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The number seemed familiar, although Hanna never memorized anyone’s number—she’d gotten a cell in seventh grade and had since relied on speed dial. There was something about this number, though….
Hanna covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh my God,” she whispered. She thought about it another moment. Could it seriously be?
Suddenly, she knew exactly who A was.
34
IT’S RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU
“Another coffee?” A waitress who smelled like grilled cheese and had a very large mole on her chin hovered over Aria, waving a coffee carafe around.
Aria glanced at her nearly empty mug. Her parents would probably say this coffee was loaded with carcinogens, but what did they know? “Sure,” she answered.
This was what it had come to. Aria sitting in a booth at the diner near Ezra’s house in Old Hollis with all of her worldly goods—her laptop, her bike, her clothes, her books—around her. She had nowhere to go. Not Sean’s, not Ezra’s, not even her own family’s. The diner was the only place open right now, unless you counted the twenty-four-hour Taco Bell, which was a total stoner hangout.
She stared at her Treo, weighing her options. Finally, she dialed her home number. The phone rang six times before the answering machine picked up. “Thanks for calling the Montgomerys,” Ella’s cheery voice rang out. “We’re not home right now….”
Please. Where on earth would Ella be after midnight on a Saturday? “Mom, pick up,” Aria said into the machine after it beeped. “I know you’re there.” Still nothing. She sighed. “Listen. I need to come home tonight. I broke up with my boyfriend. I have nowhere else to stay. I’m sitting at a diner, homeless.”
She paused, waiting for Ella to answer. She didn’t. Aria could imagine her standing over the phone, listening. Or maybe she wasn’t at all. Maybe she’d heard Aria’s voice and walked back up the stairs to bed. “Mom, I’m in danger,” she pleaded. “I can’t explain how, exactly, but I’m…I’m afraid something’s going to happen to me.”
Beep. The answering machine tape cut her off. Aria let her phone clatter to the Formica tabletop. She could call back, but what would be the point? She could almost hear her mother’s voice: I can’t even look at you right now.
She lifted her head, considering something. Slowly, Aria picked up her Treo again and scrolled through her texts. Byron’s text with his number was still there. Taking a deep breath, she dialed. Byron’s sleepy voice answered.
“It’s Aria,” she said quietly.
“Aria?” Byron echoed. He sounded stunned. “It’s, like, two in the morning.”
“I know.” The diner’s jukebox switched records. The waitress married two ketchup bottles. The last remaining people besides Aria got up from their booth, waved good-bye to the waitress, and pushed through the front door. The diner’s bells jingled.
Byron broke the silence. “Well, it’s nice to hear from you.”
Aria curled her knees into her chest. She wanted to tell him that he’d messed up everything, making her keep his secret, but she felt too drained to fight. And also…part of her really missed Byron. Byron was her dad, the only dad she knew. He had warded off a snake that had slithered into Aria’s path during a hiking trip to the Grand Canyon. He’d gone down to talk to Aria’s fifth-grade art teacher, Mr. Cunningham, when he gave Aria an F on her self-portrait because she had drawn herself with green scales and a forked tongue. “Your teacher simply doesn’t understand postmodern expressionism,” Byron had said, grabbing his coat to go do battle. Byron used to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, carry her to bed, and tuck her in. Aria missed that. She needed that. She wanted to tell him she was in danger. And she wanted him to say, “I’ll protect you.” He would, wouldn’t he?
But then she heard someone’s voice in the background. “Everything okay, Byron?”
Aria bristled. Meredith.
“Be there in a sec,” Byron called.
Aria fumed. A sec? That was all he planned to devote to this conversation? Byron’s voice returned to the phone. “Aria? So…what’s up?”
“Never mind,” Aria said icily. “Go back to bed, or whatever you were doing.”
“Aria—” Byron started.
“Seriously, go,” Aria said stiffly. “Forget I called.”
She hit END and put her head on the table. She tried to breathe in and out, thinking calm thoughts, like about the ocean, or riding a bicycle, or the mindlessness of knitting a scarf.
A few minutes later, she looked around the diner and realized she was the only person there. The ripped, faded counter stools were all vacant, the booths all cleaned off and empty. Two carafes of coffee sat on warmers behind the counter, and the cash register’s screen still glowed WELCOME, but the waitresses and cooks had all vanished. It was like one of those horror movies where somehow, all at once, the main character looks up to find everyone dead.
Ali’s killer is closer than you think.
Why didn’t A just tell her who the killer was? She was sick of playing Scooby-Doo. Aria thought of her dream again, of how that pale, ghostly Ali had stepped in front of the camera. “Look closer!” she’d screamed. “It’s right in front of you! It’s right there!” But what was right there? What had Aria missed?
The waitress with the mole trundled out from behind the counter and eyed Aria. “Want a piece of pie? The apple’s edible. On the house.”
