Aria drew in a breath. There was the Starry Night practice painting. She scanned the text. Baron Brennan’s priceless Van Gogh study is still missing, and authorities are reopening the case after one of the suspects disappeared. New evidence suggests two people were involved in the theft, not one. Criminologists are following up on details, including an anonymous tip. . . .

The paper fluttered from Aria’s fingers. On the back of the article was a handwritten letter. The writing was the same scrawl as on the note from the other day. Aria read the words and then rested her head on the hood, suddenly weak.

Star light, star bright,

The first star I see tonight,

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have the cops nail Aria without a fight.

Love, A

13

A Chat to Remember

“You want anything?” asked a pierced, green-haired, gum-snapping girl standing over Spencer’s desk. She proffered a menu that read BREWHAUS INTERNET CAFÉ. Spencer took it and opened it up, but the only offerings were a small, medium, or large cup of coffee. She peeked at the mugs on the shelf behind the counter. They looked dusty and stained.

“You don’t have coconut water, do you?” Spencer asked hopefully.

The girl rolled her eyes. “What do you think?” Then she stomped away, the laces on her Doc Martens slapping against the checkerboard floor.

Spencer looked around, questioning once again why she was here. The Brewhaus Internet Café was nothing more than a dated coffeehouse across from the Yarmouth train station. Every train that passed rattled the old walls, the scent of stale coffee filled the air, the chairs weren’t level, and there was grating electronica playing over the speakers. But word had it that this place had the most password-protected Internet service anywhere in the tristate area, meaning that the connection was spy-proof.

As Spencer slipped her burner phone back into her purse, her fingers grazed a dinner selection menu for the prom. She’d gotten it at a Student Council meeting that afternoon. The Starry Night, read the dripping Van Gogh signature-like lettering, and a tiny image of the famous painting was at the bottom. Spencer pushed the card deeper into her bag. Just seeing those swirly clouds made her ill. She’d assured Aria that they’d figure this out, but would they? Even with A’s threatening notes, even if they could find evidence that someone had broken into Aria’s house to plant the painting there, would the police believe that a Van Gogh had just shown up in her closet without any involvement on her part?

Then again, Spencer wasn’t sure what else they should do. Placing the artwork on a museum doorstep would only invite controversy—and besides, Aria’s fingerprints were probably all over the canvas. What they needed to do was nail Ali and her helper and force them to confess everything. Ironically, A was their only get-out-of-jail-free card.

An IM popped up on her computer screen. I’m here, said someone with the handle FlyOnTheWall. It was Chase, the investigative blogger Spencer had contacted the other day. They’d planned to chat this afternoon, but Spencer hadn’t been sure whether he would actually sign on.

She checked over her shoulder. Everyone else was intently staring at their own screens, oblivious to her. The IM blinked at her, waiting. I’m here, too, she typed back. I like your site. You’ve done a lot of research.

Thanks, Chase answered, adding a smiley emoticon. So what’s your name?

Spencer hesitated. I don’t want to say yet. I’m trying to think of a nickname.

Are you a guy or a girl?

Girl, Spencer wrote, feeling a little like she was filling out a dating profile.

How about Britney Spears? The reply came right away.

Spencer moved back from the screen and smirked. She’s not your favorite singer, is she?

Hell no, Chase wrote back. It was just the first thing that popped into my head.

Okay, Britney Spears it is, Spencer typed.

So you’re interested in the Alison case? he asked.

Spencer swallowed hard. Sort of. Isn’t everyone?

It’s definitely a weird story, a new message read. There’s something not right about the whole thing. I just don’t know what it is yet.

Are you actively investigating what happened? Spencer asked.

Just as a hobby, Chase wrote. Since the investigation is still open, the cops asked me to keep the details secret so they can catch the real killer. But when I find out everything, I’m putting it up there anyway.

I thought the investigation was closed, Spencer wrote. Ali killed her sister. Didn’t she?

Yes, but there are some loose ends, Chase replied. Like if Ali survived the fire. And the police are still gathering evidence that Ali and Ali alone killed Jenna Cavanaugh and Ian Thomas.

Did you know Alison? Spencer asked.

Nope, but a similar thing happened to me, which is why I’m interested.

What do you mean?

There was a pause, then the screen flashed again. I was stalked. I went to an all-boys’ boarding school, and I had a psycho roommate. He became obsessed with me. He tried to kill me. His parents had a lot of money, though, and they kept the story out of the news.

Spencer sat back. Whoa. I’m so sorry. Were you hurt?

A long beat went by. I don’t like talking about it.

So did that mean his stalker did hurt him . . . or didn’t? Suddenly, Spencer was curious as hell. She clicked on the ABOUT US link of the website again, but it was just that stupid cat video.

Still, Spencer instantly sympathized with him. She certainly knew what it was like to be tormented. Are you still having a hard time with it? she asked. Do people always look at you like you’re . . . contagious, or something?

Totally, Chase wrote back. I’ve definitely lost some friends because of it. But I do a lot of stuff to take my mind off things. Besides being an amateur PI, I’m into snowboarding and guitar. And it might sound nerdy, but I do sandcastle-building competitions in the summer.

I was in one of those! Spencer wrote. She and Melissa entered a competition when they were summering at their nana’s place in Longboat Key, Florida. It was practically the only thing Spencer had beaten her sister at. I got fourth!

Nice—I’ve won a couple, Chase wrote. Everyone thinks it’s dorky—they say I should be playing beach volleyball or something. An eye-rolling emoticon popped up on the screen. But it’s a hobby I’ve been into since I was a kid. I still really like it.

Are you out of high school? Spencer asked.

Yep, graduated last June, Chase wrote. I’m working at a bio lab in Center City for a year before I start college. We research cancer meds.

So you’re smart, Spencer wrote, adding a smiley.

You seem pretty smart, too, Chase wrote. You in college?

Princeton, Spencer replied. She left out the part about not actually going there yet.

Whoa, smart squared, was Chase’s reply. If we got together, the combined IQ in the room would be out of control.

Spencer giggled. Was he cyber-flirting?

The screen flashed again. But enough about me, Miss Spears—how are you connected to Alison?

Spencer hesitated. She wasn’t sure how much she should tell him. She’d never seen him, after all. And even though he said the cops didn’t want him to post anything about the case, what if he exposed her anyway? I’m just a concerned individual who knows a lot, she finally answered. That’s all I can say right now. And I have reason to believe she’s alive, too.

Chase replied quickly. Her bones would have been in the rubble, right? They would have found jewelry or teeth. But there was nothing. I think she got out of the house before it exploded.

Definitely, Spencer wrote, wishing she could tell him that Emily had left the door open for Ali to escape. But the police said that sometimes bones get ground up so finely that it’s hard to distinguish them from ash.

Maybe, Chase wrote back. But it seems convenient—I still think she made it out.

And did what? Spencer typed. The house was on fire. Even if she managed to slip outside, wouldn’t she have been hurt? Did she go to a hospital?

Chase’s answer was instantaneous, like he’d anticipated the question. I doubt it. I think she got a private nurse to take care of her. I also think she has at least one friend helping her out. Someone who was waiting for her in the woods that night the house exploded. Someone who took her away to get her the care she needed.

A man behind Spencer grunted, but when she turned, he was staring at his screen. She turned back to her own computer, shivering at Chase’s response. Someone else in the woods that night. It made perfect sense, especially given their theory that Ali had a helper.

Do you think she had help killing Ian Thomas and Jenna Cavanaugh, too? she typed.

Absolutely, Chase wrote. I’ve found out some intel about a private nurse, too. I doubt Alison’s nurse went through an employer or medical supplier, so even the supplies she got for Alison would have had to have been bought through regular drugstores. I have a friend who works for CVS who was able to get into the database of a bunch of stores in the area. There’s one in Center City that has regular orders of massive amounts of gauze and bandages and wound-cleaning supplies. He also got me video surveillance of the person picking up the supplies.

Spencer leapt on the keys. Who is she?

A friend from a hospital IDed her as Barbara Rogers. She’s in her mid-fifties, but I haven’t been able to figure out much more about her, Chase answered. One more thing: There’s also the issue of drugs. Ali wouldn’t be using a prescription, so someone would have to be getting it illegally. There was a pharma theft not long ago at the William Atlantic Burn Clinic in Rosewood.

Spencer gasped so loudly that a pale, skinny woman with dishwater-blond hair two consoles down gave her a strange look. This was all connecting in terrible ways.

She checked her watch and realized that it was getting late—she should probably get home. She signed off with Chase, making him promise that they would talk again.

As she stood, a tinkling laugh drifted through the air. Spencer shot up, but the other patrons were still staring at their screens. The pierced barista puttered behind the counter. A girl in a FedEx uniform worked a crossword puzzle at a table.

Spencer pulled out her cell phone, but she hadn’t received any texts. She gazed out the window at the train tracks again. For a split second, a ghostly image stared back at her from inside the station house. Her heart stopped. Ali?

The train rushed past. Spencer didn’t blink the whole time, waiting for a glimpse of that station window again. But when she finally got another look, the face was gone.

14

Hanna’s the Coolest

That afternoon, Hanna and Mike lounged on the couch at her father’s house, watching an episode of Parks and Recreation on DVR. She had her hands in the pockets of Mike’s hooded sweatshirt, and Mike wound his socked feet around Hanna’s bare ones. Mr. Marin sat behind the glass doors of his office, talking to someone about his senatorial campaign.

The doorbell rang, and she and Mike looked at each other and frowned. Hanna padded to it and peered through the glass. Standing on the other side was Chassey Bledsoe, looking perfectly put-together in a silk dress and brown boots and holding a bakery box in her hands. Hanna frowned down at her stained University of Pennsylvania yoga pants.