“Hey, hey,” Wren murmured, rubbing her back. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Spencer managed, between sobs. She almost laughed at the situation she was in. Of all the times during the entire trial that she could have broken down into a snotty mess, it had to be on her last night, while she was on a carriage ride with Wren.
Wren leaned forward and spoke to the driver, and the carriage stopped. “I live just a few blocks away,” Wren said. “And you need some tea. Just tea,” he added, before she could say anything else. Spencer sniffed, and nodded.
Wren turned to Spencer and offered his hand, and the two of them climbed off the carriage. Then he led her to his apartment building. They were silent as they strode through the lobby and to the elevator, but as soon as they got into Wren’s apartment—a place that came back to her immediately from being there almost two years ago, with its cramped walls and beige-colored fridge and small TV wedged into the corner—Wren wrapped his arms around Spencer and pulled her into a hug. Her eyes still burned with tears, but she wasn’t hysterical anymore. She glanced in the mirror and saw that her makeup was running and her face was red. Strangely, she didn’t care.
“What kind of tea, chamomile or peppermint?” Wren asked, his brown eyes warm. “Or maybe hot chocolate instead?”
“Actually,” Spencer heard herself ask, as she sank onto the couch. “Can you just sit here with me for a second?”
She leaned back on the cushions, and Wren wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. As she curled into his body, her eyes teared up again. She felt so safe with him.
It scared her that she might never feel this safe again.
22
A SOBER RETURN
On Friday evening, long after the sun had set, two police officers greeted Aria at customs at the Philadelphia airport. They offered a gruff thank-you to the air marshal who’d escorted her on the plane from Brussels to Philly—who had smelled sweaty, smacked his lips when he ate the meal they’d served on the plane, and even accompanied her to the aircraft’s tiny bathroom, waiting outside while she peed.
The cops took Aria by the arms and dragged her toward baggage claim. The handcuffs she had been wearing for ten hours had rubbed her wrists raw. Her head swam with fatigue, and she felt sticky, dirty, and sick. As she walked past the sparsely populated security lines, all the guards looked up and stared at her. As they passed a dead McDonald’s and a few gift shops, the workers gaped. They rode down an escalator in silence, listening to Frank Sinatra on the PA system. But suddenly, at baggage claim, tons of people swam into view. Flashbulbs popped. Everyone started to shout. “Miss Montgomery!” the reporters clamored, rushing for her.
Aria shaded her eyes, wishing she’d been better prepared. Of course reporters were going to be here. She was the biggest story on the eastern seaboard.
“Miss Montgomery!” more reporters roared. “Did you think you were going to get away with it?”
“Does this mean you’re guilty?” someone screamed.
The reporters were screaming at someone else, too—and that was when Aria caught sight of Noel coming down the escalator behind her. He’d been on the same plane as Aria, though in another section, with his own air marshal. For the first half of the trip, Aria had been angry with him, but soon enough that had given way to deep regret. How was Noel supposed to know someone was actually watching them? And why on earth had she spouted all that ridiculous stuff about Ali? He probably hated her now.
“Mr. Kahn, why did you follow your girlfriend to Europe when you knew it was a crime?” someone shouted.
“Are you two in cahoots?” another reporter asked him. “Did you help kill Alison?”
“Out of our way,” one of Aria’s agents grunted, pushing aside some of the reporters and photographers.
Aria’s gaze was still on Noel. He had his head down and his hoodie pulled tight. They were snapping his picture all the same. It would be everywhere. If only he’d never come to Europe. Aria had ruined his life.
“Aria!” cried a familiar voice.
Aria looked up. Her mother was elbowing through the crowd. Ella’s eyes were red, and her face was blotchy, and she was wearing a pair of army shorts and Mike’s Rosewood Day lacrosse sweatshirt—as if she’d had no time and these were the first things she’d found to throw on. Byron stood with her, too, looking stiff and embarrassed.
Ella grabbed Aria’s shoulders. “We were so worried,” she blurted, and then burst into tears.