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Mrs. Ackard gave her a sweet smile in return. She was blond, a bit pudgy, with inquisitive blue eyes and a mouth that looked like it was smiling even when she wasn’t. When Aria closed her eyes and pictured a mom, Mrs. Ackard was pretty much what she imagined. Sean had told her that before she married his dad she’d worked as a magazine editor in Philadelphia, but now she was a fulltime housewife, keeping the Ackards’ monstrous house looking photo-shoot ready at all times. The apples in the wooden bowl on the island were unbruised, the magazines in the living room rack all faced the same direction, and the tassels on the giant Oriental rug were even, as if they’d just been combed.
“I’m making mushroom ravioli,” Mrs. Ackard said, inviting Aria to come over and smell a pot of sauce.
“Sean said you’re a vegetarian.”
“I am,” Aria answered softly. “But you didn’t have to do that for me.”
“It’s no trouble,” Mrs. Ackard said warmly. There were also scalloped potatoes, a tomato salad, and a loaf of the hearty, gourmet seven-grain bread from Fresh Fields that Ella always scoffed at, saying anyone who paid $10.99 for some flour and water ought to have his head examined.
Mrs. Ackard pulled the wooden spoon out of the pot and rested it on the counter. “You were good friends with Alison DiLaurentis, weren’t you? I saw that video of you girls on the news.”
Aria ducked her head. “That’s right.” A lump grew in her throat. Seeing Ali so alive in that video had brought Aria’s grief to the surface all over again.
To Aria’s surprise, Mrs. Ackard wrapped her arm around her shoulder and gave her a little squeeze. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine what that’s like.”
Tears prickled at Aria’s eyes. It felt good to be nestled in a mom’s arms, even if she wasn’t her mom.
Sean sat next to Aria at dinner, and everything was the antithesis of how it went at Aria’s house. The Ackards put their napkins on their laps, there was no television news droning in the background, and Mr. Ackard, who was rangy and balding but had a charismatic smile, didn’t read the newspaper at the table. The younger Ackard twins, Colin and Aidan, kept their elbows off the table and didn’t poke each other with their forks—Aria could only imagine what atrocities Mike would commit if he had a twin.
“Thank you,” Aria said as Mrs. Ackard poured more milk in her glass, even though Byron and Ella had always said milk contained synthetic hormones and caused cancer. Aria had told Ezra about her parents’ ban on milk the evening she’d spent at his apartment a few weeks ago. Ezra had laughed, saying his family had their freak-show granola moments, too.
Aria laid down her fork. How had Ezra crept into her peaceful dinnertime thoughts? She quickly eyed Sean, who was chewing a forkful of potatoes. She leaned over and touched his wrist. He smiled.
“Sean tells us you’re taking AP classes, Aria,” Mr. Ackard said, spearing a carrot.
Aria shrugged. “Just English and AP studio art.”
“English lit was my major in college,” Mrs. Ackard said enthusiastically. “What are you reading right now?”
“The Scarlet Letter.”
“I love that book!” Mrs. Ackard cried, taking a small sip of red wine. “It really shows how restrictive the Puritan society used to be. Poor Hester Prynne.”
Aria chewed on the inside of her cheek. If only Aria had talked to Mrs. Ackard before she branded Meredith.
“The Scarlet Letter.” Mr. Ackard put his finger to his lips. “They made that into a movie, didn’t they?”
“Uh-huh,” Sean said. “With Demi Moore.”
“The one where the man falls in love with a younger girl, right?” Mr. Ackard added. “So scandalous.”
Aria drew in her breath. She felt like everyone was looking at her, but in reality, only Sean was. His eyes were wide and drawn down, mortified. I’m sorry, his expression said. “No, David,” Mrs. Ackard said quietly, in a voice that indicated she had some idea of Aria’s situation. “That’s Lolita.”
“Oh. Right.” Mr. Ackard shrugged, apparently not realizing his faux pas. “I get them all mixed up.”
After dinner, Sean and the twins went upstairs to do their homework, and Aria followed. Her guest room was quiet and inviting. Some time between dinner and now, Mrs. Ackard had put a box of Kleenex and a vase of lavender on her nightstand. The flowers’ grandmotherly smell filled the room. Aria flopped on her bed, switched on the local news for company, and opened Gmail on her laptop. There was one new note. The name of the sender was a series of garbled letters and numbers. Aria felt her heart stop as she double-clicked it open.
Aria: Don’t you think Sean should know about that extra-credit work you did with a certain English teacher? Real relationships are built on truth, after all.
—A
Just then, the central heating shut off, making Aria sit up straighter. Outside, a twig snapped. Then another. Someone was watching.
She crept to the window and peered out. The pine trees cast lumpy shadows across the tennis court. A security camera perched on the edge of the house slowly swiveled from right to left. There was a flicker of light, then nothing.
When she looked back into her room, something on the news caught her eye. New stalker sighting, the banner at the bottom of the screen said. “We’ve received news that a few people have seen the Rosewood Stalker,” said a reporter, as Aria turned up the volume. “Stand by for details.”
There was an image of a police car in front of a behemoth of a house with castlelike turrets. Aria turned to the window again—there they were. And sure enough, a blue police siren was now flashing against the far-off pines.
