And where was Ian, anyway? Why had he given them the wrong information in his IMs? And how had he not noticed that his ring was gone? Aria doubted that it had just slipped off his finger—the only time that had happened to her was when she washed out brushes after painting, and she always noticed her rings falling off right away. Was it possible that Ian was dead, and that the ring had fallen off him as someone roughly dragged his body away when Aria and the others had run back to find Wilden? But if that was the case, then who was speaking with them on IM?
She sighed loudly, and Byron gave her a surreptitious look. He was extra disheveled today, his dark hair standing up in thinning tufts. Despite the cold, he wasn’t wearing a coat, and there was a big hole in the elbow of his heavy wool sweater. Aria recognized it as one he’d bought when the family had been living in Iceland. She wished her family had never left Reykjavik.
“So how are you doing?” Byron asked gently.
Aria shrugged. At the corner, they passed a bunch of public school kids waiting for the bus. They pointed at Aria, instantly recognizing her from the news. Aria pulled her faux-fur hood around her head. Then they passed Spencer’s street. A big tree service vehicle was parked at the curb, a police car behind it. Across the street, Jenna Cavanaugh and her German shepherd service dog walked daintily to Mrs. Cavanaugh’s Lexus, avoiding patches of ice. Aria shivered. Jenna knew more about Ali than she’d let on. Aria even wondered if Jenna was keeping a burgeoning secret—on the day of Meredith’s baby shower, Jenna had been standing in the middle of Aria’s yard as if she needed to tell Aria something. But when Aria asked Jenna what was wrong, Jenna turned and fled. She seemed to know Jason DiLaurentis pretty well, too—but why would Jason have barged into her house last week and started arguing with her? And why did A want them to know it, if Jason truly had nothing to do with Ali’s death?
“Officer Wilden said you guys were trying to figure out who really killed Ali,” Byron said, his gravelly voice so loud and booming that Aria jumped. “But, honey, if Ian didn’t kill her, the cops will figure out who did.” He scratched the back of his neck, something he only did when he was stressed. “I’m worried about you. Ella is, too.”
Aria winced at Byron’s reference to her mother. Aria’s parents had separated this fall, and both had moved on to new relationships. Ever since Ella began dating Xavier, a lecherous artist who’d hit on Aria, Aria had been avoiding her. And while her dad certainly had a point, Aria was in too deep to unwind herself from the Ali investigation now.
“Talking about it might help,” Byron tried when Aria still didn’t answer, turning down the jazz CD. “You can even tell me about . . . you know. Seeing Alison.”
They passed a farm that had six stout white alpacas, then a Wawa. Stop saying you saw Ali, Wilden’s voice reverberated in Aria’s mind. Something about it continued to bother her. He sounded so . . . aggressive. “I don’t know what we saw,” she admitted weakly. “I want to believe that we just inhaled a lot of smoke and that’s the end of it. But what are the odds of us all seeing Ali at the exact same time, doing the exact same thing? Isn’t that kind of strange?”
Byron put his blinker on and shifted to the right lane. “It is strange.” He sipped from his Hollis College coffee mug. “Remember how a few months ago you asked me if ghosts could send text messages?”
The conversation was blurry in Aria’s mind, but she remembered talking to Byron after receiving the first message from Old A. Before Ali’s body was found in her old backyard, Aria had wondered if Ali’s ghost had been sending those messages from beyond the grave.
“Some people believe that the dead can’t rest until they impart an important message.” Byron braked at a stoplight behind a Toyota Prius that had a VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS bumper sticker.
“What do you mean?” Aria sat up straighter.
They swept past Clocktower, a million-dollar housing development with its own golf club, and then the little township park. A few brave souls were out in heavy down parkas, walking their dogs. Byron breathed out through his nose. “I just mean . . . Alison’s death was a mystery. They’ve arrested the killer, but no one really knows for sure what happened. And you girls were right where Alison died. Her body had been there for years.”
Aria reached over and took a sip from her dad’s mug. “So you’re saying . . . it could’ve been Ali’s ghost?”
Byron shrugged, making a right. They pulled into the drive at Rosewood Day and slowed to a crawl behind a line of buses. “Maybe.”
“And you think she wants to tell us something?”
Aria asked incredulously. “So you don’t think Ian did it either?”
Byron shook his head vehemently. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that sometimes, certain things can’t be explained rationally.”
A ghost. It sounded like he was channeling hippy-dippy Meredith. But as Aria glanced at her dad’s profile, there were taut lines around his mouth. His eyebrows were knitted together, and he was doing that neck-scratching thing again. He was serious.
She turned to Byron, suddenly filled with questions. Why would Ali’s ghost be here? What was her unfinished business? And what was Aria supposed to do now?
But before she could say a word, there was a sharp knock on the passenger door. Aria hadn’t realized they’d already pulled to the curb of Rosewood Day. Three reporters swarmed around the car, snapping photos and pressing their faces against the window. “Miss Montgomery?” a woman called, her voice loud through the glass.