Spencer reached over and grabbed Aria’s hand. “Guys, maybe this is it. Maybe they found Ali today.”
The first cruiser door opened, and a tall agent who could have been Will Smith’s Men in Black body double stepped out. Spencer leaned forward, expecting to see Ali slumped in the backseat, handcuffs around her wrists, but the seat was empty. A second SUV door opened, and a shorter, chubbier agent, still intimidating in his mirrored sunglasses, got out and slammed it shut.
The agents strode across the lawn toward the girls, their faces grave. Spencer’s heart hammered fast. Whatever news they had, it was big. Serious.
Will Smith Look-alike stared hard at the four of them. “Spencer Hastings? Aria Montgomery? Emily Fields? Hanna Marin?”
“Yes?” Spencer’s voice cracked.
Aria squeezed her hand tight. Hanna’s lips parted. Spencer could feel the stares of her classmates. And at the curb, another figure stood by the SUVs. Agent Fuji. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and there was a proud, satisfied look on her face.
This is it, Spencer thought. They really did find her.
The second agent stepped forward. At first, Spencer thought it was to take her hand, but then he revealed a pair of shiny handcuffs. He quickly and deftly secured them to her wrists with a snap. Then he did the same to Aria. Will Smith cuffed Hanna and Emily.
“W-what the hell?” Aria wailed, jolting away.
“Don’t try to run, girls,” the second agent said in a low voice. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Tabitha Clark.”
“What?” Spencer shrieked.
“Us?” Emily screamed.
The first agent spoke over them. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law . . .”
The men pushed Spencer and the others toward the cars. Spencer’s feet tumbled over each other across the grass and the sidewalk. Fuji’s face loomed before her, her satisfied smile still there. “What are you doing?” Spencer wailed at her. “This is a mistake!”
Fuji sank into one hip. “Is it, Spencer?”
“What about the notes we gave you?” Hanna called out. “Everything we told you? What about A?”
Fuji removed her Ray-Bans. The expression in her eyes was derisive, absolute. “We retrieved IP information on every single text and e-mail sent from A. We dusted every postcard and handwritten note for prints. And you know what we found?”
Spencer blinked. Next to her, Aria shifted. “What?” Emily whispered.
Fuji stepped forward, drawing the girls into a circle. “Every one of those texts came from one of your phones,” she hissed. “Every note, every picture had only your fingerprints on it, no one else’s. The only A in your lives, girls, is the four of you.”
18
PRISON BLUES
Aria sat up like a shot and looked around. She was sprawled out on the floor of a dingy cinder-block cell. The fetid scent of urine and sweat wafted through the air, and she could hear angry shouts and swears through the walls. She was locked up.
“Aria?” It was Spencer, who was in the next cell over.
“Y-yeah?” Aria turned toward the wall.
“You were mumbling really loudly,” Spencer whispered. “Were you sleeping?”
Aria ran her hand through her gnarled hair. She must have passed out from fear and shock. She doubted she’d been out for long, though—light still streamed through the small window at the ceiling.
The past few hours twisted in her head like a tornado. After the bombshell at Rosewood Day, the police had shoved the four of them into separate cars and driven them to holding cells at the Rosewood jail.
It couldn’t be true. A had orchestrated this. Only . . . how? Once again, Aria relived the moment Fuji had told them that every single A note they’d received had been from their phones. It was like those dreams she sometimes had where she tried to dial an emergency phone number again and again, but the buttons kept disintegrating. She felt trapped. Helpless. Voiceless.
Aria glanced at the window near the ceiling of her cell. The light was dimmer; maybe a few hours had passed. Did her parents know about their arrest? Had the news picked up the story; was Aria’s face plastered all over CNN? She pictured Noel watching from his couch, slack-jawed. She imagined Asher the artist paling as he read a Google Alert, and she pictured her artistic future as a drawing on a chalkboard slowly being erased. She envisioned her parents and Mike getting a phone call and sinking to their knees, inconsolable.
Someone rapped at the bars, and Aria shot up. A familiar man in a well-fitting suit stood outside her cell. “Dad?” Spencer’s voice rang out from down the hall.
“Hello, Spencer.” Mr. Hastings sounded very serious.
“What are you doing here?” Spencer called out.