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Hallbjorn’s mouth twisted. Aria could tell he was cracking.
She traced a pattern on his back. “Just think. Tomorrow morning we could wake up together as man and wife, watch the sunrise, have breakfast in bed . . .”
She walked her fingers up his back and pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. Hallbjorn glanced again at the panthers in their cages. Aria tilted his gaze away and lightly kissed his neck. “Please?”
Finally, Hallbjorn sighed. “How can I say no to you?”
“You can’t. I’m your wife. You have to do everything I say.”
Chuckling, Hallbjorn shut the garage door and mounted the tandem bike once more. Aria climbed on the back, and they rode to the hotel’s main entrance. As they rounded the corner, Aria heard another tormented roar. Hallbjorn’s back muscles tensed. But he kept pedaling, and eventually, the sad, lonely growl faded away.
Chapter 12
Mass Panic
Aria opened her eyes. She was standing on a lawn outside a courthouse. A whole town spread out before her over the hillside. It was Rosewood. From her vantage point, she could see Rosewood Day and the Hollis spire. She could even see the top of the Hastings house with its antique rooster weather vane.
But how did she get here? Did it have something to do with her marriage to Hallbjorn? Was she in trouble for forging Ella’s signature? She peered again at the ground and wrinkled her nose. The snow was gone. In fact, the grass looked kind of . . . green. How could a foot and a half have melted so quickly?
The doors to the courthouse flung open, and a flurry of people and reporters with cameras and microphones burst onto the steps. “Mr. Thomas, Mr. Thomas!” Ian Thomas rushed down the stairs with his lawyer and ducked into a waiting car at the curb.
Aria’s head began to pound. She’d witnessed this scene before. This was Ian’s arraignment. Last month.
“Hey.”
Aria swiveled around. When she saw the blond figure with the heart-shaped face standing before her, a scream froze in her throat. “Ali?” she whispered.
“In the flesh,” the girl said, curtseying. “Did you miss me?”
Aria stared at her. It was Ali . . . but it wasn’t. She was taller now. Older. Her boobs were bigger and her face thinner, but her voice was eerily just the same. So were those haunting blue eyes, the ones that always gleamed with mischief whenever she proposed a new dare, the ones that always narrowed whenever Aria or the others said something she deemed uncool.
Aria gripped the side of her head as though to keep her brain from exploding out of her skull. She glanced back at the crowd in front of the courthouse. The reporters were surrounding Ian’s car, banging on the windows. But they should be talking to Ali, not Ian. Why didn’t they see her?
“Don’t bother getting their attention.” Ali coolly reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. “Only you can see me.”
Aria widened her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I’m here just for you.” The words on their own could have been a compliment, but Ali’s tone twisted them to make them sound menacing and scary. “I’m keeping tabs on you, Aria. I’m watching your every move.”
“Why?” Aria blinked hard.
Ali lit the cigarette and blew a smoke ring. “You know why.” She offered Aria a drag of the cigarette, but Aria shook her head.
“He doesn’t really love you, you know.”
It felt like Ali had dumped a bucket of cold water over Aria’s head. “Excuse me?” she sputtered.
Ali stubbed out the cigarette with her high-heeled bootie. “No one could ever love a kook like you. Noel didn’t want you. Ezra couldn’t get away from you fast enough. Hallbjorn is just using you.” She sauntered toward a waiting Town Car that had pulled up from out of nowhere and slid into the backseat. “I was your only real friend, and you let me die. You don’t deserve to be loved.”
“Ali?” Aria cried, taking a few steps toward the car. “Wait! Where are you going?”
Ali didn’t answer. The Town Car pulled away from the curb with a sputter of noxious exhaust. Aria got a big mouthful and staggered backwards. It felt like there were shards of glass in her lungs. A high-pitched giggle spiraled over the trees.
Aria shot up in bed, breathing hard. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her feet kicked under the sweaty covers. She looked around. She was in the room at the Borgata. Sun streamed through the windows. The clock on the side table said 9:03 A.M.
She rubbed her eyes for a long time. The images had been so vivid. Ali’s telltale laugh. Ali’s haunting blue eyes. But it was all a figment of Aria’s psyche, right?
The details of last night slowly came back to her, thanks to some clues around the room. The remains of the room service dinner she and Hallbjorn had eaten were still on a tray by the window. A drained bottle of champagne was tipped over on the floor. Hallbjorn’s tuxedo lay in a crumpled pile on the chair along with Aria’s vintage dress. The JUST MARRIED sign, which they’d propped up against the mirror, had fallen over. After they’d eaten, they’d collapsed into bed, swigging flutes of champagne. The alcohol had hit them both quickly, and they’d passed out before they could make the marriage, er, official.
The TV flickered, again tuned to the resort’s in-house channel. The commercial for the silver panther show appeared, the magicians parading around the stage in their ridiculous shoulder-padded costumes. Aria hit MUTE, not wanting Hallbjorn to be reminded of those poor panthers again.
Only, where was Hallbjorn? His side of the bed was empty. He wasn’t at the little dining table. There were no noises coming from the bathroom, either, and his hiking boots, which he’d kicked off by the minibar fridge, were gone.
