distance away, then stared into the window for real. Only now, the blonde was gone. No one was in the car. She ran her hands down her face. It made no sense. She’d definitely seen a blond head . . . hadn’t she?
It felt like a sign. Spencer fumbled for the door handle and climbed back into her car. She’d turned out of the Turkey Hill lot even before the alarm was silenced.
And before whoever was watching her could do anything worse.
11
ARIA’S FIRST FEATURE
The next morning, Aria stood in the cramped back room of the gallery, watching as Ella carefully swathed the sold Ali painting in Bubble Wrap. They were shipping it to the buyer in New York by a courier truck waiting outside, and they wanted to ensure it got there in one piece. Aria couldn’t wait to get rid of it.
Ella paused. “This is how you imagined she would have looked if she’d lived, right?”
Aria fiddled with a piece of packing tape. Ella had been in the hospital room the first time they’d protested to Fuji that Ali had been part of Nick’s attack, and she’d also heard Fuji shoot down the theory. It was easier for her family to believe that Aria had imagined seeing Ali instead of considering that the crazy girl was at large.
Aria’s gaze moved to Ali’s haunting eyes in the painting. She wasn’t sure how she’d managed to capture so precisely Ali’s furious, insane, and unraveled expression—it was as if something demonic had taken hold of her brush. Why had a highbrow art collector in New York City been so captivated by it? Aria had Googled John Carruthers last night; there were numerous pictures of him attending charity events at the Met, the Whitney, and the MoMA. A New York Times profile said that he and his family lived in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue and Seventy-Seventh Street with views of Central Park. His two young daughters, Beverly and Becca, had the FAO Schwarz life-size piano from Big and an authentic Keith Haring mural in their playroom. Hopefully he would hang Ali’s face somewhere the girls would never see it.
And what about Ali? Surely she’d found out that a painting of her face had sold; the deal had even gotten a mention on the Art Now blog. That worried Aria a little. Was Ali totally pissed off that Aria was profiting—hugely—off her image? Should Aria pull out of the transaction?
Stop worrying , she told herself as she helped Ella wrap the rest of the painting. She couldn’t let Ali run her life.
Ella whistled for the courier, who was waiting in the main gallery space, to haul it to the truck. “So,” she said, turning to Aria after he left, “what are you going to do with all that money?”
Aria took a deep breath. When she’d come to work this morning, her mom had announced that the money had been wired into the gallery’s account; in a few days, it would be in her bank account, minus a small gallery fee. “Give you money for a new car so we don’t have to drive that Subaru anymore, for one thing,” she said with a chuckle.
Ella scowled. “I can take care of myself, honey. I say you use it for college.”
It was probably the right thing to do. But the only schools Aria was interested in were art schools—and did Aria need art school if she was already selling paintings? “ Or I could put it toward an apartment in New York,” she suggested, giving her mom that sweet, pleading smile that always seemed to work.
Ella seemed skeptical. She raised a finger, ready to probably make a point about how college was invaluable and if she let too much time lapse after high school, she might never go. But then a tall, young guy in a slightly rumpled plaid shirt and olive-green skinny pants appeared in the doorway. He carried a leather bag on his shoulder and had a pair of Ray-Bans propped on his head, and he was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running.
“Um, hello?” the guy said in a sonorous, not-too-high but not-too-deep voice. “Are you Aria Montgomery?”
“Yes . . . ,” Aria said
It felt like a sign. Spencer fumbled for the door handle and climbed back into her car. She’d turned out of the Turkey Hill lot even before the alarm was silenced.
And before whoever was watching her could do anything worse.
11
ARIA’S FIRST FEATURE
The next morning, Aria stood in the cramped back room of the gallery, watching as Ella carefully swathed the sold Ali painting in Bubble Wrap. They were shipping it to the buyer in New York by a courier truck waiting outside, and they wanted to ensure it got there in one piece. Aria couldn’t wait to get rid of it.
Ella paused. “This is how you imagined she would have looked if she’d lived, right?”
Aria fiddled with a piece of packing tape. Ella had been in the hospital room the first time they’d protested to Fuji that Ali had been part of Nick’s attack, and she’d also heard Fuji shoot down the theory. It was easier for her family to believe that Aria had imagined seeing Ali instead of considering that the crazy girl was at large.
Aria’s gaze moved to Ali’s haunting eyes in the painting. She wasn’t sure how she’d managed to capture so precisely Ali’s furious, insane, and unraveled expression—it was as if something demonic had taken hold of her brush. Why had a highbrow art collector in New York City been so captivated by it? Aria had Googled John Carruthers last night; there were numerous pictures of him attending charity events at the Met, the Whitney, and the MoMA. A New York Times profile said that he and his family lived in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue and Seventy-Seventh Street with views of Central Park. His two young daughters, Beverly and Becca, had the FAO Schwarz life-size piano from Big and an authentic Keith Haring mural in their playroom. Hopefully he would hang Ali’s face somewhere the girls would never see it.
And what about Ali? Surely she’d found out that a painting of her face had sold; the deal had even gotten a mention on the Art Now blog. That worried Aria a little. Was Ali totally pissed off that Aria was profiting—hugely—off her image? Should Aria pull out of the transaction?
Stop worrying , she told herself as she helped Ella wrap the rest of the painting. She couldn’t let Ali run her life.
Ella whistled for the courier, who was waiting in the main gallery space, to haul it to the truck. “So,” she said, turning to Aria after he left, “what are you going to do with all that money?”
Aria took a deep breath. When she’d come to work this morning, her mom had announced that the money had been wired into the gallery’s account; in a few days, it would be in her bank account, minus a small gallery fee. “Give you money for a new car so we don’t have to drive that Subaru anymore, for one thing,” she said with a chuckle.
Ella scowled. “I can take care of myself, honey. I say you use it for college.”
It was probably the right thing to do. But the only schools Aria was interested in were art schools—and did Aria need art school if she was already selling paintings? “ Or I could put it toward an apartment in New York,” she suggested, giving her mom that sweet, pleading smile that always seemed to work.
Ella seemed skeptical. She raised a finger, ready to probably make a point about how college was invaluable and if she let too much time lapse after high school, she might never go. But then a tall, young guy in a slightly rumpled plaid shirt and olive-green skinny pants appeared in the doorway. He carried a leather bag on his shoulder and had a pair of Ray-Bans propped on his head, and he was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running.
“Um, hello?” the guy said in a sonorous, not-too-high but not-too-deep voice. “Are you Aria Montgomery?”
“Yes . . . ,” Aria said
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