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She had stopped in front of St. Basil’s cemetery, Rosewood’s oldest and spookiest, where she used to do gravestone rubbings. It was set on acres and acres of rolling hills and beautifully tended lawns, and some of the headstones dated back to the 1700s. Before Aria found her niche with Ali, she’d gone through a goth phase, embracing everything having to do with death, Tim Burton, Halloween, and Nine Inch Nails. The cemetery’s leafy oaks had provided the perfect shade for lounging and acting morose.
Sean stopped beside her. Aria turned to him. “Can we go in for a sec?”
He looked alarmed. “Are you sure?”
“I used to love coming here.”
“Okay.” Sean reluctantly chained his bike to a wrought-iron trash can along with Aria’s and started behind her past the first line of headstones. Aria read the names and the dates that she had practically memorized a few years back. EDITH JOHNSTON, 1807–1856. BABY AGNES, 1820–1821. SARAH WHITTIER, with that Milton quote, DEATH IS THE GOLDEN KEY THAT OPENS THE PALACE OF ETERNITY. Over the hill, Aria knew, were the graves of a dog named Puff, a cat named Rover, and a parakeet named Lily.
“I love graves,” Aria said as they passed a big one with an angel statue on the top. “They remind me of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’”
“The what?”
Aria raised an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. You’ve read that short story. Edgar Allan Poe? The dead guy’s buried in the floor? The narrator can still hear his heart beating?”
“Nope.”
Aria put her hands on her hips, dumbstruck. How could Sean not have read that? “When we get back, I’ll find my Poe book so you can.”
“Okay,” Sean agreed, then changed the subject. “You sleep okay last night?”
“Great.” A white lie. Her Paris-hotel-like room was beautiful, but Aria had actually found it difficult to sleep. Sean’s house was…too perfect. The duvet seemed too fluffy, the mattress too quilted, the room too quiet. It smelled too nice and clean as well.
But more than that, she’d been too worried about the movement outside her guest bedroom window, about the possible stalker sighting, and about A’s note—saying that Ali’s killer was closer than she thought. Aria had thrashed around for hours, alone, certain she’d look over and see the stalker—or Ali’s killer—at the foot of her bed.
“Your stepmom got all anal on me this morning, though,” Aria said, skirting around a Japanese cherry blossom tree. “I forgot to make my bed. She made me go back upstairs and do it.” She snorted. “My mom hasn’t done that in about a billion years.”
When she looked over, Sean wasn’t laughing along. “My stepmom works hard to keep the house clean. Rosewood Historic House tours come through it almost every day.”
Aria bristled. She wanted to tell him that the Rosewood Historic Society had considered her house for the tour, too—some Frank Lloyd Wright protégé had designed it. Instead, she sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just…my mom hasn’t even called me since I left a message telling her I was staying with you. I feel so…abandoned.”
Sean stroked her arm. “I know, I know.”
Aria poked her tongue into the spot at the back of her mouth where her lone wisdom tooth had been. “That’s the thing,” she said softly. “You don’t know.” Sean’s family was perfect. Mr. Ackard had made them Belgian waffles this morning, and Mrs. Ackard had packed everyone’s lunches—including Aria’s. Even their dog, an Airedale, was well mannered.
“So explain it to me,” Sean said.
Aria sighed. “It’s not as easy as that.”
They passed a gnarled, knotty tree. Suddenly, Aria looked down…and stopped short. Right in front of her was a new gravesite. The groundskeeper hadn’t dug the hole for the coffin yet, but there was a taped-off, coffin-size space. The marble headstone was up, though. It read, plainly, ALISON LAUREN DILAURENTIS.
A small, gurgling noise escaped from the back of Aria’s throat. The authorities were still examining Ali’s remains for signs of poison and trauma, so her parents hadn’t buried her yet. Aria hadn’t known they were planning to bury her here.
She looked helplessly at Sean. He went pale. “I thought you knew.”
“I had no idea,” she whispered back.
The headstone said nothing but Ali’s name. No devoted daughter, or wonderful field hockey player, or most beautiful girl in Rosewood. There wasn’t even the day, month, or year she’d died. That was probably because no one knew the exact date.
She shivered. “Do you think I should say something?”
Sean pursed his pink lips. “When I visit my mom’s grave, sometimes I do.”
“Like what?”
“I fill her in on what’s going on.” He looked at her sideways and blushed. “I went after Foxy. I told her about you.”
Aria blushed too. She stared at the headstone but felt self-conscious. Talking to dead people wasn’t her thing. I can’t believe you’re dead, Aria thought, not able to say the words out loud. I’m standing here, looking at your grave, and it still isn’t real. I hate that we don’t know what happened. Is the killer still here? Is A telling the truth?
Yesssss, Aria swore she heard a far-off voice call. It sounded like Ali’s voice.
She thought about A’s note. Someone had wanted something of Ali’s—and had killed her for it. What? Everyone had wanted something of Ali’s—even her best friends. Hanna had wanted Ali’s personality, and seemed to have appropriated it after Ali vanished. Emily had loved Ali more than anyone—they used to call Emily “Killer,” as in Ali’s personal pit bull. Aria had wanted Ali’s ability to flirt, her beauty, her charisma. And Spencer had always been so jealous of her.
