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It was incredible that Wilden had really once been Amish. Emily knew very little about his life, only that he’d been a rebel at Rosewood Day but then had reinvented himself as a cop. It probably wouldn’t take too much effort to find out when Wilden had left the community and started school at Rosewood Day, though, and when he spoke to Emily and the others in the hospital, he’d mentioned that he’d lived with his uncle in high school. According to Lucy, Wilden had convinced Leah, Lucy’s sister, to leave the community as well. Maybe when she refused, he’d gotten angry . . . and made plans to do away with her for good.
Wilden could have talked to Ali about her secret dreams to run away since he and Jason were friends. Wilden might have even promised Ali to help her run away for good, sneaking her out of Rosewood the night she went missing. He dumped a body into the hole in the DiLaurentises’ backyard, making it look like Ali had been killed. But the body in that hole didn’t belong to Ali. It belonged to the girl who broke Wilden’s heart.
Horribly, it all fit. It explained why Leah had never been found. It explained why Ali showed up in the woods last Saturday and why Wilden was dissuading the police force from investigating the possibility that Ali was alive—if they realized it wasn’t her body in that hole, they’d have to figure out whose body it was. It was why Wilden didn’t believe in A and didn’t buy that Ian knew a secret about what happened that night. A had been right all along—there had been a secret. But it wasn’t about Ali’s death. It was about who had been killed in Ali’s place.
Emily stared at the graffiti someone had drawn on the wall of the bus under the window. MIMI LUVS CHRISTOPHER. TINA HAS A FAT ASS. There was even a sketch of two fat butt cheeks next to it. Ali was out there, somewhere, just as she’d always known. But where had she been all this time? It seemed implausible that a seventh grader could survive on her own. or perhaps she’d known someone who’d taken her in. Why hadn’t she contacted Emily to let her know she was okay? Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to contact anyone. Maybe she’d decided to forget her entire life in Rosewood, even her four best friends.
Emily’s phone beeped, signaling three unread texts. She scrolled through her inbox. Two were from her sister Caroline; both subject lines read People Survey. Aria had sent a text too; its subject line said We need to talk.
An old woman at the front of the bus coughed. The bus rolled past a farm, and the cabin temporarily smelled like manure. Emily moved the cursor from text to text, trying to decide which to read first. Just then, her phone pinged again, this time with a text from an unknown number. Her pulse raced. This had to be from A. And for once, Emily couldn’t wait to know what A had to say. She pressed read immediately.
It was a photo text. The picture was of a bunch of blurry papers fanned out on a table. The top document was titled ALISON DILAURENTIS DISAPPEARANCE: TIMELINE. The paper below it said INTERVIEW, JESSICA DILAURENTIS, JUNE 21, 10:30 P.M. Another paper had a crest of something called the Preserve at Addison-Stevens, with the last name “DiLaurentis” shown. A red stamp on each of the papers said PROPERTY OF ROSEWOOD POLICE DEPARTMENT. EVIDENCE. DO NOT REMOVE.
Emily gasped.
Then, she noticed a final piece of paper peeking out from underneath the others. Emily squinted until her eyes hurt. DNA REPORT, it said. But Emily couldn’t read the results.
“No,” Emily moaned, feeling like she was going to explode. Then, as the bus went over a bone-jarring bump, she noticed an accompanying note with the photo.
Wanna see for yourself? The evidence room is in the back of the Rosewood police station. I’ll leave a door open.—A
Chapter 22
Ali Returns . . . Sort Of
Friday after school, Noel picked Aria up at Byron’s house. As she got in the car, he leaned over and gave her a little kiss on the cheek. Despite the butterflies eating away at Aria’s stomach lining, she felt a thrill run down her spine.
They drove through the winding streets of various neighborhoods, passing the old farmhouses and the township playground that still had a couple of discarded Christmas trees at the far end of the parking lot. Neither Aria nor Noel spoke, though the silence felt comfortable instead of awkward. Aria was grateful not to have to scramble for small talk.
Aria’s phone rang just as they were turning onto Ali’s old street. Private caller, said the screen. Aria answered. “Ms. Montgomery?” chirped a voice. “This is Bethany Richards from Us Weekly!”
“Sorry, not interested,” Aria said quickly, cursing herself for answering.
She was about to hang up the phone when the reporter breathed in sharply. “I just wanted to know if you had a response to the People article.”
“What People article?” Aria snapped. Noel glanced at her worriedly.
“The one with the poll that says ninety-two percent of people surveyed think you and your friends killed Alison DiLaurentis!” The reporter sounded giddy.
“What?” Aria gasped. “It’s not true!” Then she stabbed end and dropped her phone into her bag. Noel gazed at her, an anxious look on his face. “There’s an article in People that says we killed Ali,” she whispered.
Noel’s eyebrows knit together in a v. “Jesus.”
Aria pressed her head to the window, staring vacantly at a passing green sign for the Hollis Arboretum. How on earth could people believe such a crazy thing? Just because of their stupid nickname? Because they hadn’t wanted to answer any of the press’s rude, prying questions?
They pulled up to Ali’s old cul-de-sac. Aria could smell the singed remains from the fire even through the rolled-up windows. The trees were twisted and black, like decomposed limbs, and the Hastingses’ windmill was now a pulpy, incinerated carcass. But the worst thing was the Hastingses’ barn. Half of it had collapsed, nothing more than a bunch of dark, ruined planks on the ground. The old porch glider, once painted antique white, was now a dirty, rusted color, hanging creakily by one hinge. It swayed gently, as if a ghost were lazily swinging back and forth.
