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.
27
MEOW MEOW MEOW!
Spencer picked Aria up off the floor and helped her out of the bathroom. For a few minutes, Aria was unable to talk, so they sat on a bench away from the noise while Spencer rubbed her back. Finally, Aria told her everything.
“It was Ali,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “She was the assistant on the line with my mom that day in the gallery—well, either her or an Ali Cat, in case she thought Ella would recognize her voice. And the money came from her account. Nick has so much money. He must have left her some.”
Spencer swallowed hard. It didn’t seem fair that Ali had a hundred thousand dollars to throw around willy-nilly. “Maybe we could trace the bank account,” she said. “That could lead us back to her, right?”
“Or it will lead us to another Ali Cat who won’t talk,” Aria grumbled.
Spencer thought about Dominick again. Maybe he’d been the assistant on the line.
“Hey.”
Greg stood above them, dressed in a crisp blue oxford and dark khakis. “Hi!” Spencer cried, jumping up. “Y-you’re here!”
His gaze fell to Aria, who now was bent over, head in her hands. “Am I interrupting?” he asked softly.
Spencer smoothed down her skirt. “Greg, this is my friend Aria. Aria, Greg. We met at the anti-bullying taping.”
Aria raised her head and shook his hand limply. Then she slumped back on the seat, saying nothing. An awkward few seconds passed, and then Spencer said, “Aria, why don’t we get food.”
“No,” Aria answered in monotone, staring straight ahead. “Go. Have fun. Enjoy life while you can.”
Spencer pulled her bottom lip into her mouth. After a moment, she turned to Greg. “I’ll be right back.”
She took Aria by the arm and walked her through the crowd toward the girls-of-honor table at the front—Hanna was still there, talking to a tall guy in an expensive-looking blazer who must have been Aria’s blogger date. But Aria shook her head. “Do you know where my dad is?” she asked in a small voice.
“Of course,” Spencer said, putting an arm around Aria’s shoulder and guiding her to Byron and Meredith’s table at the back. Meredith looked worried when she saw Aria’s stricken face. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Boy troubles,” Spencer said, patting Aria on the shoulder and gently sitting her down. It was the perfect excuse.
Once Aria was safely surrounded by her family, Spencer returned to Greg, who was still waiting in the hall. “Let’s grab something to eat,” she said, leading him toward the buffet room. The line for food was about twenty people long. At the front, a woman dripping in diamonds sloppily spooned pasta sauce on her plate. One of her mom’s friends, heavily Botoxed and looking rigid in a Chanel suit, plucked a canapé from a silver tray with her fingers. Sometimes, Spencer thought, rich people could be awfully uncivilized.
Greg took his place behind Spencer, but his gaze quickly found Aria at her dad’s table. “Is she really okay?”
“Sure,” Spencer answered hurriedly, grabbing a plate and silverware from the stack. She didn’t want to go into any more Ali stuff right now. “So how was traffic? You have any trouble finding the place?”
“I had GPS.” Greg craned his neck, seemingly still searching for Aria in the hall. “Does she think Ali’s after you guys, too?”
Spencer winced at the mention of Ali’s name. She pointed at a large tureen, desperate to change the subject. “Ooh, their French onion soup is amazing. You have to try some.”
She handed Greg a bowl, but he kept his arms at his sides. “I’m not an idiot, Spencer. Something happened, didn’t it?” He moved closer. “What is it? I want to help.”
Spencer shut her eyes. It felt so good to hear someone else offer their help, but she didn’t want to involve Greg more than she had to. What if Ali came after him? “It’s nothing,” she whispered.
“It’s not nothing. It’s something with Ali, right?”
Spencer looked around carefully, but all the glammed-up moms and golfer dads were too busy loading their plates with honey-glazed ham and salmon to notice the conversation she was having. All she’d wanted were a few Ali-free hours. But she could tell by the way Greg was looking at her that he wasn’t going to let this drop.
She placed the empty soup bowl back on the stack and took his hand. “I can’t talk here.”
She led Greg down a maze of halls and into a quiet bar with a fireplace, where she and Ali used to come after long summer days at the pool. There was an old bartender named Bert who’d leave his post for long stretches of time to use the bathroom across the hall; they would sneak themselves secret nips of vodka or white wine while he was gone. Today, not a single soul was inside except for an unfamiliar, younger bartender toweling off some martini glasses. He nodded at Spencer and Greg, then returned his gaze to the baseball game on the TV screen.
She sat on the leather couch in front of a roaring fire—a little unnecessary, given how warm it was outside—and Greg sat, too. Spencer looked at him for a long time. “Ali is closing in on us,” she finally admitted in a low voice.