Aria flopped back down on the bed. She was in a youth hostel in Amsterdam—what did she expect? At least she’d ponied up for a private room.
Even the pile of vomit in the hallway and the unpredictable hot-cold stream of water in the shower didn’t dull her spirits. An hour later, she was clean, bright-eyed, and optimistic, strolling out of the Red-Light District. The streets were mostly empty, all of the tourists who flooded this neighborhood probably sleeping off their hangovers. It was like she had the whole city to herself. She’d forgotten how much she loved Amsterdam! The slower pace, the foreign signs, the putt-putt of motorbikes, Amsterdam’s funny trolley system, all of the quaint art and architecture . . . every detail made her realize how glad she was that she’d had the cab driver bring her here. It had been an impulse decision—Holland was lenient and tolerant—and it had been a long, boring drive through France and Belgium, Aria refusing to make eye contact or small talk with the hopefully oblivious, chain-smoking French driver and remaining slumped down so none of the other drivers could see her through the window. But it had been worth it.
The cool morning air felt good on her skin as she turned down a series of alleyways toward the Anne Frank house, which she planned on visiting that day. Might as well get some culture in, right? As Aria rounded a corner, a group of kids passed her going in the opposite direction. One of them had Emily’s same copper-colored hair.
Aria flinched. She was seeing versions of Emily everywhere. Like the girl with the strong swimmer’s shoulders she’d noticed through the windows of a touring bus yesterday, or the girl who’d thrown her head back and laughed the same way Emily did while Aria’s cab driver had pulled over at a rest stop to pee, or the girl who knitted her brow, Emily-like, when someone told her something interesting—Aria had spied her at the hostel last night. It was uncanny . . . and kind of awful. Sort of like Emily’s ghost was following her around, trying to tell her something.
She pressed on, passing a gift shop, a restaurant, and a little place that sold cell phones. A newsstand was next on the block, and a tabloid headline in the window caught her eye. Pretty Little Liar trouwen, it read. Aria blinked hard. She didn’t know Dutch, but by the swirly writing and the picture of Hanna with a bridal veil superimposed on her head, she was pretty sure it meant getting married.
Aria ran into the shop, snatched up a copy of the paper, and flipped to the article on page eight. Not that she could understand it—the whole paper was in Dutch—but she tried to glean as much as she could from the pictures. There was one of Hanna and Mike slow-dancing at the Valentine’s Dance last year. Another of Hanna on the set of Burn It Down before she was fired. And then images of various diamond wedding rings with a big question mark next to each.
Aria’s mouth dropped open. Were they having an actual wedding, with guests? Did her parents approve of this? She thought of the time she’d gotten married—to Hallbjorn, a boy she’d known from Iceland, in a whirlwind justice-of-the-peace ceremony mainly so that Hallbjorn could stay in the country. Her parents hadn’t even known about it, would have killed her if they did. She’d gotten the union annulled long before they could have found out.
But Mike and Hanna . . . they were different. Aria could actually see them being married. She felt a pang. She was going to miss her little brother’s and her best friend’s wedding. She was going to miss everything about Mike’s life, in fact—and Lola’s, and she was just a baby! Tears came to her eyes. She thought she could handle being away, but she’d focused only on the negatives—the trial, going to prison, having everything taken away from her. But here, halfway around the world, so much was still taken away from her. It was such a high price to pay for freedom.
Then, her gaze focused on another front page on a newspaper two rows down. This paper was in English, and Aria’s face was on the cover. Pretty Little Liar in the EU? read the headline.
Aria’s blood ran cold. She looked around the little shop. The shopkeeper behind the counter was looking at something on his phone. A teenage boy stood in front of a refrigerated case full of soda. Heart pounding, Aria picked up a Dutch sailing magazine and slid the incriminating newspaper within the pages. Terrifying phrases jumped out from the page. Authorities report that Miss Montgomery boarded a flight to Paris . . . Interpol searching for her everywhere, with an EU-wide alert at hotels, restaurants, and transport stations . . . several tips say she is in Northern Europe, perhaps the Scandinavian countries.
Northern Europe. That was where she was—sort of, anyway. Aria’s hands started to tremble. She hadn’t expected them to find her so soon . . . but maybe that was naive. This was Interpol, not the Rosewood PD.