Emily’s head started to spin. Her mom. Mrs. Fields had forced the burner cell number out of her, and Emily hadn’t thought to warn her not to give the number out to anyone. Who else had she given it out to?
“Look, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you and all of your friends, but I’m beginning to feel like you’re blowing me off.” Agent Fuji barked out a harsh laugh. “Do you have a moment to talk right now?”
Emily glanced at Iris, who had now stopped on the sidewalk and was staring at her. “Um, I’m kind of tied up.”
“It won’t take long, I promise.”
“I’m sorry,” Emily blurted out. “But I can’t right now. Maybe another time.” And then, before she knew what she was doing, she hung up the phone.
23
The Cold, Hard Truth
“Oh, decor chairwoman!” sang a soprano voice on Friday afternoon in the journalism barn. The room was packed with kids putting the final touches on Van Gogh murals, canvas paintings, and goody bags. Taylor Swift crooned through computer speakers, and a couple of the decor committee girls had made up an impromptu dance/cheer to “Love Story.”
“Yoo-hoo!” the voice sang again. “Miss Montgomery?”
It wasn’t until Aria felt a hand on her shoulder that she realized the girl was talking to her. It was Ryan Crenshaw, a Rosewood Day alumna who was helping with the prom decorations. Per Rosewood Day tradition, a recent graduate always came back and supervised, reminding the committees about the silly prom rituals like taking photos of the prom king and queen in the graveyard near the Four Seasons and organizing a massive conga line. It was an honor to come back and help with prom, but Ryan, who had mousy brown hair and freshman-fifteen, beer-drinking arms, and who whined unendingly about how college sucked, was just one of those girls who didn’t want to let go of high school.
Ryan guided Aria, who had been hiding in the supply closet, freaked out by all the Van Goghs, toward a table and pointed at a huge SLR camera. “You need to start snapping photos for the yearbook, paparazzo! Let’s get action shots of some mural painting! And, look! There’s our queen! Let’s get one of her trying on her crown!”
Across the room, Hanna was chatting quietly with Scott Chin, one of the yearbook editors. Ryan ushered Aria over. As soon as Hanna spied her, her face paled. She grabbed Aria’s arm and pulled her into the hall. “There you are. I need to talk to you.”
“What about pictures, girls?” Ryan called out.
“In a minute!” Hanna shouted over her shoulder, rolling her eyes.
They stepped onto the path that led to a small sculpture garden that a wealthy alumnus had donated to the school back in the eighties.
Hanna walked to a sculpture of a woman whose nose had fallen off years ago, faced Aria, and took a deep breath. “You know how Spencer said that Ali’s helper might be connected to the Bill Beach—there was that prescription-drug theft there a while ago?”
“Yeah.” Unconsciously, Aria started picking at the skin on the side of her thumb.
“Well, I saw Noel at the Bill Beach yesterday.”
A bolt of cold ran through Aria. “Are you sure?”
Hanna nodded gravely. “I’m dead serious. It was definitely him.”
Aria set her jaw and stared at a metal sculpture of a gyroscope a few paces away. “Maybe he had a good reason to be there.”
“Like stealing prescription drugs for Ali?” Hanna crossed her arms. “If you think he’s innocent, figure out why he was there.”
Aria turned away. “Actually, Noel and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now. I kind of told him about Olaf.”
Hanna’s eyes widened. “Why?”
Aria waited for a noisy riding mower to pass. “Noel got a text from A that said he should look in my closet. A obviously wanted him to know about the painting. Then the moment got weird, and Noel was convinced I was hiding something, and so . . . well, I spilled the beans about Olaf.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.” Hanna shook her head ruefully. “Are you okay?”
Aria glanced at Hanna sharply. “Please. You’re probably secretly thrilled.”
“Aria!” Hanna’s eyes were wide.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if Noel and I broke up? Then you’d be able to continue your witch hunt guilt-free.”
Hanna shook her head vehemently. “We’re not anti-Noel. We’re not anti-you. Believe me, all of us hate this. No one wants this to be happening.”
Aria touched the sculpture’s hand, biting back a sob. She knew Hanna was telling the truth, but it still stung every time they came to her with a new, damning Noel tidbit. She wanted to scream at them, Aren’t we friends? Don’t you care about me? It was like when her mom had warned her about dating Gunter, a boy in Iceland—he was trouble, and Aria had known it, and she also knew her mom had only said it to protect her. But it still didn’t feel good to hear it.
Hanna leaned against the sculpture’s other arm. “Has Agent Fuji called you again?”
Aria stared at the ground. “No . . .”
“She’s contacted me and Spencer. Emily, too. Apparently she wants to talk to us again.”