in her throat. It was the Missing Persons flyer from when Ali vanished, the same picture that was splashed across milk cartons and local public service announcement commercials. MISSING , 72-point font said. ALISON DILAURENTIS. BLUE EYES, BLOND HAIR, 5'0'', 90 POUNDS. LAST SEEN JUNE 20 . Aria hadn’t seen it in years. She searched frantically along every inch of the poster, even turning it over, for a clue as to why it was here—and who had put it up. But there was nothing.
Chapter 10
The Simplest Life
Later that same day, Emily stood in front of a black-and-white clapboard farmhouse in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Instead of a car in the driveway, there was a black buggy with giant wheels and a red triangular SLOW-MOVING VEHICLE sign on the back. She fingered the cuffs of the gray cotton dress A had given her and adjusted the white cloth cap on her head. Next to her was a hand-painted wooden sign that said ZOOK FARM .
Emily bit her lip. This is crazy. A few hours earlier, she’d told her parents she was going on the youth group trip to Boston. Then she’d boarded a Greyhound for Lancaster, changing into the dress, cap, and boots in the tiny, chemical-scented bathroom at the back of the bus. She sent her old friends short texts to let them know she’d be in Boston until Friday—if she told them the truth, they’d think she was nuts. And just in case her parents became suspicious, she’d turned off her cell phone so they couldn’t activate its GPS child-tracking function and discover she was in Lancaster pretending to be Amish.
Emily had been idly curious about Amish people her whole life, but she knew nothing about what it was like to really be Amish. From what she understood, the Amish just wanted to be left alone. They didn’t like tourists to take their pictures, they didn’t take kindly to non-Amish trespassing on their land, and the few Amish people Emily had seen up close looked humorless and stern. So why was A sending her to
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