Aria’s excitement swelled. When Aria had called from school, Ella had given her the number for the apprenticeship’s American contact. The contact had answered and said that today was the second-to-last day for interviews, and the person she was to speak with, an Agatha Janssen at Henley’s Department of Germanic Languages, had an opening this afternoon. It seemed like kismet.
The languages building smelled musty and had a serious echo, and the wall tile was exactly like the kind in the building that housed Aria and Noel’s cooking class. She felt a pang. Should she call him?
Of course not. He lied to you. She set her jaw and swished the thought out of her mind. She should be thinking instead about Amsterdam, and her new life. She hadn’t technically gotten the apprenticeship yet, but she wanted to think positively. She couldn’t wait to begin all sorts of rituals in Holland that Noel would never be into, like watching the sun rise every morning; seeing long, plotless foreign films in which people do a lot of smoking and lovemaking; and going to coffee shops to debate philosophy. There.
Ms. Janssen’s office was at the end of the hall. When Aria knocked, an older woman with frizzy black hair and wire-rim glasses, wearing what looked like a bunch of silk scarves sewn together into a sacklike dress, flung open the door. “Hello, Miss Montgomery!” she said in a Dutch accent. “Come in, come in!”
The inside of the office smelled like apple pie. On the wall were drawings of the dykes around Amsterdam and a photo of a little girl in huge, yellow wooden shoes. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Aria said, shrugging off her plaid spring jacket.
“Not a problem.” Ms. Janssen tapped on the keyboard, her wooden bracelets knocking together. “As you know, I have the power to recommend a candidate. I’ve interviewed students from New York City, Boston, and Baltimore, but your portfolio is quite strong. And you know a little Dutch, so that’s helpful.”
“I learned when I was in Iceland,” Aria boasted. “I lived there for a few years.”
Ms. Janssen pushed a lock of hair behind her ears. “Well, the apprenticeship would be for two years. You’ll be helping several artists, learning a great deal from each of them. Everyone who has done this apprenticeship has gone on to have a career in the art world in their own right.”
“I know. It’s a remarkable opportunity.” Aria thought of the literature she’d reread this afternoon. The apprentices got to travel all through Europe with their artists.
The professor asked Aria some more questions about her influences, her strengths and weaknesses, and her knowledge of art history. With every question Aria answered, Ms. Janssen seemed more and more pleased, the smile lines at the corners of her eyes deepening. Not once did she bring up how Aria was a Pretty Little Liar. She seemed to know nothing of the stupid movie based on Aria’s life, or how Aria had been on a cruise ship that caught fire, or that she’d witnessed Gayle Riggs’s murder or found her boyfriend tied up in a storage shed only a few days before. In that little office, Aria was only a budding artist, nothing else. The Aria she used to be, before everything went wrong.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Ms. Janssen said after a while. “You seem quite promising. I’d like to recommend you.”
“Really?” Aria squeaked, pressing her hand to her chest. “That’s great!”
“I’m glad you think so. Now, let me start your formal application, which is right . . .” She trailed off as she looked out the window. “Oh.”
Aria followed her gaze. Out the big picture window, she could see three police cars at the curb, their lights flashing. Two uniformed officers got out and marched into the building. Soon enough, footsteps echoed down the hall. Walkie-talkies squealed. As the voices grew closer and closer, Aria swore one of them said, Montgomery.
A slithery sensation crept down her back.
The door flung open, and two men walked into the office, eyes narrowed, muscles tensed. Ms. Janssen shrank back against the wall. “Can I help you?”
The man in front pointed at Aria. His jacket said FBI on the breast pocket. He had squinty eyes and a wad of fruity-smelling gum shoved into his mouth. “That’s her.”
The professor stared at Aria as though she’d morphed into a giant toad. “What’s this about?”
“She’s wanted for questioning in an international incident,” the agent said stiffly.
Aria’s throat went dry. “W-what do you mean?” As if in answer, something made a ping inside her bag. Aria reached for her phone, her heart sinking. One new message, it said, followed by a jumble of letters and numbers.
Your dirty laundry, Aria? Time to get it dry-cleaned. —A
6
SPENCER GOES DOWNTOWN
At the same time on Tuesday, Spencer had just finished jogging five easy miles on the Marwyn Trail, an old train line turned nature walk. As she walked back to her car, pulling her hair up into a high ponytail, the wind stopped. The trail was clear of runners and bikers, but she swore she could see a human shape in the bushes. Ali?
A woman and three dogs appeared around the corner. A Rollerblader skated past, and a squirrel emerged from the bushes. Spencer pinched the inside of her palm. Ali isn’t everywhere. Only, did she really believe that anymore?
She climbed into the car, drained a bottle of coconut water, and switched on the radio. The first thing she heard was Noel Kahn’s name. She twisted the volume knob higher.
“. . . Though Mr. Kahn survived his attack, he is among a growing number of victims in Rosewood, along with socialite Gayle Riggs, who was murdered in the driveway of her new Rosewood home, and Kyla Kennedy, a burn patient who was found dead behind the hospital,” a deep baritone voice said. “New questions are swirling about a serial criminal on the loose. Authorities are also investigating a possible tie-in to the bombing of the Splendor of the Seas cruise ship a few weeks ago—students from Rosewood Day Prep and other surrounding schools were on board.”