There was barely any traffic, and every stoplight in Rosewood was green. Emily sped past Rosewood’s main drag, the Hollis campus, and the turnoff for Alison DiLaurentis’s old street, reaching Aria’s mom’s house in record time. Hers was the only property on the block that wasn’t aglow with Christmas decorations. It looked like a missing tooth in a mouth of pearly whites.
After saying bye to Emily, Aria unlocked the front door and dropped her bags in the foyer. The only noises in the house were the soft hum of the refrigerator and the hiss of air through the radiator pipes. When she looked out the window, the snow had already left a dusting on the front lawn. According to weather reports, they were supposed to get a foot by tomorrow morning.
“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,” Aria sang softly. Her voice echoed in the empty room, filling her with regret. What was she going to do with herself for the next few days, knocking around this big house all by herself? What was she going to make for Christmas dinner—frozen organic macaroni and cheese? Maybe she should have brought Mike with her—but he hadn’t seemed that bummed out to be with Byron and Meredith. He’d probably spend the next few days skiing, snowboarding, ice fishing, and skeet shooting.
She trudged upstairs and flopped down on her bed, knocking a book to the floor. It was her well-loved sketch journal. She grabbed it, feeling a discomfited prickle. She was almost positive she’d left the sketchbook on the desk, not the bed. Had Ella moved it before she went to Sweden? Had someone else been in here?
The spine cracked as Aria opened to the first page. She’d had this journal since the beginning of sixth grade; one of the first sketches she’d drawn was of Ali the day she’d marched out of Rosewood Day and announced that her brother had told her where a piece of the Time Capsule flag had been hidden. It was eerie how accurately Aria’s younger self had captured the curves of Ali’s heart-shaped face, the wry twist of her smile, the sparkle in her eyes. It was like Ali was staring back at her from the paper.
She turned past sketches of Ali, Spencer, Emily, and Hanna—she’d drawn them hundreds of times after they’d become friends. Then came pictures of Iceland—the cute row houses, a sleeping old man at a coffee shop, a quick sketch of Aria’s parents sitting together on the stone wall outside their house, looking totally in love, and a drawing of Hallbjorn, Aria’s first boyfriend in Iceland.
Aria flipped ahead, the journal opening naturally to a particular page. She drew in a sharp breath. It was a side profile of Ezra Fitz standing at the board in English class. Aria stared longingly at his small, slightly sticky-outy ears. That amazing broad chest she’d loved to run her fingers over. Those full lips she’d kissed countless times.
She flopped back on the pillow. Where was Ezra right now? Celebrating the holidays with his family? Taking a moonlit Christmas Eve walk with a new girlfriend? Tears welled in Aria’s eyes. Part of her wanted to check her email again to see if Ezra had written a Happy Holidays note, but why bother? There wouldn’t be one. Aria didn’t matter to him anymore.
The house let out a creak, followed by a loud thud. Aria sat up straighter and looked around. That didn’t sound like the wind.
Another thud came, and she shot to her feet. She crept out into the hall and peered out the large square window that overlooked the front yard. There were no cars parked at the curb, no figures poised on the street.
Then something started to rattle.
Aria leaned over the stairs and gasped. The doorknob at the front door was wiggling back and forth, like someone was trying to force their way in. “Hello?” she called in an eggshell-thin voice, grabbing a lacrosse stick from Mike’s room. Should she call the police? What if it was Ian, sprung from jail? At his arraignment, he’d whirled around and stared at Aria and her old friends, a look of sheer hatred in his eyes.
“Hello?” Aria cried out again, wielding the lacrosse stick in front of her like a sword as she tiptoed down the stairs. “Who’s there?”
From the foyer, she glanced at the side panel to the left of the front door, her heart in her throat. A shadow shifted on the porch. It was definitely a person.
Knock knock knock.
Aria grabbed the cordless phone in the hall. “I’m calling the police! You’d better get the hell out of here!”
The figure didn’t move. Aria pressed the TALK button on the phone. “I’m dialing!” She shakily hit the digits for 911. The ring tones bleated in her ear.
“Aria?” a muffled voice called from the porch.
Aria lowered the lacrosse stick an inch. The shape shifted in the window. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a dispatcher’s voice asked on the other end of the phone line.
“Aria?” whoever was outside called again. Aria frowned. It was a familiar guy’s voice. And was that an Icelandic accent?
“Hello?” the 911 operator said, a little more impatiently now. “Is anyone there?”
Aria walked toward the window. Standing on the porch was a tall blond guy with broad shoulders and a square jaw, wearing a navy-blue anorak that said ICELANDIC SKI TEAM on a patch on the chest. She let out an incredulous laugh.
“ . . . Hallbjorn?”