Noel looked tormented. “I don’t know what I want,” he blurted, and darted for the door. Then, with a swoosh, he was gone.
Aria sank back onto the couch, her pulse hammering in her throat. She could still taste Noel’s lips on hers. Her whole body felt invigorated and flushed. Part of her wanted to run after him, but another part of her held back. Noel was probably already with Scarlett, regretting their kiss. And somehow, that made her feel even worse.
The door swished open again, and Aria half rose, hoping it was Noel . . . and hating herself for hoping. But Spencer walked in, dressed in a twenties-style, fringed black dress, looking down into her oversize envelope clutch. She stopped when she saw Aria, and her expression turned to worry. “Are you okay?”
Aria blinked. There was no way she could explain what had happened. “Where have you been?” she asked instead.
Spencer squirted some lotion on her palms. “I’ve spent all morning trying to figure out who Dominick is. I called about fifty private investigators to see if they’d help, but they actually need a full name before they can do anything. I even called the bullying organization who made that video to see if they got everyone’s names from the audience. But no one’s gotten back to me yet.”
“That sucks,” Aria said faintly. But her mind was still on Noel. He’d followed her in here and kissed her. Had he been thinking about her all this time? Or had seeing her across the room, in a dress she’d worn once on a date with him, brought back memories and longings?
“Aria?”
She snapped back to attention. Spencer pointed at Aria’s purse. “Your phone’s ringing.”
The screen was lit up; she’d been so lost in her thoughts she’d completely tuned it out. A 212 number was on the screen. Aria swallowed hard, then answered.
“Aria Montgomery?” came an unfamiliar voice. “My name is Frank Brenner. I’m calling from the New York Post.”
Aria ran her hand over the top of her head. “I’m sorry, I’m not really in the position to do an interview right now.”
“Oh, I’m not calling for an interview, per se.” There was a smarmy tone to Mr. Brenner’s gravelly voice. “I’m calling for a quote from you about the stunt Mr. John Carruthers is claiming you pulled.”
Aria blinked. For a moment, she forgot who Mr. Carruthers was. Then she remembered: the Ali portrait. “I’m sorry?” she said. “What stunt?”
“He’s saying he didn’t buy your painting.” Mr. Brenner sounded amused.
“What?”
“He was in Africa when that painting sold. Apparently, someone posing as his assistant bought it. But it wasn’t his real assistant.”
Aria paced around the little room. “But I was paid. Presumably from Carruthers’s account.”
“Nope. Carruthers checked his books. There’s no transaction for it. He claims that someone else paid for it and just used his name. He said he’d never buy a portrait like that—I believe his exact words were ‘garish and disturbing.’”
Aria’s stomach twisted. “He said that?”
“Indeed he did!”
It bothered Aria how gleeful the reporter sounded. She struggled to put all the pieces together, her mind still confused over everything that had happened with Noel, and now this. What was going on? “But . . . why would someone else pay all that money for that painting and claim that Mr. Carruthers had bought it?” she asked slowly. “Why didn’t they give their own name?”
Mr. Brenner’s laugh was sharp and a little nasty. “I was hoping you could tell me, Aria. Is it true you placed the call and the order yourself, posing as Mr. Carruthers’s assistant? And you paid for it out of a private account?”
“Of course not!” Aria cried. “I don’t have that kind of money. And anyway, my mom took that call from the assistant. I had no idea until she told me about it later.”
The reporter chuckled. “I guess this is why they call you a Pretty Little Liar. So can I put down here that you orchestrated the whole thing?”
“No!” Aria gripped the phone hard. Her mind was doing somersaults. “Wait. Start from the beginning. What was the name of the assistant who ordered the transaction? What account was supposedly used to pay for the painting?”
Mr. Brenner clucked his tongue. “I think I should be asking you the questions, not the other way around.”
“Please tell me!” Aria cried, a hot, fizzy feeling bubbling up inside her. “Let’s just say I don’t know about this account. What’s the name on it? Do you know?” She had a feeling she knew where this was going. But she needed to know for sure, right now.
The reporter sighed. Then came the sound of papers flipping. “It’s Maxine Preptwill,” he read, stumbling over the syllables. “That ringing any bells?”
Aria’s knees went weak. “Say that again?”