The plane had satellite TV, and Aria flipped to CNN International after boarding. Suddenly, there it was: a shot of the chateau. It was even more ramshackle and haunted-looking than she remembered. Breakin at Brennan Manor, read the headline.
A video showed the shadowy, closed-up, spiderwebbed rooms. Then there was a blurry insurance photo of Starry Night . . . and a police sketch of Olaf. “This is the thief who got away with the painting, as described to the police by a witness who lived down the road,” said the reporter. “Authorities are on the hunt for him now.”
Aria’s mouth hung open. Olaf made it out?
Hanna stared at the TV screen in horror. The situation had changed. Valuable art had been stolen, and Aria had helped facilitate that. Hanna thought of the art-theft cases her father had worked on when he practiced law: Even people who knew about the crime were guilty. Now she was one of those people.
Aria touched Hanna’s forearm, sensing what she was thinking. “Olaf was smart, Han. He won’t get caught . . . meaning he’ll never say I was with him. The police will never be able to connect me to the crime. No one will ever know that you know, either. Just don’t tell anyone else, okay? Not even Emily and Spencer.”
Hanna turned away and stared at the runway, trying to lose herself. Maybe Aria was right. Maybe this Olaf guy, whoever he was, could evade the police. That was the only way Aria’s secret would remain safe. That was the only way Hanna would remain safe, too.
And, mercifully, they were safe, for almost a year. The story surfaced in the news from time to time, but there weren’t many details, and the reporters never mentioned an accomplice. One time, Hanna watched a report with Spencer and Emily in the room, the secret like hot lava inside her. But she didn’t say anything. She couldn’t betray Aria’s trust. Aria didn’t dare tell them, either—the less those girls knew, the better.
After a while, what happened didn’t haunt Aria as much anymore. Olaf had disappeared into oblivion, and he’d taken the painting with him. Things had improved between her and Noel, too, that Iceland trip a distant memory. She was safe. No one knew.
Wishful thinking. Someone did know—and that person was keeping this secret very, very quiet until the time was right. And now, at the end of the girls’ senior year, that very same someone decided to make it public.
The third—and scariest—A.
1
Watch Your Back
On a sunny Monday morning, Spencer Hastings walked into her kitchen and was greeted by the smell of coffee and steamed milk. Her mother; her mother’s fiancé, Nicholas Pennythistle; his daughter, Amelia; and Spencer’s sister, Melissa, were sitting around the farmhouse table watching the news. A coifed man was giving a follow-up report on an explosion that had occurred on a cruise ship off the coast of Bermuda one week before.
“Authorities are still looking into the cause of the explosion that forced all passengers on the cruise ship to evacuate,” he said. “New evidence suggests that the blast originated in the boiler room. A video surveillance tape that was recovered shows two grainy figures. It’s unclear whether the individuals in the video caused the explosion or if it was a freak accident.”
Mrs. Hastings set down the coffee carafe. “I can’t believe they still don’t know what happened.”
Melissa, who was in Rosewood visiting friends, glanced at Spencer. “Of all the cruises, it would be yours to have a crazy Unabomber on board.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t on that boat.” Amelia, who was two years younger than Spencer and had wild curly hair, a pug nose, and a penchant for sweater sets and Mary Janes—even after the makeover Spencer had given her in New York City—snorted haughtily. “Were you guys on a suicide mission? Is that why you went rogue and sailed to that cove instead of to shore?”
Spencer padded toward the toaster, ignoring her. But Amelia kept talking. “That’s what everyone’s saying, you know—you and your three friends have cracked. Maybe you need to live in Dad’s panic room twenty-four-seven, huh?”
Mr. Pennythistle gave Amelia a stern look. “That’s enough.”
Mrs. Hastings set a cup of coffee down in front of her fiancé. “You have a panic room, Nicholas?” she asked, seemingly eager to change the subject. She hadn’t exactly learned how to discipline Amelia yet.
Mr. Pennythistle laced his fingers together. “At the model home in Crestview Estates. I built it after those mob guys moved into some of the surrounding neighborhoods—you never know. And besides, a certain kind of buyer might like that sort of thing. Of course, I doubt Spencer could attend Princeton from there. There’s no Internet access.”