On cue, the morning news on the TV in her room resumed after a commercial break. Hanna’s own face from the last time they were in the courtroom, for Tabitha Clark’s murder, appeared on the screen. “The murder trial of the Pretty Little Liars begins this morning,” the reporter said.
The image switched from Hanna’s face to Aria’s and Spencer’s, and then a picture of Emily. “After Emily Fields’s tragic suicide on Saturday, there was talk of delaying the proceedings, but the prosecution team wants to push forward.”
The pointy-nosed district attorney named Brice Reginald popped up. Hanna already hated his slicked hair and penchant for bow ties. “I feel for Ms. Fields’s family, but there’s another family who needs answers—the DiLaurentis family,” he said in a smooth, nasal tone. “We expect Mr. DiLaurentis at the trial this morning, and I’ve assured him that it will be a quick procedure with favorable results. Justice will be done for his murdered daughter.”
Hanna scoffed. If she were Ali’s dad, she wouldn’t show her face in that courtroom. He had to know Ali was a coldhearted killer and liar. Then again, he actually wasn’t Ali’s dad—that was Mr. Hastings. And he was attending . . . supporting Spencer. Her head started to hurt with how messed up it all was.
She wondered, too, where Jason was in all this. It was clear Mrs. D was wallowing at home, too overwrought to attend, but what was Ali’s brother’s excuse? Maybe he was smart and didn’t believe the hype.
“What about the defense’s position that Alison DiLaurentis is still alive?” a reporter asked the lawyer.
The DA sniffed. “It’s very clear Ms. DiLaurentis was murdered.”
Hanna made a small eep. Mike muted the TV. “There’s no use watching this.” He walked over and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. I’ll be there the whole time.”
Hanna was about to answer him when his phone beeped. He glanced at the screen, and his face clouded.
“Is it a reporter?” Hanna asked, feeling jumpy. She’d gotten so many calls from nosy people in the past twenty-four hours that she’d had to clear out her voicemail twice. Mike had mentioned they’d gotten his number, too.
“No,” Mike murmured, his eyes still on the screen. “My mom still can’t get ahold of Aria.”
Hanna cocked her head. “Since when?”
Mike’s fingers tapped the keyboard. “Since last night. And I didn’t see her this morning, but I thought she was at Noel’s or something—it was early. But the cops came to the house just now. Aria never met them after the funeral to hand over her IDs and get her ankle monitor. And apparently she made a big ATM withdrawal at the airport.”
Hanna wrinkled her brow. “You’re kidding.” She could hardly believe Aria would do such a thing. “Do you think she took a flight somewhere?”
“I don’t know. But that would be really, really stupid.” Mike glanced at Hanna, his expression frantic. “I can’t believe she didn’t call anyone. You haven’t heard from her?”
Hanna pulled her bottom lip into her mouth. “No,” she said in a small voice. She’d called Aria a million times since their fight, but it had gone straight to voicemail.
Mike’s mouth twitched. “What did you guys fight about, anyway?”
Hanna slapped her arms to her sides. “Emily, Ali . . . I don’t even know.”
She’d tried to understand the fight, but it was no use. Did she blame Spencer for Emily’s plunge into the ocean? Spencer had been the one who suggested they stay the night, after all, and in hindsight, they all should have gone home—Emily would have been the safest, not to mention they might not have gotten caught for violating the terms of their bail.
But it wasn’t like they knew that was going to happen. It reminded Hanna of the accident she’d gotten into last summer: She’d driven Madison home because Madison was too drunk to drive, but she hadn’t made A’s car come out of nowhere. She hadn’t planned to crash.
Hanna had tried Spencer’s phone yesterday, too, but she’d hung up before the call went to voicemail. She hadn’t known what to say. I’m sorry? Was she? It was annoying, too, that Spencer hadn’t called her. She should have, at least to apologize for freaking out on Hanna at the funeral. Why did Hanna have to be the one to crack first?
Mike sat down on the bed and turned his phone over in his hands. “Where do you think she went?”
Hanna raised her shoulders. “Maybe nowhere? Maybe it was just to fool the police?”
“My money’s on Europe,” Mike said softly. He rubbed his hands through his hair. “I just hope she’s safe.” Then a strange expression crossed his face. “Or you don’t think she did something horrible, do you? Like Emily?”
“We don’t know that Emily’s dead,” Hanna said automatically.
Mike cocked his head. “Han. We kind of . . . do.”