Toxic

26 ARIA’S ANGEL—OR DEVIL—INVESTOR

The boning on the emerald-green strapless dress Aria was wearing to Rosewood Rallies dug into her boobs, and she was wearing uncomfortable heels, but when she glanced at herself in the long mirror in the lobby of the country club, she had to admit she looked pretty damn good. So did her dad, who had on a dark suit, and Meredith, who wore a structured red dress with a gardenia tucked behind her ear.

But it was Harrison who looked truly amazing. He’d shown up in Rosewood earlier that day wearing a crisp, slim-fit black suit with a huge bouquet of flowers for Aria. Now, as he regarded the two of them in the mirror, he slung his arm around her waist. “I am, without a doubt, with the prettiest girl in the room.”

Aria ducked her head bashfully and said something that came out like, “Oh, you.” She wanted to feel something for Harrison—she really did. He was perfect for her: He said sweet things, he fawned over her, and they had the same interests. But a nagging feeling told her she should have felt more flattered than she did, more fluttery, more turned on by how gorgeous he looked in that suit. Right now it was hard to muster up any feeling at all beyond generalized nervousness at being back in the Rosewood Country Club among all her peers.

She looked around. Even though she hadn’t been there since the party Mona Vanderwaal had thrown for Hanna after she was hit by a car—the very night, in fact, they’d discovered Mona was A—the place hadn’t changed a bit. The same plaid wallpaper and heavy mahogany paneling covered the walls, the same ornate carpet lined the floors, and it still smelled like a mixture of cigars, red wine, and cream sauce. There were tons of people milling about in the main ballroom already, looking perfect in their gowns and suits with drinks in hand. A gaggle of kids in their country-club best were running up the dramatic double staircase past the lobby. A large ROSEWOOD RALLIES sign was propped up on a table, complete with photos and a description of the charity they were supporting. People barely looked at it, though, more interested in finding their place cards to see which room their family was seated in. Aria couldn’t help but notice that no one here particularly looked like a troubled or disadvantaged youth, either.

“The girl of the hour!” a woman with heavily sprayed blond hair and in a tweed Chanel suit crowed. She gripped her arm hard and said, “My name is Sharon Winters, and I’m the head of the committee who arranged this party. It’s so wonderful for you to come, Aria. Now, come with me! I’ve seated you at the front!”

Aria grabbed Harrison’s hand, and Sharon pulled them through a throng of people, past a large room where a buffet had been set up, and into a dining area that featured an enormous bar and at least twenty stools. At the end of the room was a stage, and before that was a long table with four place settings. Hanna, dressed in a sparkly gown Aria didn’t recognize, was already sitting on one end, biting her red-painted fingernails.

Aria slumped down next to Hanna, and her friend rolled her eyes at Sharon, who’d crossed the room to speak to more guests. “Sharon told me that I should give a speech tonight. Yeah, right.”

“Well, you are the movie star,” Aria couldn’t help teasing. Then she motioned to Harrison. “This is Harrison. He writes Fire and Funnel, the art blog.”

“You’re a movie star?” Harrison asked, shaking Hanna’s hand.

“Not exactly.” Hanna’s gaze flickered to Aria. “Do you know if Mike’s coming tonight?”

Aria shook her head regretfully. She’d known that Mike was taking the train home to see Hanna, but then her dad had told her he’d changed his mind and was hanging out with some lacrosse buddies tonight. She didn’t want to pry, but by the look on Hanna’s face, she wondered if they’d had some sort of fight.

“Whatever it is, it will blow over. I know how Mike feels about you,” she said quietly. Hanna just looked away, seeming unconvinced.

They settled into their seats, Harrison sitting to Aria’s left. The crowd in the dining room was thick; almost every table was filled. “A lot of people from school are here,” she murmured. There were James Freed and Lanie Iler, laughing over a plate of ravioli. Kirsten Cullen and Scott Chin were in line for the caricature artist. Then she saw Mason Byers, looking sporty in a shirt and tie, and a bunch of other kids from the lacrosse team flop down at a table near the emergency exit at the left.

“Not because they want to support troubled youth,” Hanna said sourly. “It’s probably because they can sneak free cocktails.” Then her face paled at something across the room.

Aria tried to follow her gaze, but Hanna leapt up and stood in her way. “Um, we should mingle. Introduce Harrison around, don’t you think?”

Aria frowned. Hanna’s voice was so squeaky all of a sudden. She craned her neck around her friend’s skinny frame and stared at the lacrosse table. Then she saw what Hanna was trying to block. Noel was sitting at the lacrosse table, too. With Scarlett.

You’re not supposed to be here! Aria wanted to scream. Hadn’t Noel told her he was busy tonight? Then again, busy could have meant “I already have a date.”

She peeked at Scarlett. The little blonde was wearing a black dress that fit her lean frame perfectly, and her hair was twisted into a complicated updo. Noel leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. Scarlett tilted her head back and laughed, touching Noel’s hand.

Then Noel glanced up. His gaze found Aria instantly, and his eyes narrowed. His lips parted. He didn’t drop Scarlett’s hand. Aria turned quickly to Harrison, who was leafing through the program that described the Rosewood Rallies charity. She grabbed his hand tightly, squeezing it hard, then slid even closer to him and pretended to hang on every word of the story he was telling Hanna about the private high school he’d attended in Montgomery County.

After a decent amount of time, she peeked at the lacrosse table again; to her frustration, Noel’s attention was on Scarlett and the pasta she’d gotten from the buffet. All of a sudden, Aria felt overheated. There was no way she could take another moment in this room. She shot up and fumbled into the hall. “I have to . . . ,” she mumbled to Harrison and Hanna, but then darted toward the door without finishing her sentence.

There was no line for the women’s room, and the little dressing area at the front was empty, too. Aria flung herself on the paisley-printed couch and rubbed her temples hard. Don’t be mad about stupid Scarlett, she told herself sternly. But it was beyond painful to see Noel with someone else. Someone so different. Someone so much prettier.

The door whooshed open, and Aria lifted her head. At first, she thought she was seeing things.

Noel was standing in the doorway.

He gaped at her, arms at his sides. He looked out of breath, his cheeks flushed.

Aria shot up from the couch. “You can’t be in here!”

Before Aria knew what was happening, Noel had stepped forward and taken her by the shoulders, pressing his lips to hers. Aria shut her eyes, the familiar sensation washing over her as she kissed him back.

Then she pushed him away, her eyes wide. “What are you doing?” she snapped.

Noel was too out of breath to answer. He kept staring at her lips.

“We’re over,” Aria added. “You said so yourself. And what about that girl?”

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?”

Mr. Brenner repeated it. A thin, low buzz took over Aria’s thoughts, and she hung up the phone without saying anything else. She sank to the ground, staring dazedly at the huge, slightly psychedelic roses on the carpet.

Spencer dropped down beside her. “Aria!” she hissed. “What the hell is going on?”

“Maxine Preptwill,” Aria repeated in a whisper as the room started to spin. She knew that name. It was the secret code name Noel and Ali had used to communicate when Ali was in The Preserve.

Ali had been behind Aria’s success all along. And now she was behind her downfall.