She looked at the stewardess again. You’re in trouble. How stupid was she to think she could get away with this? It had been inconceivable that the police hadn’t been waiting at the airport when she got there, or that no one had shown up when she’d withdrawn that huge sum of cash from the ATM for the ticket to France, or that the clerk at the US Airways desk didn’t pale and reach for a phone when she saw Aria’s name on the passport. And that she’d actually boarded the plane without incident, and that it had actually taken off? It almost seemed criminal.
Of course she was in trouble. She’d escaped the country, like a terrorist.
But then the stewardess pointed to Aria’s legs, which were in the middle of the aisle. “You’ll be in trouble when we bring the cart through,” the woman explained. “Can you move?”
“Oh.” Aria pulled her legs back under her seat. The stewardess gave her a tight smile and sauntered on.
Aria ran her hands down the length of her face. That was close. Then she peeked out the small porthole in her row. It was almost light outside, but her watch read 2:45 AM. Everyone in Rosewood was probably sleeping. She pictured Noel in his bed. Had he tried her window last night? Was he worried? Had he told the police about what she’d said to him before she left? And what about her family? They must be sick with worry by this point. She pictured her mom pacing. Mike rolling over in his bed, sleepless. And Hanna and Spencer. She swallowed hard, pausing on them. Would they be angry that she hadn’t included them in her plan? Only, that was crazy—she’d had no choice. One girl could escape much easier than three. Besides, there hadn’t been time to involve all of them. And anyway, after the fight, she felt kind of stung. It wasn’t like she’d deliberately left them out of her plan, but, well . . . it was probably better if she had a little space.
But as soon as she thought that, she felt kind of bad. They would be going to trial without her. Facing an onslaught she’d run from. It was selfish, she knew. Maybe too selfish.
“Good morning, everyone, this is your captain,” said a man’s voice. “We will be landing at Charles de Gaulle airport shortly. The local time will be 8:45 AM.”
People started to stir. Aria’s seatmate, a businessman who’d thankfully said nothing to Aria the whole flight except for “excuse me,” wiped some drool off his cheek and stuffed some documents into his briefcase. Aria slowly put her iPod and the magazines she’d bought at the airport into her bag and watched as the Paris skyline materialized in the distance. In what felt like just seconds later, the plane thudded to a landing. Overhead lights snapped on. Elevator music blared through the cabin. People stood up and reached for their bags. Not a single person looked at her suspiciously.
Aria’s heart pounded as she unbuckled her seat belt and waited for the line in the aisle to clear. The stewardess said a clipped “bye-bye” to the man in front of her, but skipped over Aria entirely. The terminal was fairly quiet, their flight the only one getting in at that time. Everyone streamed toward customs; Aria didn’t know what else to do but follow. If only there was a way to avoid yet another set of eyes staring at her, but short of diving out a window and running for a fence, she couldn’t think of a way around it.
Everyone crammed through the customs door and took their places in a winding line. Aria glanced at the officials at the front, her stomach churning. She touched her phone, which was tucked in her bag, switched off—even turning it on might tip off the cops to her location. Still, she wished she could check the voicemail and the texts. How many people had called her? Noel for sure. Mike? Her parents? Hanna? The cops?
Suddenly, looking at the passengers in front of her, something stopped the breath in Aria’s lungs. A girl with a reddish-blond ponytail bounced in place, headphones over her ears. She had a gym bag on one shoulder, and she wore a blue sweatshirt that had the words DELAWARE VALLEY SWIMMING CHAMPIONSHIPS on the back. Emily had had that same sweatshirt.
Aria’s heart lifted. Maybe it was Emily. Maybe, somehow, she’d survived the ocean. Maybe she’d had the same idea Aria had to get the hell out of the country. How wonderful! Aria wouldn’t be so alone! They could figure out what to do together!
Aria pushed through the crowd, never feeling so happy in her life. “Am I glad to see you!” she crowed, tugging Emily’s arm.
The girl turned. The corners of her lips turned down, and she had no freckles. Her eyes weren’t as keen as Emily’s had been, her expression not as insightful. The girl cocked her head tiredly, taking in Aria’s disheveled black dress from Emily’s funeral, streaky makeup, and messy hair. “Sorry?” she asked in a Southern accent.
Aria stepped back, her mouth wobbling. “O-oh,” she stammered. “Never mind.”
The girl slipped her headphones over her ears. Aria returned to her spot in line, all at once not able to breathe. She’d hoped that escaping overseas would lessen the Emily blow a little—at least, over here, not everything would remind her of Emily. But after only a few minutes in the Paris airport, she felt more bereaved than ever.
The customs process moved quickly, and before long, a customs officer motioned for Aria to step forward. Her legs felt wobbly and weak as she stepped forward. A police dog waiting by the door stared straight at her, ears perked.
“Passport?” the officer said in a bored voice.
Aria’s fingers trembled as she removed the little book from her bag. The officer stared at it, then Aria’s face. There was a long pause as he looked at something on his computer screen. A whooshing sound rushed in Aria’s ears. Was he checking a list? Silently sounding an alarm that the criminal had been located?